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"The miner's canary" - what the maritime heritage crisis says about archaeology, cultural resource management,… Hutchings, Richard M. 2014

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    “THE MINER’S CANARY”  WHAT THE MARITIME HERITAGE CRISIS SAYS ABOUT  ARCHAEOLOGY, CULTURAL RESOURCE MANAGEMENT,  AND GLOBAL ECOLOGICAL BREAKDOWN    by  RICHARD M. HUTCHINGS  M.A., Western Washington University, 2004 B.A., University of Idaho, 2000    A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY   in   THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES  (Interdisciplinary Studies)    THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA  (Vancouver)       August 2014  © Richard M. Hutchings, 2014ii  ABSTRACT   This dissertation investigates the maritime heritage crisis as it exists on the Pacific Northwest Coast of North America, emphasizing the Salish Sea region of Washington State, USA, and British Columbia, Canada. Worldwide, maritime landscapes are undergoing unprecedented change resulting in physical, biological, and cultural problems of “wicked” proportions. To focus conversation, the maritime heritage crisis is defined here as heritage site loss resulting from amenity migration and sea level rise. Rapid, unsustainable population growth (coastal sprawl) and anthropogenic climate change (global warming) are key drivers of contemporary coastal change, thus, arguably, heritage destruction. In Northern America, the response to coastal change has been resource management, elevating the concepts of “resourcism” and “management” as central elements of coastal change discourse.  In this dissertation, I examine the response of archaeology/cultural resource management (CRM) to coastal change. I survey coastal change threats and impacts, focusing on Indigenous maritime heritage landscapes because they are especially sensitive to coastal change and the primary context for Northern American archaeology/CRM. To assess heritage conservation and the success of CRM in the Pacific Northwest, I present a case study of the shíshálh (Sechelt) First Nation’s traditional territory in British Columbia’s amenity-rich Sunshine Coast. I discuss the shíshálh Nation’s heritage stewardship approach and detail coastal change impacts in three areas within the Nation’s territory. In addition to future sea level rise, the impact of amenity migration or “sea change” on Indigenous heritage is demonstrated to be significant.  Indigenous maritime heritage landscapes are highly threatened, contested and politicized places, tied up in issues of nationalism, colonialism, sovereignty and, increasingly, cultural survival. By focusing on social power and domination, a critical heritage studies approach exposes resource management as a technology of government promoting and permitting the ideology of growth, development and progress. Archaeology/CRM is therefore implicated in both the destruction of Indigenous heritage landscapes and the psychosocial consequences of that destruction, and is thus part of the problem, not the solution. An example of the “miner’s canary,” the shíshálh Coast study offers important lessons about heritage stewardship in the late modern era of consumer capitalism.  iii  PREFACE   This dissertation is original, unpublished, independent work by the author, Richard M. Hutchings. The author is solely responsible for any errors and/or omissions. This document has been prepared and presented without prejudice to issues of Aboriginal Rights or Title and does not attempt to define or limit Title and/or Rights of any Aboriginal community within or without the study area, nor does it represent the views or opinions of the shíshálh First Nation, nor any individual therein. This project was carried out under shíshálh Nation Heritage Investigation Permit #2011-019 (see Appendix A) and under UBC Ethics Certificate H11-01649.  iv  TABLE OF CONTENTS  Abstract ......................................................................................................................................................... ii Preface ......................................................................................................................................................... iii Table of Contents  ........................................................................................................................................ iv List of Tables ............................................................................................................................................... vi List of Figures ............................................................................................................................................. vii List of Text Boxes ......................................................................................................................................... x   Chapter 1: Introducing the Maritime Heritage Crisis ............................................................................ 1 The Confluence of Maritime Heritage, Coastal Change, and Resource Management.................................. 5 Maritime Heritage ............................................................................................................................ 6 Coastal Change ................................................................................................................................ 8 Resource Management ................................................................................................................... 12 A Critical Heritage Studies Approach ........................................................................................................ 14 Document Organization .............................................................................................................................. 19   PART ONE:  SETTING THE BASELINE—THREATS, IMPACTS, AND RESPONSES ............................. 21  Chapter 2: Sea level Rise .......................................................................................................................... 21 General Threats ........................................................................................................................................... 23 Washington State ........................................................................................................................... 25 British Columbia ............................................................................................................................ 27 Salish Sea ....................................................................................................................................... 31 Cultural Heritage Impacts ........................................................................................................................... 32 Responses .................................................................................................................................................... 39  Chapter 3: Coastal Population Growth and Change ............................................................................. 43 General Threats ........................................................................................................................................... 44 Washington State ........................................................................................................................... 48 British Columbia ............................................................................................................................ 52 Salish Sea ....................................................................................................................................... 59 Cultural Heritage Impacts ........................................................................................................................... 62 Responses .................................................................................................................................................... 64 A National Maritime Heritage Area Approach .............................................................................. 64 A Risk Management Approach ...................................................................................................... 67  Chapter 4: British Columbia Resource Management in Historical Context ....................................... 70 A Brief History of Land-Use from Preoccupation to Present ..................................................................... 71 Resource Management ................................................................................................................................ 76 Coastal Resource Management ................................................................................................................... 79 (Integrated) Coastal Zone Management ......................................................................................... 81 (Adaptive) Co-Management .......................................................................................................... 82 Cultural Resource Management .................................................................................................................. 84 History of Research........................................................................................................................ 87 The Mainstream Response ............................................................................................................. 90    v  PART TWO:  shíshálh HERITAGE AND COASTAL CHANGE ............................................................... 94  Chapter 5: The shíshálh Strategic Land Use Plan ................................................................................. 98 Coastal Development and Sprawl ............................................................................................................... 99 Stewardship Direction for Cultural Heritage ............................................................................................ 103 Summary ................................................................................................................................................... 109  Chapter 6: The shíshálh Coast Study .................................................................................................... 111 Sechelt Study Unit .................................................................................................................................... 113 Halfmoon Bay Study Unit ........................................................................................................................ 155 Pender Harbour Study Unit ....................................................................................................................... 180  Chapter 7: Summary Discussion ........................................................................................................... 208   PART THREE:  SHIFTING THE BASELINE—THE POWER OF SCALE ............................................... 220  Chapter 8: The Power-Elite Dynamic—Scale, Power, and Land Use................................................ 221 The Power-Elite Dynamic and Land Use ................................................................................................. 222 Cultural Resource Management as Management ...................................................................................... 225 Cultural Resource Management as Resourcism ........................................................................................ 228 Archaeology as Neoliberal Statecraft ....................................................................................................... 230 State Management of Indigenous Heritage ............................................................................................... 236  Chapter 9: “The Miner’s Canary”—Problematizing Coastal Change .............................................. 241 Miner’s Canary ......................................................................................................................................... 242 Archaeology As Slow Violence ................................................................................................................ 245 Problematique ........................................................................................................................................... 250 Intractability (and Hope) ........................................................................................................................... 262  Chapter 10: Conclusion—The Strangling and Drowning of Maritime Heritage .............................. 268  Bibliography ............................................................................................................................................ 274  Appendix A: shíshálh Nation Heritage Investigation Permit ............................................................. 312   vi  List of Tables  Table 2.1  RSL projections for major geographic areas of Washington State ............................................ 26 Table 2.2  Annual costs of climate change in Canada, 2075 ...................................................................... 30 Table 2.3  RSL scenarios for the Salish Sea region based on 1 metre global SLR by 2100 ....................... 31 Table 2.4  Major taphonomic and formation processes on California’s Channel Islands........................... 37 Table 2.5  Determinants of site survival through inundation ...................................................................... 38  Table 5.1  shíshálh Nation goals and priority actions concerning authority over heritage. ...................... 109  Table 6.1  Site disturbance in Sechelt Study Unit ..................................................................................... 154 Table 6.2  Site disturbance in Halfmoon Bay Study Unit ......................................................................... 156 Table 6.3  Site disturbance in Pender Harbour Study Unit ....................................................................... 181  Table 7.1  Summary comparison of three Study Units ............................................................................. 208  Table 8.1 Key Concepts in Critical Heritage Discourse ........................................................................... 235  Table 9.1  Critical continuous problems ................................................................................................... 261  vii  List of Figures  Figure 2.1  British Columbia SLR at 2100 (1m), 2200 (2m) and 2300 (3m) ............................................. 28 Figure 2.2  Impact of SLR (shoreline shift) on flat and steep coasts  ......................................................... 35  Figure 3.1  British Columbia population, 1866-2036 ................................................................................. 55 Figure 3.2  Regional District population, 2010 to 2036 .............................................................................. 56 Figure 3.3  Population density (people/km2) in BC’s coastal Regional Districts ....................................... 57 Figure 3.4  Proportion of shoreline developed in the Capital Regional District ......................................... 58 Figure 3.5  Salish Sea population, 1976-2025 ............................................................................................ 60 Figure 3.6  Percentage of Salish Sea population by Regional District and County, 2000 .......................... 61  Figure 4.1  British Columbia archaeology in 2011  .................................................................................... 89  Figure 5.1  The shíshálh Coast Study Area in relation to Vancouver ......................................................... 96 Figure 5.2  The shíshálh Coast Study Area in relation to shíshálh Nation territory ................................... 96 Figure 5.3  Three shíshálh Coast Study Units ............................................................................................ 97 Figure 5.4   Sunshine Coast population, 1956-2036. ................................................................................ 103 Figure 5.5  The four designated land use zones ........................................................................................ 106  Figure 6.1  Sechelt Study Unit .................................................................................................................. 114 Figure 6.2  Vulnerable shorelines in the southern Strait of Georgia ......................................................... 115 Figure 6.3  Aerial view of the low-lying Sechelt Isthmus study area ....................................................... 117 Figure 6.4  Detailed satellite image of Sechelt Isthmus showing contemporary development................. 117 Figure 6.5  Trail Bay seawall and promenade........................................................................................... 118 Figure 6.6  Condominium development behind Trail Bay seawall........................................................... 119 Figure 6.7  “Watermark at Sechelt” condominium development ............................................................. 120 Figure 6.8  Heritage protection at the Watermark condominium project ................................................. 121 Figure 6.9  Winter storm surge over-washing the Trail Bay seawall ........................................................ 122 Figure 6.10  Failure of Trail Bay seawall due to erosion .......................................................................... 122 Figure 6.11  Area of proposed Trail Bay foreshore project ...................................................................... 123 Figure 6.12  Detailed satellite view of northern Sechelt Isthmus at Porpoise Bay ................................... 124 Figure 6.13  Intertidal zone at southern terminus of Porpoise Bay ........................................................... 124 Figure 6.14  Storm drains under Wharf Avenue ....................................................................................... 125 Figure 6.15  Electrical box painted with Eurocanadian maritime heritage theme .................................... 126 Figure 6.16  Back side of painted electrical box ....................................................................................... 127 Figure 6.17  Vulnerable shorelines in the Sechelt Isthmus study area ...................................................... 128 Figure 6.18  Two panoramic views of Angus Creek study area ............................................................... 130 Figure 6.19  Vulnerable shorelines in the Angus Creek study area .......................................................... 131 Figure 6.20  Satellite image of the southern boundary of the Angus Creek study area (IR#4) ................ 132 Figure 6.21  Wave erosion (undercutting) at site DjRw-1 ........................................................................ 133 Figure 6.22  Eroding shell midden at site DjRw-1 ................................................................................... 134 Figure 6.23  Gravel beach fronting site DjRw-1 ....................................................................................... 135 Figure 6.24  Mudflats at Angus Creek estuary ......................................................................................... 136 Figure 6.25  Modified shoreline at western end of “Porpoise Bay Development” ................................... 137 Figure 6.26  View of “Porpoise Bay Development” shoreline modification ............................................ 138 Figure 6.27  Satellite image of northern Angus Creek study and “Porpoise Bay Development” ............. 139 Figure 6.28  Signage at Sechelt Inlet Road access to “Porpoise Bay Development” ............................... 140 Figure 6.29  Signage at entrance to “Porpoise Bay Development” .......................................................... 141 Figure 6.30  Detailed satellite image at “Porpoise Bay Development.” ................................................... 142 Figure 6.31  Abandoned(?) gravel quarry on east side of Sechelt Inlet Road........................................... 143 viii  Figure 6.32  Heritage signage at Angus Creek bridge .............................................................................. 144 Figure 6.33  Snake Bay study area ............................................................................................................ 146 Figure 6.34  View of Snake Bay study area from Porpoise Bay/Sechelt Inlet ......................................... 147 Figure 6.35  Convergence of development and heritage at Snake Bay..................................................... 148 Figure 6.36  Close-up of intensive landscape modification at north end of Gale Avenue ........................ 149 Figure 6.37  Eroding (undercut) shell midden at site DjRw-2 .................................................................. 150 Figure 6.38  Unattended fishing shack at site DjRw-2 ............................................................................. 151 Figure 6.39  Gale Avenue development as seen from Snake Bay delta.................................................... 152 Figure 6.40  Vulnerable shorelines in the Snake Bay study area .............................................................. 153 Figure 6.41  Halfmoon Bay Study Unit and three study areas .................................................................. 156 Figure 6.42  Vulnerable shorelines in the Thormanby Island study area .................................................. 157 Figure 6.43  Islands Trust map of Thormanby Island study area .............................................................. 158 Figure 6.44  Northeast corner of North Thormanby Island ...................................................................... 159 Figure 6.45  Vacation development on low-lying Vaucroft Beach .......................................................... 160 Figure 6.46  Terrestrial entrance to Smuggler Cover Provincial Park ...................................................... 161 Figure 6.47  First view of Smuggler Cove ................................................................................................ 163 Figure 6.48  Yachts moored in Smuggler Cove ........................................................................................ 164 Figure 6.49  “Smugglers’ Hideaway” heritage poster at Smuggler Cove. ................................................ 165 Figure 6.50  “Harvesting from the Sea” heritage poster at Smuggler Cove ............................................. 166 Figure 6.51  Boulders and cobbles at bottom of tidal channel at low tide ................................................ 167 Figure 6.52  Looking up tidal channel toward fishing pool ...................................................................... 168 Figure 6.53  Fishing pool at low tide ........................................................................................................ 169 Figure 6.54  Recreation map of “Halfmoon Bay Trails” .......................................................................... 170 Figure 6.55  Seawall, SCUBA signage and vista at Coopers Green ......................................................... 171 Figure 6.56  Coopers Green foreshore is used as a boat launch and for storing log rafts ......................... 172 Figure 6.57  Seawall and boat ramp access-road fronting Coopers Green wetland .................................. 173 Figure 6.58  Detailed satellite view of southern Redrooffs Road around Sargeant Bay ........................... 174 Figure 6.59  View southwest from my leased bluff-top residence ........................................................... 175 Figure 6.60  Slope failure on Redrooffs Road bluffs ................................................................................ 176 Figure 6.61  Slope failure on Redrooffs Road bluffs ................................................................................ 177 Figure 6.62  Eastern terminus of Sargeant Bay dyke ................................................................................ 178 Figure 6.63  Vulnerable shorelines in the southern portion of Redrooffs Road study area ...................... 179 Figure 6.64  Pender Harbour Study Unit .................................................................................................. 181 Figure 6.65  Detailed satellite view of central Pender Harbour Study Unit .............................................. 183 Figure 6.66  Merchant’s Pender Harbour Pilot Project map showing ...................................................... 184 Figure 6.67  View south at site DjSa-37, south Pender Harbour .............................................................. 185 Figure 6.68  View east at northern extent of site DjSa-37, south Pender Harbour ................................... 186 Figure 6.69  Marine access at Garden Bay Marine Provincial Park ......................................................... 187 Figure 6.70  Rocky shoreline at Garden Bay Marine Provincial Park and village site DjSa-3 ................ 189 Figure 6.71  Eroding shell midden at village site DjSa-3 ......................................................................... 190 Figure 6.72  Decomposing donkey engine, Garden Bay Marine Provincial Park .................................... 192 Figure 6.73  Donkey, still attached to original base logs .......................................................................... 193 Figure 6.74  Looking southeast into Oyster Bay and its watershed .......................................................... 195 Figure 6.75  Panoramic view of Gunboat Bay .......................................................................................... 196 Figure 6.76  Residential development near entrance to Gunboat Bay ...................................................... 196 Figure 6.77  Residential development near entrance to Gunboat Bay ...................................................... 197 Figure 6.78  Vulnerable shorelines in Pender Harbour ............................................................................. 198 Figure 6.79  Vulnerable shorelines at Sakinaw Creek estuary .................................................................. 199 Figure 6.80  Sakinaw Lake fish ladder ..................................................................................................... 200 Figure 6.81  Looking downstream at Sakinaw Lake fish ladder and Sakinaw Creek estuary .................. 201 Figure 6.82  Side view of Sakinaw Creek estuary .................................................................................... 202 ix  Figure 6.83  Looking northeast at high energy Sakinaw Creek estuary ................................................... 202 Figure 6.84  Looking seaward at Strait of Georgia from Sakinaw Creek estuary .................................... 203 Figure 6.85  Unknown artifact/feature on bench above Sakinaw Creek estuary ...................................... 204 Figure 6.86  Decomposing steel rope on beach below unknown artifact/feature ..................................... 205 Figure 6.87  Unknown artifact identified .................................................................................................. 206 Figure 6.88  Development and proposed development around Sakinaw Creek estuary ........................... 207  Figure 7.1  Disturbed and destroyed sites by shíshálh Coast Study Unit ................................................. 209 Figure 7.2  Sites disturbed and destroyed in all shíshálh Coast Study Units ............................................ 209 Figure 7.3  Site disturbance by type for all shíshálh Coast Study Units ................................................... 211 Figure 7.4  Site disturbances by category for all shíshálh Coast Study Units .......................................... 212 Figure 7.5  Site disturbances in Acheson and Riley’s 1977 study ............................................................ 212 Figure 7.6  Percentage of sites destroyed in southern Pender Harbour..................................................... 214 Figure 7.7  Site elevation (< 15 m) for all shíshálh Coast Study Units .................................................... 216 Figure 7.8  Percentage of sites intersecting shoreline in all shíshálh Coast Study Units .......................... 216 Figure 7.9  Residential ownership by origin and location ........................................................................ 218 Figure 7.10  Non-local housing ownership by origin ............................................................................... 218  Figure 8.1  Hegemony modeled ................................................................................................................ 234  Figure 9.1  The resource management policy wedge ................................................................................ 248 Figure 9.2  The problematique metaphor .................................................................................................. 252 Figure 9.3  The issue-attention cycle ........................................................................................................ 265 Figure 9.4   Contextualizing hope: four responses to modernity .............................................................. 267   x  List of Text Boxes  Box 4.1  Evolution of Canadian resource and environmental policy, part I ............................................... 74 Box 4.2  Evolution of Canadian resource and environmental policy, part II .............................................. 75  Box 5.1  Contextualizing the shíshálh Nation Land Use Plan .................................................................. 100 Box 5.2  shíshálh Nation Vision Statement and Guiding Principles for Lands and Resources ................ 101 Box 5.3  Guiding Principles for Planning and Management of shíshálh Land and Resources ................ 107 Box 5.4  Comments from shíshálh Nation Members on Heritage and Development ............................... 108  Box 6.1  The Pender Harbour–Sakinaw Cultural Emphasis Area ............................................................ 182 Box 6.2  séxw?ámin (Garden Bay) and the Pender Harbour Study Area ................................................. 188  1  Chapter 1:  Introducing the Maritime Heritage Crisis  The human history of coastal regions around the world has been under assault for decades, from forces that include dam building, coastal modifications, the destruction of wetlands, marine erosion, population growth and rampant development, looting, and other processes. Global warming will exacerbate the destruction of cultural resources in coastal zones through accelerated sea level rise, intensified storm cycles, and related coastal erosion. – Jon Erlandson, 2012:137  Heritage sites are a vital part of our First Nations communities. – Union of BC Indian Chiefs, 2013:12  Globally, the coastal zone is under pressure from industrial-scale resource extraction and development. These practices, typical of late modern capitalism, have resulted in the planetary-scale destruction of maritime heritage landscapes. To further complicate matters, rising seas over the coming centuries will drown most of the world’s coastal heritage sites. As expressed by the Union of BC Indian Chiefs above, these heritage sites are a “vital part” of culture, integral to the preservation of cultural knowledge (Buggey 1999:2), and recognized by the United Nations (2008) as essential to cultural survival. Thus, the threat to maritime heritage is a threat to living coastal cultures.  This study explores archaeology and cultural resource management’s response to anthropogenic or human-induced coastal change, specifically climate change-induced sea level rise (SLR) and development-driven population growth/change. Perforce, the primary areas of concern are (a) the impacts of such change on coastal or maritime heritage, which includes both tangible (physical) and intangible (mental) heritage, and (b) the responses of the heritage profession to “the problem.” Taking a critical heritage studies approach, this exploration is undertaken with the goal of defining, critiquing and improving future coastal change discourse as it pertains to heritage, in particular Indigenous cultural heritage landscapes. This exploration, grounded in a West Coast case study, looks at the impact of coastal change on heritage landscapes in British Columbia, Canada, specifically within the traditional territory of the shíshálh First Nation. In particular, I consider the effectiveness of cultural resource management (CRM) in protecting shíshálh heritage sites in light of sea level rise and amenity migration. As the primary government technology responsible for cultural heritage defined as “archaeological,” CRM represents the mainstream response to coastal change. There are two main reasons for giving primacy to the heritage industry’s response. The first is that the heritage industry’s response represents the public’s adaptive strategy. Broadly speaking, adaptation is a “response to social-environmental change, whether anticipatory or reactive, that enables humans to cope by altering social, ecological, or economic variables” (Armitage, Berkes, and Doubleday 2  2007a:328). The heritage industry’s strategy is the public’s strategy because the state has taken and in part redistributed control over heritage to selected institutions, agencies, organizations and corporations. In turn, society looks to these specialists, specifically archaeologists and cultural resource managers, to solve their problems. As James Acheson notes, “There are many people in the United States—especially professional managers and the conservation community—who assume resources can be managed only by the government” (2006:123, emphasis added). Everyone, therefore, should be concerned with understanding better the world (and worldview) that is “cultural resource management.” In part, this is because “government can also fail in the resource area—sometimes massively” (2006:123). Specifically, my focus here is on mainstream responses. As Harry Dahms’ points out, mainstream approaches “do not provide truly probing analyses of modern society…which might (or would) engender qualitative transformations of modern society—but instead, present analyses of modern society, without making the effort to ‘think the unthinkable’” (2011:294). As a consequence, mainstream approaches reflect modern societies insofar as “they provide a mirror of modern society, rather than a mirror for society.” In contrast, the purpose and goal of a critical response is to “direct research efforts at providing representations of modern society that reveal to its members and to social scientists their problematic features as integral components of its concrete sociohistorical form, and thus, its very possibility” (2011:294). For Dahms, “identifying the perimeter of ‘mainstream’ approaches is both a necessary precondition for effective and pertinent social research, and a possible avenue for illuminating the functioning and constitutional logic of modern societies” (2011:295). In one regard, mainstream approaches are “an impediment to analyzing society as far as today’s most important issues”; in another, they “provide access to the problematic features of particular contexts” (2011:295). What constitutes “mainstream” archaeology/cultural resource management response to coastal change is a central question here; indeed, it constitutes much of the discussion in Part One. The second reason for focusing on adaptation is because its study demands consideration of uncertainty (Moser 1997). As discussed in Part One, the physical dimensions of coastal change impacts on archaeological heritage are generally well understood. Where uncertainty lies is in the human dimension, what Moser terms “human-dimension uncertainties” (Moser 2005:354). Technically speaking, uncertainty is the “extent to which actors are unable to understand, predict or control how system components, relationships, and processes will interact, and what outcomes will result” (Armitage et al. 2007a:331). Put another way, uncertainty represents the “unknowns” and “potential surprises” in an impact assessment or policy response (Moser 2005:353). Given that so little published material exists concerning the human aspect of modern coastal change and Pacific Northwest Coast cultural resource management, I operate from the position that both the physical and human dimensions of coastal change 3  impacts on archaeological heritage remain generally unexplored. In this sense, there currently exists significant uncertainty. Archaeology is of primary concern here because it is the academic discipline that has historically provided the theoretical and methodological framework for cultural resource management. It also trains the vast majority of the professionals/experts/specialists who work in CRM. These individuals, in turn, help shape society’s understanding of and interaction with heritage. Unlike academic archaeology, CRM has core economic and legal components. It is economic in the sense that it is today a highly commercialized endeavour tied primarily to the service of economic development (La Salle and Hutchings 2012). It is legal in that it exists primarily in relation to federal/state/provincial law (King 1998, 2009). As a practice, its main function is to facilitate state-sponsored permitting regimes that concern heritage. While some view archaeology and CRM as fundamentally different projects (e.g., Dunnell 1984:67-70), others see them as intrinsically interrelated (Kottak, White, Furlough, and Rice 1997). One explanation for the latter view is that academic archaeology comprises the “research” half of archaeology, with the other half being CRM, or “applied” archaeology. This academic–applied relationship has always been, is, and will likely continue to be tenuous, at best (Hutchings and La Salle 2014a, 2014b). Coastal change discourse is highly specialized, thus diverse and fragmented, encompassing a wide array of issues and perspectives (e.g., Ommer et al. 2007; Schwartz 2005; Valiela 2006). Focus is placed here on sea level rise and population growth/change because they arguably pose the greatest threats to coastal heritage, today and in the foreseeable future (Erlandson 2012; Gurran, Blakely, and Squires 2007). Additionally, and equally important, is that one cannot consider SLR without also considering the human dimension. As Heimann and Mahlkow point out, the assessment of risks and appropriate coping strategies “differ depending on cultural backgrounds. Thus to identify suitable local governance strategies coping with perceived risks, cultural characteristics need to be taken into account. Actors who want to implement solutions have to consider differences in local knowledge” (2012:1). Moser’s point, as well as Heimann and Mahlkow’s, is that “coastal change” is a social construction, and therefore must be treated as such. A key question that emerges, then, is this: “How is knowledge constructed and which roles do space and culture play?” (Heimann and Mahlkow 2012:1). An important byproduct of the human dimension is that the term “coastal change” in many ways defies definition, at least in a grand sense. The reality is that perceptions of “coastal change,” indeed even its component parts, “coastal” and “change,” vary between individuals, places, and times. Rather than getting tangled up in a definitional trap, it is perhaps more appropriate to understand why the issue is important, and Rosemary Ommer, along with the Coasts Under Stress Research Project Team, provide a concise explanation in their book Coasts Under Stress (2007:3): 4  Changes in natural environments have interacted with political, industrial, and social change to adversely affect the health of the people who live there, their communities, and the natural environments in which they are embedded. [...] We do not have enough resources left, even if we stop degrading ecosystems now, because already almost two-thirds of our resources are used up. We need to understand what has happened, what is going on and why … and then focus on recovery. In short, Canada and the wider world need to make urgent choices. Our accustomed patterns drove us into this mess, and we need new ideas, new ways of thinking, to get us out.   Toward this, in my research, I sought to evaluate the past, present and future impacts of coastal change on archaeological sites / heritage landscapes, assess the success of cultural resource management in mitigating these impacts, and consider the social dimensions of the crisis. My approach to “method” in  this dissertation is guided by the Rapid Coastal Zone Assessment Survey (English Heritage 2007). The RCZAS involves two phases: a desk-top phase, in which background information about the landscape and heritage is collected and collated, which informs a field phase, whereby heritage sites are (re)located and characterized, and their vulnerability to erosion is assessed. My approach diverged from the RCZAS in phase two (see below).  The desktop phase involved conducting background research on (a) local coastal change studies and impacts, which provides a baseline for understanding local physical and cultural conditions; (b) shíshálh land and marine use studies and plans, which fundamentally shaped the direction and scope of the field component; and (c) provincial archaeological site data, to establish site and landscape histories and locational information. Particular attention was paid to previous impacts to known heritage landscapes, with a view to quantifying and qualifying site disturbance history and anticipated future based on sea level rise and population growth predictions.  The RCZAS field component involves detailed field survey and measurement. For this research, I operated under the assumption that these data largely already exist. As such, my focus was instead on contextualizing the results of my quantities analysis. As demonstrated in Part Two of this dissertation, I consider this approach to have been successful in understanding the larger processes contributing to landscape degradation and destruction. In this regard, this study was greatly enhanced by the use of GoogleEarth to illustrate various aspects of the maritime heritage crisis.   The field phase of this research therefore involved a holistic landscape survey, involving field visits of shíshálh heritage landscapes, to understand and assess existing and potential impacts. The study area was broken into smaller study units and many were visited on multiple occasions over several seasons between 2008 and 2013. Sites were accessed by various methods including driving, walking, hiking and kayaking, and all visits coincided with periods of low-tide in order to better understand local environmental conditions. Site visits were documented through various means, primarily photography and satellite imagery; these form the basis for Part Two.  5   The remainder of this chapter provides a general theoretical introduction to the subjects of maritime heritage, coastal change, and resource management.  I then discuss my approach to this research, introducing the concept of critical heritage studies. I end by describing the organization of the dissertation.   The Confluence of Coastal Change, Maritime Heritage and Resource Management  This inquiry concerns the unprecedented destruction and degradation of maritime heritage. That maritime heritage is in “crisis” is not really up for debate, but how best to define and attend to that crisis is. Given the complexity of such matters (e.g., Acheson 2006; Armitage et al. 2007a), both crisis and response defy singular definition. Indeed, it is a primary goal of this inquiry to define the perimeter of the “problem.” For the time being, then, only the broader fields that comprise the crisis will be considered. My objective in this section is to introduce the three core fields that constitute the matter at hand, those being: maritime heritage, coastal change, and resource management (these are described in greater detail in Part One of this dissertation). While “maritime heritage” is the subject of this inquiry, “coastal change” and “resource management” are processes that affect maritime heritage. Under this formulation, resource management is a specific type of coastal change; this is because responses can cause heritage destruction, directly or indirectly. As highlighted below, a complicating factor is that there exists little agreement on what these three fields actually represent, and even less on how they intersect. For example, besides being a process, resource management is also an institution and an ideology. How does this fact influence our understanding of the process that is resource management? Another example exists within resource management as it pertains to cultural heritage. Is cultural resource management the domain of management, whose focus is typically on policy and governance in the present–future? Or is it the domain of archaeology, which emphasizes scientific interpretation of the past? One way around these and similar issues might be to recognize that all represent forms of power. In the next section (Critical Heritage), I consider how the convergence of the three fields in the maritime heritage crisis is best understood as social, not mechanical, and therefore requires a social science approach in order to full grasp the nature, history and scale of the problem. This formulation provides the basis for Part Three of this dissertation, where I consider the social, political and economic context for the maritime heritage crisis.   6  Maritime Heritage   I developed the term maritime heritage crisis to describe the current situation, globally and locally. Two concepts, “maritime” and “heritage,” are brought to bear here, and I will begin with the least controversial. Maritime is an adjective that means “of or pertaining to the sea” (Casteel and Quimby 1975:1). This focus is necessary because coastal communities and landscapes are uniquely different from land-locked ones in such key areas as culture, geography, governance, resources, resource management, and, in many instances, values (e.g., Corbin 1994; Mack 2011, Raban 1992; Steinberg 2001; Westerdahl 2005). As such, treating interior and coastal landscapes as identical is problematic, if for no other reason than variability in cultural geography, what some describe as “maritimity” (Tuddenham 2010; Westerdahl 1998, 2008). Treating them as discrete areas is equally problematic, however, for inherently continuous regions can all too easily and unnecessarily be divided or fragmented (e.g., Cunliffe 2008). Recognition of these issues has led some to call for a “seamless” approach to coastal archaeology (Fulford, Champion, and Long 1997). Maritime heritage, then, is the heritage of cultures, societies and subcultures that are of the sea or pertaining to the sea, and maritimity is their relationship with the coastal landscape, both physical and cultural. This leads to the more challenging issue of defining that which is, by all outward appearances, indefinable. Heritage is used variously to refer to: “natural” heritage, “cultural” heritage, “tangible” heritage, “intangible” heritage, “national” heritage, “local” heritage, “archaeological” heritage, “colonial” heritage, “built” heritage, “prehistoric” heritage, “Indigenous” heritage, “maritime” heritage, “submerged” heritage, etc. While historically the term heritage has been used to denote that which is inherited on a personal level, its use to refer to cultural property is more recent, derived from a shift in the 1960s towards viewing all heritage as state property (Eldon Yellowhorn pers. comm. 2014), discussed further in Chapter 8 in the context of authorized heritage discourse. This has led to a wide range of applications of the term heritage. For example, while the Washington, D.C.-based “Heritage Foundation” is a highly-conservative, globally-influential political think-tank, the “Lummi Island Heritage Trust,” located in semirural coastal Washington State, is a community-based non-profit organization aimed at local environmental preservation. Beyond being some thing or idea that is “inherited,” there simply is no definition of heritage capable of encompassing such diversity in usage. In this regard, the only useful approaches are those which recognize heritage as spectrums or continuums of thought. I offer here, then, as a point of departure, what I see as the most useful heritage continuum, one which importantly integrates “nature” and “culture,” thus accommodating the social construction of reality (Berger and Luckman 1966). Heritage is a spectrum that ranges from a “canonical list of places and objects” to “community practices and social action” (Harrison 2010:38). From his 7  questioning of the “unwritten suggestion within most contemporary western societies that heritage is ‘good,’” Rodney Harrison (2010a:1) concludes that we should, on the one hand, be concerned with (a) “officially sanctioned discourses and the relationships of power they facilitate” (e.g., canonical lists of heritage sites), and on the other hand, (b) “with the ways in which heritage operates at the local level in community and identity building” (e.g., community heritage practices) (2010:2). The former are commonly referred to as “top-down” approaches, and the latter “bottom-up.” These represent asymmetrical power relations (Acheson 2006; Sinclair and Ommer 2006). As Laurajane Smith puts it, “the issue is control” (2006:276-308). There exists a crucial link between place and identity, and “many of our experiences and engagement with memory and identity are located within our broader surroundings—with our ‘environment’” (Cheape, Garden, and McLean 2009:104). Whilst, at first glance, suggesting a reliance on the material elements of ‘the past,’ the notion of ‘heritage’ and heritage construction is…much more nuanced. ‘Heritage,’ says Laurajane Smith [2006:44], ‘is not a ‘thing,’ it is not a ‘site,’ building or any other material object’; rather…it is a social construction; heritage itself is a cultural process of engaging and experiencing. For researchers like Smith, it is not so much the physical place (although she does acknowledge its role) but rather what individuals do with the site, the place or the landscape that is most important. (2009:104)  Similar to the inherent problem of splitting nature from culture, defining heritage as a “thing” negates the important concept that is intangible heritage. The United Nations, in their Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (UNESCO 2003, Article 2:2), explain this formulation of heritage as follows: The practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills—as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith—that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognise as part of their cultural heritage. This intangible cultural heritage, transmitted from generation to generation, is constantly recreated by communities and groups in response to their environments, their interaction with nature and their history, and provides them with a sense of identity and continuity, thus promoting respect for cultural diversity and human creativity.  As such, intangible heritage includes oral traditions and expressions, language, performing arts, social practices, rituals, festive events and traditional craftsmanship (Ahmad 2006:299). Such practices and knowledge cannot, by definition, be accounted for under the rubric of physical or tangible heritage. For these reasons, heritage is life-sustaining; in many ways it is synonymous with culture, especially insofar as culture is shared and learned. As illustrated in this research, intangible heritage does not fall under the rubric of archaeology/CRM. The maritime heritage crisis is a crisis over the loss of culture, in particular Indigenous culture, as discussed in Chapter 9.  8  Coastal Change   Coastal change is a natural process insofar as coasts and coastlines have always been changing. Sea levels have risen and fallen since the beginning of human time, cyclically drowning and exposing land masses according to the laws of celestial physics. Bluffs, beaches and coastlines have always been in flux, following those same laws. However, coastal change has increasingly become a cultural process, wherein humans are the driving force behind change, not “nature.” Coasts Under Stress illustrates best how the issue of coastal change extends far beyond physical landscape change to include a complex web of factors and processes (Ommer et al. 2007). It also highlights the human toll of such changes. The “problem,” as it were, is no longer external (nature), but internal (cultural). In this sense, it seems we are the ultimate limiting factor, both in terms of causes and solutions. For the purposes of constraining this inquiry, the term “coastal change” is used narrowly to refer to just two spheres: (a) climate-change induced sea level rise and increased storminess, and (b) population growth and change, which includes such diverse considerations as affluence, development, and migration. I will begin by introducing the latter first.  Population growth and change  The “twin forces” of rising affluence and population are changing coastal communities “around the world” (Gurran et al. 2007:445). Erlandson and Rick (2008:1) provide this environmental snapshot: “As human populations have grown exponentially over the past century, and with 60 percent of the world’s population living within 100 km of the coast, many have looked to the oceans as a source of hope and protein to feed the masses.” However, pollution, habitat loss, and global warming take an increasing toll on coastal ecosystems. For marine ecologists, the consequences of such impacts include “the wholesale collapse of many coral reef, kelp forest, estuarine, arctic, benthic, and other ecosystems.” While these and other impacts are now global in scale, humans have had the heaviest impact on nearshore and coastal areas (2008:1). Very little quantitative data exists about the impacts of population growth and change on Pacific Northwest Coast archaeological heritage, especially when compared to natural heritage. Indeed, in my research I have come across only a handful of studies that have attempted to quantify archaeological site loss across large Pacific Northwest coastal areas (e.g., Acheson and Riley 1979; Moss and Erlandson 2008). It seems that only highly contentious cases of site destruction tend to get any real coverage, either in the media or through professional publications. These cases include what Stapp and Longenecker 9  (2009) term “archaeological disasters.” Prominent recent examples include the Tse-whit-zen and Marpole village sites, located in Washington State and British Columbia, respectively (see Part One). What typically goes undocumented, however, is the daily degradation, permitted or unpermitted, of coastal heritage. Indeed, Welch and colleagues (2011) recently noted that in British Columbia there currently exists no publicly available list of archaeological permit violations. In general, the quantification of coastal site destruction and degradation appears to be a low priority. One exception is Moss and Erlandson (2008), who quantified cultural and environmental impacts on archaeological sites located in coastal Oregon State Park lands. Their study shows that “very few sites” are “not actively eroding through the sometimes combined effects of seacliff retreat, riverine erosion, slopewash, trampling, and wind erosion” (2008:34). Many sites were damaged and remain threatened by the construction of roads, parking areas, restrooms, picnic areas and other park facilities, as well as by coastal erosion, weathering, sedimentation, dredging, clam digging, shipping, logging, oyster farming, and other ground-disturbing activities and processes. Littoral sites are considered especially vulnerable to looting because of their high visibility and accessibility. Their survey of 126 coastal sites on State Park lands identified 87 damaged by slopewash, 85 impacted by trampling, 70 damaged by seacliff retreat, 43 impacted by construction, 27 cases of looting, 25 cases of riverbank erosion, and 10 cases of tidal inundation. As Moss and Erlandson emphasize, concern for the “rapid destruction” of Oregon coast archaeological sites goes back more than 70 years (2008:34). In 1935, for example, one individual noted that “erosion, agriculture, construction, and looting were heavily impacting coastal sites” (2008:34). Nearly sixty years ago, Collins (1953:55, in Moss and Erlandson 2008:34) observed that “I haven’t presented a bright picture of the situation, but one that spells doom for the prehistory of the coastal region of Oregon. … In a few years the site count and excavatable sites will drop 50 percent. … I recommend that excavation procedures be instituted immediately.” Writing about Western Canada in 1986, Brain Spurling had this ominous message about site loss: The next generation of Western Canadian archaeologists…could be the last to have access to a reasonably intact [i.e., physically intact] archaeological record... To them will be the responsibility of maximizing returns from the remaining archaeological resource base. They will have the privilege of studying the few drainage systems not yet impounded for export, energy or irrigation. And they will exercise considerable influence over choices to excavate or preserve the rare, intact, multi-component sites not yet destroyed by urban and rural developments, transportation systems, or coastal erosion. (1986:465)  In 2005 in Washington State, the Seattle/King County Task Force on Maritime Heritage was convened to “Create a vision and chart a course for a sustainable maritime heritage presence in Seattle, King County and Puget Sound.” They had this to say about the issue: 10  The rich maritime story of Seattle and King County, past and present, is endangered. Visible indicators are the decline of contemporary maritime culture, the loss of historic ships, low visibility, and lack of broad-based community support. Without remedial action, our maritime legacy will be lost to future generations. … With them goes a common understanding of how we are tied to the sea. (Task Force 2005:3, 5)  By all appearances, the situation at hand, and as it pertains to physical heritage, has long been recognized as serious, if not a “crisis.” I have so far, however, only considered the physical dimension of “the problem.” What about the human dimensions of coastal change? As most coastal communities are in some way resource dependent, they are particularly vulnerable to environmental degradation and associated political (e.g., managerial) responses, as well as to the pressures of globalization (Dolan and Ommer 2008:27). In Canada, for example, both East and West Coast communities “have been under considerable stress from the impacts of interacting environmental, industrial, political, and social changes” (Dolan and Ommer 2008:27). The situation has been far worse along Canada’s North Coast (Forbes 2011:iii), where “[r]apid environmental, social, economic, political and institutional changes are defining characteristics of the past decade in the Arctic basin. In the face of unprecedented and jarring changes in the local environment on which traditional livelihoods and cultures depend, Arctic coastal communities are coping with rapid population growth, technological change, economic transformation, confounding social and health challenges and, in much of the Arctic, rapid political and institutional change.   One outstanding question, then, is this: How does heritage destruction relate to these different aspects of coastal change? And vice-versa?  Sea level rise  Put generically, anthropogenic or human-induced sea level rise, an outcome of climate change (IPCC 2007a), “may result in more frequent flooding and salt contamination of low lying areas, as well as storm damage to areas and structures previously above high water” (British Columbia 2007:95). Landry (2011:259) provides this overview for the United States’ eastern seaboard: The coastal zone is one of the most dynamic natural systems on earth, with unremitting wind and waves, occasional storms, and sea level change playing key roles in process and evolution. [...] Climate change threatens to increase the intensity of coastal storms (Hoyos et al. 2006) and accelerate sea level rise (IPCC 2007). Analysis conducted by the Heinz Center (2000) suggests that one in four homes within 500 feet of the U.S. east coast could be directly or indirectly lost to erosion in the next 60 years, at a potential cost of $530 million each year.  11  Not surprisingly, impacts on archaeological heritage are expected to be catastrophic. As Erlandson puts it, while “discussion of the threat posed to millions of archaeological, historical, and paleontological sites located along island and continental coastlines around the world has been very limited,” if left unchecked, “rising seas, accelerated coastal erosion, and larger and more frequent mega-storms will destroy many of the world’s most important coastal archaeological sites” (2012:138-9). Additionally, “[t]he destruction of archaeological sites and historical landmarks caused by global warming, rising seas, and coastal erosion is already a major problem, but sea level rise of one or two meters in the decades to come will increase these problems by an order of magnitude” (2012:139). Compounding the problem is that while coastlines are dynamic, archaeological sites are “fixed” (Murphy, Thackray, and Wilson 2009:9; see also English Heritage 2008; however, see Holtorf 2005:132, 148). The view from England is cause for even greater concern. There, the coastline is “already being affected by climate change and this can only get worse” (Murphy et al. 2009:15). Of concern is this: Protection of some assets—especially those on developed coasts1—will be possible, but elsewhere mitigation rather than conservation will be needed. This obviously goes against the grain for heritage conservation bodies. Nevertheless, difficult decisions will have to be made on prioritization and funding allocation, and in the end we will simply have to let some assets go” (2009:15).  In England, the “preferred” response to coastal erosion “will depend on risk management, on the value of assets to be protected (from houses to nuclear power stations) relative to costs of [coastal] defenses, and on the requirement to comply with nature conservation legislation and biodiversity obligations” (2009:12). Considering the human dimension, it is projected that adverse environmental changes (IPCC 2007a, b; Munn 2002; Schwartz 2005) will “likely challenge the health and wellbeing of coastal communities already under considerable stress. Researchers anticipate multiple direct and indirect community and population health consequences from climate change” (Dolan and Ommer 2008:27). While climate change has emerged as the “primary global challenge in the 21st century,” (Nelson 2010:283), the problems are already occurring, and have been for some time (Reid and Trexler 1991; Myers 1997; Cutting, Cahoon, and Hall 2011; Forbes 2011). An example of this is the rapidly growing environmental refugee crisis (Bates 2002; Bardsley and Hugo 2010). As Myers pointed out in 1997, “[e]nvironmental refugees could become one of the foremost human crises of our times” (1997:181). This issue is of great concern in coastal zones as they “may feature as many as five billion people, or two-thirds of all people in the world, making them specially susceptible to sea level rise and associated problems” (1997:173), an observation that has borne out over the intervening years (Creel 2003; Forbes                                                      1 An excellent example of this is the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse case described by Erlandson (2012:137). 12  2011). Climate change has been linked with increased violence, and governments around the world are actively preparing, including the United States and Canada.  Resource Management   Today, willingly or not, coastal communities look to government leaders, public policy-makers, coastal management experts, coastal resource managers and archaeologists to solve these problems. As a consequence, mainstream discourse surrounding the crisis is largely centered on and anchored in the language, ideology and bureaucracy of “resource management.” Historically, coastal resource management strategies have been guided by the overarching fields/processes that are coastal zone management (CZM), a 1970s-era framework later reformulated as integrated coastal zone management (ICZM), the latter which shares many commonalities with the even newer process that is adaptive co-management (Armitage et al. 2007). These processes, along with their concomitant “responses,” however, have been less than successful, so much so that resource management itself has been implicated as the “problem.” Acheson describes it this way: “Over the past 50 years it has become increasingly apparent the world is facing a resource management crisis” (2006:118). For him, our current predicament is the product of “institutional failure” (2006:117). In a similar vein, Rogers observes that the “history of comprehensive attempts to regulate the exploitation of nature in the name of conservation is brief and dismal” (1995:3). Noting that “[m]any of the world’s natural resources are in a state of crisis,” Lertzman concludes that “[i]f avoiding population declines, species loss, erosion of ecosystem services, and degradation of environmental quality in general are the criteria for a successful management system, then modern resource management systems cannot be considered successful” (2009:344). In his analysis of “our unprotected heritage,” King (2009:7) considers the management process to be “pretty much a sham.” Focusing on cultural resource management, Smith (2004:174) refers to “the death of archaeology.” Demonstrations of how the “resource crisis” is now global in scale make the scene all the more dismal (IPCC 2007a, b; Munn 2002; Schwartz 2005; Timmerman 2002; Tolba 2002). The general consensus among those who study the resource management problem is that (a) the system is fundamentally broken and (b) by most accounts things are getting much worse, not better. So, what do experts think we should do about the failure of coastal management? While the concomitant issues of rising human population, growing consumption and increasing resource exploitation—collectively the major historic drivers of coastal change—have been intensively studied for over 25 years (Bird 1985; Goudie 1990; Schwartz 2005; Titus 1988), there is little agreement on how to actually enact positive change. For many reasons, there has been and continues to be conflict at every 13  turn. There is disagreement as to what actually constitutes the “coast” (Bird 2005; Graber 2005; Oertel 2005; Lewis 2009), assertions that more and better science is the solution (McFadden 2007), counter-assertions that that science is not the “limiting factor” (Billé 2008), and many calls for more “integrated” approaches (Lertzman 2009; Ng’ang’a 2006). While some view the issue through an economic lens (Cutting et al. 2011; Landry 2011), others take a legal perspective (Cutting et al. 2011) or call for more humanistic approaches (Thorburne 2000). While some look to “bottom-up” or local/community-based solutions (McGinnis and McGinnis 2011; Thorburne 2000), others promote “top-down” management models (Ng’ang’a 2006; Pilkey and Young 2009). Some heritage experts call for a shift in focus from “resources” to “heritage” (Smith 2006), and some have begun considered removing archaeology from “heritage” (Waterton and Smith 2009). With few exceptions, disagreement exists at every turn. Looking to the future, biologists Sumaila and Pauly (2011) predict that, “unless behavior changes, humankind will continue on the ‘march of folly’” (Jackson, Alexander, and Sala 2011:9). Is coastal cultural resource management, because of its seeming counterproductivity and the availability of other options,  on a march of folly? If the answer is yes, then the public should certainly be made aware of such a fact, as King (2009) has tried to do. This is because the public has come to depend on government “for a huge variety of services and goods”; in the past few decades many have come to see the government as “our primary bulwark” against heritage destruction and degradation (Acheson 2006:123). If they are indeed being misled, they should be so informed. Acheson elaborates on two aspects of government failure that are central to the present study; those are problems with science and problems with top-down management. As he puts it, one issue is that government agencies concerned with resource management are often staffed with “well-educated engineers and scientists from urban areas who tend to have an interest only in scientific and technical aspects of their job and have little interest in the local culture”—many cannot communicate with rural peoples and “others have contempt for local-level knowledge based on decades of experience” (2006:125). This issue fits into the broader problem that is top-down management: Centralized, hierarchical government units have a number of traits that in the long run work against effective resource management. Government agencies have a strong penchant for regulatory uniformity. As a result, central governments are apt to promulgate one set of rules for large areas that do not take into account variations in the local ecology [or culture]. Agencies are invested with a good deal of power, which they often use to ride roughshod over the wishes of local government units. (2006:125)  As I demonstrate in Part Three, bureaucracy has been shown to be extremely hazardous to human wellbeing. As government policies “all too often result in the concentration of the resource in the hands of local elites or corporations” (Acheson 2006:126), corruption is a major concern. Governments generally attempt to preserve resources in two ways: “First they buy large amounts of land and resources to create 14  parks, national forests, and biosphere reserves; second, they pass laws and regulations designed to protect resources” (2006:123).   A Critical Heritage Studies Approach  The fundamental concept in social science is Power, in the same sense in which Energy is the fundamental concept in physics. – Bertrand Russell, 1938:10  The maritime heritage crisis—indeed all environmental and cultural concerns—can initially be approached from two very different directions, Energy and Power. In focusing on Energy, thus matter, the maritime heritage crisis becomes a physical problem, wherein naturalized forces such as “the sea” or “development” become the destructive agents and archaeological sites become the “victims.” One benefit of this approach is that heritage is made measurable or quantifiable, thus more “manageable.” This approach, however, has been roundly and repeatedly criticized for obscuring and erasing the issue’s human dimension, a central focus of Part Three. Alternatively, a focus on Power, specifically social power, reveals a much more complicated but arguably more realistic field of play. Under this view, humans are recognized as the drivers of coastal change, and responses may be considered threats, with real consequences for heritage, as well the communities that heritage represents. In this sense, a focus on power gives primacy to the human dimension of the maritime heritage crisis. This includes consideration of heritage destruction and degradation in terms of human health and wellbeing.  This study initially (and naively) set out in 2007 to “solve” the maritime heritage crisis for the Pacific Northwest Coast by focusing on Energy. The crisis, as I had originally framed it, is that sea level rise over the next century will destroy a vast number of the region’s coastal archaeological sites. At the time, my primary concern was for the loss of these sites as records or storehouses—in some cases the only record—of Holocene maritime adaptive strategies, and thus our only opportunity to learn about and from those who came before us. As a geoarchaeologist specializing in ancient coastal change, and with my experience in coastal cultural resource management, I felt I was well-situated to quantify and explicate this problem. Indeed, a mainstream “solution” to the crisis was rather easy to come by. Since the 1990s, heritage specialists working in Europe have developed and authorized a meticulously researched, seemingly rock-solid response. Buttressed by the methods of scientific archaeology, humanized through maritime cultural landscape theory, and organized under the logic of cultural resource management, I quickly concluded 15  that the solution had been found. My research program was, for all intents and purposes, set to military precision: (a) phase one: Desk-top survey, (b) phase two: Field survey, (c) phase three: Valuation… Then, soon after, a great unease set about me. That unease emerged from the seeming normalcy and simplicity of the European model, which has since, and not to my surprise, been imported for use in North America (Westley et al. 2011). At the time I did not have a good grasp of why I felt it to be problematic; however, I did know that it ran counter to what I was reading and thinking (and still read and think). Here is but one example from Fathali Moghaddam (2010:1): Hard time times bring hard questions. Calamitous wars, international terrorism, environmental degradation and global warming, interconnected global economic depression—the twenty-first century has given birth to hard times, and we now labor under hard questions. How will we manage a world severely challenged by shrinking resources, ballooning population, huge and increasing income inequalities, terrorism, torture, and environmental collapse?  Against this, the European response (and most others) seems trite. There is simply no allowance for “hard questions” about the true scope, scale and interconnectedness of “the problem.” Then the proverbial “lightning bolt” struck, setting off an irreversible chain reaction. In 2010, I acquired a copy of Raymond Rogers’ (1998) Solving History: The Challenge of Environmental Activism, and at once my mental imbroglio began to wane. “It is very clear to me,” writes Rogers, “that environmental problems are not about ‘resolving issues’; they are about coming to terms with particular histories associated with modern economic development, which in turn, require a challenge directed at specific interests which have been the beneficiaries of that development” (1998:x, emphasis added). This comment raised many questions for me: What is the history of resource management? What are “resources?” And who or what, exactly, are those resources being managed for? Who are “the beneficiaries?” What do we mean by “management?” By “development?” What role do archaeologists and other heritage specialists play in all this? Ultimately, what is “the problem?” My fruitful engagement with Solving History induced me to dust off and reread my copy of Rogers’ (1995) The Oceans are Emptying: Fish Wars and Sustainability. There I made the second key connection, this one directly illuminating my aforementioned unease. Rogers (1995:153) identifies two different ways of thinking about heritage problems. The first is what he calls the “strategic, instrumental, and technical approach,” what I refer to here as “SIT.” This approach is typically science and planning oriented and “does not call the modern human project related to science, technology and capitalism into question. Instead, it focuses on monitoring activities and reforming certain practices which are deemed to have negative consequences for the environment” (1995:153). Known alternatively as the “problem-solving approach,” the SIT approach appears to represent the vast majority of proposed “solutions” to heritage “problems.” It also seems to represents the heritage industry response to sea level rise. 16  Additionally, and perhaps related, is that archaeology and cultural resource management’s approach to sea level rise, indeed all coastal change, is reactive—not proactive. The true function and utility of these approaches, therefore, should be questioned. Rogers’ observations about the implications of SIT (and wait) approaches reinforced for me a previously encountered concept. Although controversial, at least within (archaeological) science and resource management circles, it was becoming increasingly clear to me that science itself was a key part of the equation—and not in a good way. What I had previously encountered was Raphaël Billé’s (2008) critical essay on Integrated Coastal Zone Management’s “four entrenched illusions.” One of those is the “positivist illusion,” wherein scientific knowledge is viewed as a “necessary and sufficient condition to well-managed coastal zones” (2008:8). For Billé, “the positivist illusion, very present in coastal zone management, is to be challenged…because the abundance of scientific knowledge does not guarantee better management, and conversely, because the incomplete and controversial nature of scientific knowledge is seldom the real limiting factor to action” (2008:10). While Billé suggests that scientific knowledge is “seldom” a limiting factor in the resolution of coastal issues, I was prepared to go one step further. The basis for this move emerged from my reading of Moghaddam’s (1997) analysis of specialization, a concept closely allied with science in general and SIT approaches in particular. The reality is that heritage matters are not public matters; for the most part they are the concern of university-trained specialists—in the present case, archaeologists and cultural resource managers, or “heritage specialists.” The question to emerge from my engagement with Moghaddam was this: What are the implications of “specialization” for heritage? For Moghaddam, the present course of “trying to find technical solutions to moral problems is misguided” (1997:8), and, problematically, “educators—the very people who should be able to lead us out of this path of increasing specialization—have themselves fallen victim” (2010:7). Another point of orientation for the present study relates to Rogers’ second way of approaching heritage problems. Situated in opposition to the SIT approach is one based on social and cultural analysis. This alternative, what we might call a “sociohistorical approach,” begins with the recognition that “the structures of everyday life and the structures that cause [heritage2] problems are one and the same.” Therefore, it is all but impossible to separate what is causing [heritage] problems from the texture of a whole society. Discussions from this perspective relate to the hegemonic domination of current realities and reject the concept that, since [heritage] problems are connected with the fabric of everyday life, it is possible to develop and maintain a regulatory perspective which can mitigate problems, since regulation itself can be part of the problem. In other words, dealing with [heritage] issues may require more than solving problems, it may be necessary to solve history by making everyday life problematic in order to deal with [heritage] problems. (Rogers 1995:153)                                                       2 I have replaced here Rogers’ term “environmental” with the more general “heritage.” 17  If the two perspectives that are solving problems (the SIT approach) and solving history (the sociohistorical approach) are seen as poles on a continuum, there exists an inverse relationship between “the extent to which current modern realities are universalized and strategized on the one end, and how much moral, ethical, or political economy considerations are taken into account in the analysis of [heritage] problems on the other” (1995:153). While my internal conflict had for the most part passed, a new course needed to be quickly set. It is along this new course I adopted a much stronger interdisciplinary and critical approach, recognizing that the only real constant at the intersection of maritime heritage, coastal change and resource management is Power. My interest in this inquiry, then, goes beyond the physical aspects, or Energy, of coastal erosion and concomitant site degradation/loss, processes that are well understood, as discussed in Part One. However, the impacts of heritage destruction and degradation for coastal communities around the world—especially Indigenous communities—extend well beyond physical loss to include social and psychological consequences of such losses. As such, the second goal of this inquiry is to identify those sources of social power that influence the maritime heritage crisis. Towards this, I began using critical theory, with its emphasis on power, as a frame to better understand the history of the “problem.” Critical theory is knowledge that aims at reducing domination (Biro 2011:3), an undertaking that requires “the redemption of the hopes of the past” (Horkheimer and Adorno 1987:xv). As I have suggested elsewhere, this conceptualization places history and heritage at the center of the conversation (Hutchings 2014a).  Within this paradigm, critical heritage studies is concerned with exploring what constitutes heritage, a spectrum that ranges from a “canonical list of places and objects” to “community practices and social action” (Harrison 2010:38). Specifically, the discipline is most concerned with the processes involved in the construction of each of these two types of heritage and how they are related. Drawing on the important work of Laurajane Smith (2004, 2006), Rodney Harrison (2010:38-39) points out that the first of these processes “concerns the ways in which official heritage, or AHD [Authorized Heritage Discourse], are involved in the production of a ‘heritage industry’ which grants the power to control heritage and, by extension, its messages, to ‘experts’ and the state.” As a cohesive framework, critical heritage studies only spans the last decade (Benton 2010; Fairclough et al. 2008; Harrison 2010; Holtorf 2005, 2007; Smith 2004, 2006; Smith and Waterton 2009; West 2010), however well-known precursors in archaeology include Leone (1981:13) and Hodder (1984:30), who viewed archaeology as ideology and part of the present, and Shanks and Tilley (1987:14), who saw archaeology as “a practice in contemporary capitalism.” For the latter, the work done by archaeologists is “not neutral, self-contained or objective,” and interpretation of the past is “affected by present ideology—a point of view related to present interests” (1987:14).  18  Indeed, since its invention, archaeology has “furthered colonialist agendas in settler countries” (McNiven and Russell 2005:vii), and been used to justify settler occupation and expropriation of Indigenous lands (Deloria 1997:112). Thus, central to the present study is an understanding of colonialism as the “process of establishing settlements in a conquered territory with the administration of such settlements fully or partially subject to control by the conquering state” (Hale 1990: 561). Because it is rooted in social power, colonialism, capitalism and imperialism are closely related concepts (Smith 1999).   A critical heritage studies approach is therefore useful here because it takes as a central theme the ways in which the past is used in the present, because it focuses on how heritage is constructed, delivered, practiced and consumed, and works to uncover the ways in which heritage embodies relationships of power and subjugation, inclusion and exclusion, and remembering and forgetting (Harrison 2010:1). The Association of Critical Heritage Studies identifies as a point of departure the view that heritage, as much as anything, is a political act (ACHS 2011). As such, we need to ask serious questions about the power relations that ‘heritage’ has all too often been invoked to sustain. Nationalism, imperialism, colonialism, cultural elitism, Western triumphalism, social exclusion based on class and ethnicity, and the fetishising of expert knowledge have all exerted strong influences on how heritage is used, defined and managed. … The study of heritage has historically been dominated by Western, predominantly European, experts in archaeology, history, architecture and art history. … The old way of looking at heritage—the Authorised Heritage Discourse—privileges old, grand, prestigious, expert approved sites, buildings and artefacts that sustain Western narratives of nation, class and science.  This critical new tack led me directly to the harbor that is “resource management.” I have remained moored there ever since. It is a dark and stormy place. Out of this stay emerged the following four premises:  Assessments of sea level rise impacts must not only address but centre and foreground the dominant mode of response that is resource management, as well as attendant physical and social issues related to population growth and change.  Environmental issues (e.g., natural heritage) and cultural issues (e.g., cultural heritage) cannot be considered in isolation from each other, for they are intrinsically related.  A lack of archaeological or other data may not be a limiting factor in problem-solving; indeed, because of its positivist values, science may be considered part of the problem.  The maritime heritage crisis may be a moral problem that is related to everyday life and for which there may be no scientific or technical solutions.  The present project, then, is not about solving the problem that is the maritime heritage crisis; it is instead about “solving history,” in this case critically exploring resource management’s association with modernity and capitalist “development.” 19  Document Organization  At the highest level, this document is organized around the “shifting baselines” concept. In 1995, marine biologist Daniel Pauly used the term shifting baseline syndrome (SBS) to describe a “phenomenon of lowered expectations, in which each generation regards a progressively poorer natural world as normal” (Island Press 2011). SBS is “a cautionary tale” referring to changing human perceptions of systems due to the “loss of experience about past conditions” (Papworth, Rist, Coad, and Milner-Gulland 2009:93). SBS is recognized as having two forms: (a) generational amnesia, wherein knowledge extinction occurs because younger generations are not aware of past conditions, and (b) personal amnesia, wherein knowledge extinction occurs as individuals forget their own experience (Papworth et al. 2009:93). More specifically, Generational amnesia describes individuals setting their perceptions from their own experience, and failing to pass their experience on to future generations. Thus, as observers leave a system, the population’s perception of normality updates and past conditions are forgotten.   Personal amnesia describes individuals updating their own perception of normality; so that even those who experienced different previous conditions believe that current conditions are the same as past conditions. This could lead to all individuals having the same ‘current’ view.  While SBS is typically used in discussions about the management of “natural” heritage, specifically marine fisheries, it has strong implications for all aspects of resource management, including the management of cultural heritage. Importantly, SBS should be explicitly used to refer to shifts in social phenomenon (Papworth et al. 2009:94). In this sense, the concept could be applied to changing (or unchanging) attitudes toward maritime heritage and coastal change, in this case, the phenomenon of increasing site destruction. In this context, we might ask: What were people’s views, historically? What are people’s views, today? What has been “forgotten”? What is “normal,” or “mainstream”? What, if anything, has changed? Part One, then, is titled “Setting the Baseline.” Therein, I focus on the Energy of coastal change, surveying the variety of threats, impacts and responses, with the goal of identifying the boundaries of contemporary coastal change discourse. In Chapter 2, I specifically discuss Pacific Northwest Coast sea level rise with an emphasis on British Columbia, Canada, Washington State, and the transboundary Salish Sea region. While globally the heritage industry response to SLR is cultural resource management, locally there has been virtually no discussion whatsoever.  In Chapter 3, I address the twin problem of population growth and development, framed as “amenity migration.” In this context, CRM is the response to heritage destruction on the Pacific Northwest Coast. As such, I provide in Chapter 4 a detailed historical examination of British Columbia 20  resource management as the mainstream response to coastal change. The problematic relationship between CRM and development is highlighted. Part Two encompasses my coastal change case study of the coastal change problem as it pertains to the shíshálh (Sechelt) First Nation, whose traditional territory encompasses much of the “Sunshine Coast,” southwestern British Columbia. There, the baseline is tested, and the impact of amenity migration or “sea change” on Indigenous heritage is considered. In Chapter 5, I provide background information on the shíshálh Nation and their approach to heritage stewardship.  Chapter 6 represents the core of my case study. This involves detailed examination of coastal change impacts on three specific areas within the shíshálh (Sechelt) First Nation’s territory: Sechelt, Halfmoon Bay, and Pender Harbour. Past, present and future impacts are considered, and the extent of heritage sites destruction is quantified for each of the three study units. These data are complied and summarized in Chapter 7. Part Three, “Shifting the Baseline,” introduces and applies a critical heritage framework for interpreting Power in the domain that is coastal change discourse. The baseline is shifted insofar as power and scale are given primacy, which in turn demands a critical consideration of the true nature of modern coastal “problems” and “solutions.”  In Chapter 8, I return to the subject of social power, using the power-elite dynamic to explicate heritage destruction. In this light, resource management is reframed as a form of ideology aimed at facilitating growth, development and progress. Ironically, these are the driving forces that necessitate or prompt the destruction of coastal heritage in the first place. Cultural resource management is a technology of government and a form of authorized heritage discourse. The outcome of such top-down governance and discourses is the breakdown of local control over heritage. This is important because archaeology / CRM is directly implicated in the destruction  of Indigenous heritage landscapes. In Chapter 9, the result of continuing the status quo of CRM as the response to coastal change is inevitably the further destruction of natural heritage, thus culture. Within the larger unfolding paradigm of colonialism, Indigenous communities are especially vulnerable to such capitalist exploitation, explicated in the metaphor of the miner’s canary. I end by taking a holistic approach to the maritime heritage crisis in the context of a “problematique” that can help reorient “the problem” as a social one that emerges from the core. Chapter 10 concludes the dissertation. 21  PART ONE:  SETTING THE BASELINE—THREATS, IMPACTS, AND RESPONSES   baseline — noun 1.  in surveying: a measured line through a survey area  from which triangulations are made. 2.  an imaginary line, standard of value, etc, by which  things are measured or compared.1   The goal of Part One is to establish a baseline for thinking and talking about the Energy coastal change and the maritime heritage crisis. In Chapter 2, I take account of the sea level rise threat. I do the same for coastal sprawl in Chapter 3. With a Pacific Northwest Coast focus, these two chapters provide the theoretical basis for the shíshálh Coast case study, presented in Part Two. Part One culminates with Chapter 4, where I put British Columbia resource management in historical context. Regarding cultural heritage, I identify archaeology/CRM as the mainstream response to coastal change.   Chapter 2:  Sea Level Rise  Twenty-first century sea level rise (SLR) is a byproduct of anthropogenic (human-induced) climate change2, triggered by the burning of fossil fuels during the industrial revolution—a revolution western society is still fully engaged with3, despite ongoing efforts to rebrand it as something different (e.g., ‘Post-industrial,’ ‘Anthropocene’). Climate change is expected to have an enormous impact on heritage, and sea level rise is a major factor. In this chapter, sea level rise threats and impacts are considered with the goal of characterizing a “mainstream” heritage response. Before proceeding to that, however, I consider the broader implications of the climate change threat, for both “natural” and “cultural” heritage. The reality is that a range of socioenvironmental processes collectively impact maritime heritage, and it is often impossible to isolate single causes or “drivers” of coastal change. Put in slightly different                                                      1 baseline. Collins English Dictionary ± Complete & Unabridged 10th Edition . HarperCollins, 2009. Retrieved 20 February 2012, http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/baseline 2 By “climate change” I mean a change of climate that is attributable, directly or indirectly, to “human activity that alters the composition of the global atmosphere and which is in addition to natural climate variability observed over comparable time periods” (United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change, Article 1 [UN 2010]). See IPCC (2013) for a recent, comprehensive account of climate change and SLR. In this light, sea level rise is not a “natural” threat but a “cultural” one. 3 In Northern America, the negative consequences of the fossil-fueled Industrial Revolution (1800-present) have largely been externalized thus hidden from society at-large, despite their now global scale (Bodley 2008a). 22  frame, sea level rise is but one threat among many when it comes to climate change4, and multiple processes typically operate in concert, rather than individually, at a given location. Consider, for example, the case for wetlands. Wetlands are, for a variety of reasons,5 a central component of archaeological discourse (Bernick 1998, 2012; Lepofsky and Caldwell 2013; Moss 2012; Nicholas 2007a, 2007b). This, in addition to the vital ecological and cultural importance of wetlands worldwide (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment 2005a, b), makes the example all the more apt. Recent studies chronicle the rapid decline and disappearance of coastal wetlands in the eastern United States, with dramatic results. During the four-year period between 2004 and 2009, America’s eastern seaboard lost more than 360,000 acres (145,687 ha) of freshwater and saltwater wetlands to storms, sea level rise and coastal development (Stedman and Dahl 2013). The 2004-09 results represent a 25 percent increase in the rate of loss in the same areas from the previous survey , which covered the six-year period between 1998 and 2004 (Stedman and Dahl 2008).6 As reported by Fears (2013), Storms and wetlands have waged an epic struggle on the coasts for eons. What’s relatively new, and detrimental to the wetlands, is an explosion of coastal residential and business development, along with coastal farming, that drain water from the wetlands or fill them with dirt for agriculture, parking lots, housing and retail stores. As a result, sizeable chunks of wetlands die. Surviving wetlands are battered by rainwater runoff pouring from newly built surfaces such as driveways and roads, and much of that water is polluted with garbage, toxins and fine particle sediment. Wetlands can’t handle the added deluge. … ‘The plumbing of the whole system is altered,’ said [Tom] Dahl, a senior scientist for wetlands status and trends for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.  The impacts of coastal wetland loss are alone staggering, without considering sea level rise.  The logic for this chapter is embedded within the concept of the watershed—in particular, the idea that shishalh coastlines cannot be separated from the Salish Sea basin within which those maritime landscapes are situated. This is an holistic approach that recognizes the fluid nature of landscapes, both physical and cultural. I begin by discussing the sea level rise threat with particular attention to the physical impacts of inundation. Considered in this review are data from (a) Washington State and British Columbia and (b) Puget Sound and the Strait of Georgia (the Salish Sea). For each, I specifically look at cultural heritage impacts and responses to those impacts.                                                           4 Inundation is only one effect of climate change (Reid and Trexler 1991:2). 5 In particular, see Turner, Davidson-Hunt, and O’Flaherty (2003). 6 For summaries of these studies, see NOAA (2013), Fears (2013) and Baliga (2013). 23  General Threats  Because sea level rise and other climate-related coastal changes are so often characterized as “threats,” they can all too easily become misconstrued as future problems. Rather, climate change is actively impacting North American coasts. Harford and colleagues (2010:4) are clear that “[o]ur climate is changing and the impacts are already being felt across Canada.” They identify seven categories of climate change threats (2010:4), all with relevance to coastal communities, thus maritime heritage. Those categories are: 1. Increased severity and frequency of heat events 2. Severe storms, including extreme wind, rain, ice, and/or snowfall 3. Wildfires 4. Water shortages and drought 5. Changes in the cryosphere – melting permafrost, sea ice, lake ice, and snow 6. Shifting ranges and altered ecosystems, including disease, pest and invasive species migration 7. Sea level rise, storm surges, coastal and shoreline erosion.  Climate change impacts on “natural” heritage have been considered for far longer and in greater depth than for “cultural” heritage (see below). Focusing on sea level rise, biodiversity and U.S. coastlines, Reid and Trexler (1991:1) began their 1991 study Drowning the National Heritage  with this bold pronouncement: “The world’s ecosystems may undergo more profound changes over the next century than during any comparable span of human history. Global warming of the magnitude expected in coming decades, accompanied by changes in sea level, rainfall, and wind and ocean currents, will significantly affect species composition, community structure, and the function of ecosystems.” According to the same assessment (1991:2), climate change may impact “natural” heritage in the following ways: As sea levels rise, coastal erosion and the severity of coastal flooding will increase, and coastlines will recede unless stabilized by dikes or through sand nourishment. Salt-water intrusion into groundwater, rivers, bays, and estuaries will increase. Changes in rainfall patterns and temperature will modify salinity gradients in estuaries and alter rates of river delta sedimentation, and coastal currents and upwelling patterns are likely to shift geographically and change in intensity. All of these ‘sea changes’ will affect biodiversity in the nation’s coastal zones.  A 2013 Center for Biological Diversity study shows sea level rise threatening one out of every six (17%) threatened and endangered species in the United States. That study shows (2013:1-2) rising seas driven by anthropogenic climate change—potentially as much as 6.5 feet (2m) by 2100—threatening 233 federally protected species in 23 coastal states.7 Heritage, it turns out, is on the losing end of “coastal squeeze.”                                                      7 The 23 states with endangered species threatened by sea level rise are Alabama, Alaska, California, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Mississippi, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Oregon, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Texas, Virginia and Washington. 24  The impacts of climate change on “cultural” heritage, as identified in the World Heritage Centre Expert Report (Cassar et al. 2006) and summarized by Shearing (2007:9-10), include: impacts upon the level of survival of archaeological evidence due to changes to the hydrological, chemical and biological processes of soil; damage resulting from increases in soil moisture and salt which are absorbed through the porous structure of historic buildings leading to crystallisation on surfaces through drying; increased infestation of timber and other organic building materials by pests migrating from other altitudes and latitudes; damage resulting from flooding, increased intensity and frequency of storms and wind gusts.; desertification, salt weathering and erosion threats to cultural heritage in desert areas; and risks to movable cultural heritage through higher levels of humidity, temperatures and ultra violet light. In 2009, the European Joint Programming Institute examined European and global challenges related to climate change, cultural heritage, and security (JPI 2009). That theme was considered a “key European challenge” (2009:1) for the following reasons:  Most European citizens live in or around cultural heritage with which they identify closely because of the uniqueness and irreplaceable value of historic buildings, collections and sites for their tangible and intangible values.  Climate change impacts severely on cultural heritage leading to irreversible damage and losses because of its age and fragility which we owe present and future generations to protect and conserve as symbols of their culture and history.  Security risks threaten in catastrophic ways the physical nature of cultural heritage assets as symbols and icons of European cities and towns that are widely reported by the Media thus demonstrating the central role that cultural heritage has in the lives of communities.  The combined effects of climate change and security threaten the existence of the cultural environment of Europe that has developed and shown resilience over millennia.  Before these combined risks become irreversible threats, the authors of the report conclude, “concerted action is needed to protect, strengthen and transform the unique historic environment of Europe” (JPI 2009:1) Recent reviews of climate change threats to heritage in coastal Northern America can be found in Blankholm (2009) and Goetz (2010:6-21). Blankholm specifically considers the impacts of human responses, which can work to exacerbate the threats and impacts described here (2009:19-22; see also Goetz 2010:19-21).  Sea level rise is a serious concern on the Pacific Northwest Coast. Since the late 1980s, significant energy has been put into predicting future SLR rates and characterizing its potential impacts on Pacific Northwest coastlines. In Washington State, major contributions include Glick, Clough, and Nunley (2007), Huppert, Moore, and Dyson (2009), Littell, McGuire Elsner, Whitely Binder, and Snover (2009), Morgan and Siemann (2009), Moser (1997), Mote, Petersen, Reeder, Shipman, and Whitley 25  Binder (2008), Peterson (2007), and Peterson, Canning, Leschine, and Miles (2008) and Shipman (n.d.). Key Canadian studies include Ausenco Sandwell (2011a, 2011b, 2011c), Bornhold (2008), Hartford (2008), Kerr Wood Leidal (2011), NRTEE (2011), Shaw, Taylor, Forbes, Ruz, and Solomon (1998) and Thomson, Borhold, and Mazzotti (2008). While local vertical land movement data is still relevant, all but the most recent Canadian studies (e.g., BC 2013) are now largely out of date in terms of SLR predictions.  Washington State  The climate change threat for coastal Washington State has been recently assessed by Huppert and colleagues (2009:285). They note that climate change will trigger significant physical and chemical stressors, including: (a )  inundation of low-lying areas by high tides as sea level rises; (b )  flooding of coasts during major storm events, especially near river mouths; (c )  accelerated erosion of coastal bluffs; (d )  shifting of beach profiles, moving the position of the Mean High Water line landward; (e)  saltwater intrusion into coastal freshwater aquifers; and (f )  increased ocean temperature and acidity. While similar forces will be operating everywhere, “shore areas will respond differently depending upon substrate (sand versus bedrock), slope (shallow versus steep cliffs), and the surrounding conditions (exposed versus sheltered from storms)” (Huppert et al. 2009:285). As beaches respond rising seas, coastal property lines and intertidal aquaculture leases will need to be (re)defined through modified property laws. A recent peer-reviewed summary of sea level rise data for Washington State has been produced by Huppert et al. (2009). Their estimates, shown here as Table 2.1, are adapted from work done by Mote et al. (2008:10, Figure 3). Huppert et al. (2009:288) summarize the situation as follows: Locally, relative SLR—the combined effect of global SLR and local rates of vertical land movement—drives many coastal impacts. Mote et al. (2008) explain that Western Washington is located on the edge of the North American continental plate with the Juan de Fuca oceanic plate subducting underneath, which produces gradual uplift in the northwestern part of the region. The northwestern Olympic peninsula has been rising at about 2 mm/yr. On the other hand, South Puget Sound has been subsiding at a rate of 2 mm/yr. Vertical land movement on most of Washington’s coast and the rest of Puget Sound has been found to be less than 1 mm/yr. If these trends continue, relative SLR will be greatest in south Puget Sound and least on the northwest tip of the Olympic Peninsula.8  Mote et al. (2008:10) point out that the four factors they use to estimate future SLR rates (thermal expansion, cryospheric contribution, local atmospheric circulation, local tectonic movement) are “are not well quantified.” In addition, future contributions to SLR from Greenland and Antarctica are “very                                                      8 According to Huppert et al. (2009:288), “Substantial and reliable scientific models do not back up these trends, which is a major reason for the wide range of projected SLR. As noted by Mote et al.  [2008:10], (1) they have not formally quantified the probabilities, (2) SLR cannot be estimated accurately at specific locations, and (3) these SLR projections are for advisory purposes and are not actual predictions.” 26  uncertain” and the rates of vertical land movement (VLM) at specific locations “are generally poorly understood and it is impossible to estimate the uncertainty associated with using measurements of VLM in the recent past to predict changes over the next century. Based on the current science, Mote and colleagues’ “medium” estimate of twenty-first century SLR in Washington is that in Puget Sound, local SLR will closely match global SLR (2008:3). On the northwest Olympic Peninsula, however, very little relative SLR will be apparent due to rates of local tectonic uplift that currently exceed projected rates of global SLR. Since 2009, however, global SLR estimate have changed upwards significantly (BC 2013).   Table 2.1  Relative sea level rise projections for major geographic areas of Washington State. Source: Huppert et al. (2009:288, Figure 2). More recent studies suggest that the “very high” SLR estimates below are likely the most accurate (compare with Figure 2.1 and Table 2.3).  SLR  Estimate By the year  2050 By the year  2100  NW Olympic Peninsula Central &  Southern Coast Puget Sound NW Olympic Peninsula Central &  Southern Coast Puget  Sound Very Low  -12 cm ( -5”) 3 cm (1”)  8 cm (3”) -24 cm (-9”) 6 cm (2”) 16 cm (6”) Medium  0 cm (0”)  12.5 cm (5”) 15 cm (6”) 4 cm (2”) 29 cm (11”) 34 cm (13”) Very High  35 cm (14”) 45 cm (18”)  55 cm (22”) 88 cm (35”) 108 cm (43”) 128 cm (50”)   Puget Sound’s shoreline, estimated at 2,411 km (1,477 mi) in length (Huppert et al. 2009:290), has many facilities and residential developments that will be impacted by SLR (PSP 2011; Shipman 2004; Taylor et al. 2005). As rising seas push shorelines and tides closer to homes and infrastructure, coastal development will be threatened. Approximately 90 percent of Puget Sound’s shorelines have single-family residences or are available for residential development (Taylor et al. 2005 in Huppert et al. 2009:290). SLR will also impact major Washington ports and harbors including the Ports of Seattle, Tacoma, Everett, Olympia, Grays Harbor, and Port Angeles, as well as the many smaller ports and marinas. (2009:296). SLR will also impact the Washington commercial shellfish industry, estimated to be approximately US $75 million a year (2009:299). Sea level rise—and responses to it, notably increased armoring (Shipman et al. 2010)—will have a tremendous impact on already degraded coastal biological systems (Dethier 2010; GBPSEI 2002, 2006; Gelfenbaum et al. 2006; Glick et al. 2007; PSP 2011). In their study of the potential effects of SLR of Pacific Northwest coastal habitats, Glick et al. (2007) applied the Sea Level Affecting Marshes Model (SLAMM), which simulates the dominant processes involved in wetland conversions and shoreline 27  modifications during long-term SLR. The model was applied to 11 different sites in Puget Sound and along the Pacific Coast in southwestern Washington and northwestern Oregon. While model results varied considerably by site, “overall the region is likely to face a dramatic shift in the extent and diversity of its coastal marshes, swamps, beaches, and other habitats due to sea level rise” (2007:iii).  The Program on Climate Economics9, in their report An Overview of Potential  Economic Costs to Washington of a Business - As- Usual Approach to Climate Change, shows how, under the current trajectory, potential costs of climate change in Washington would total US $12.9 billion per year in 2080 (Niemi 2009:5, Figure 1). This works out to US $2,750.00 per household per year. The above total includes US $352 million per year for costs related to increased coastal and storm damage. These numbers, however, do not indicate the net economic effect of climate change, as they do not represent a forecast of how the economy will respond to the different effects of climate change.  British Columbia  In 2011, the Flood Safety Section of the B.C. Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resource Operations published technical guidelines for the design of sea dikes and coastal land use (Ausenco Sandwell 2011a; see also Ausenco Sandwell 2011b, 2011c; Kerr Wood Leidal Associates Ltd. 2011). Those technical guidelines, which make provision for a sea level rise of 0.5 metres by the year 2050, 1.0 metre by 2100, and 2.0 metres by the year 2200, have been adopted as the baseline for policy-making in British Columbia (BC 2013), as illustrated in Figure 2.1. Shaw et al. (1998) have considered the sensitivity of Canadian coasts to a sea level rise of 0.65 metres. Their “coastal vulnerability index” (CVI) combined data on seven variables: (a)  relief and (b)  vertical land movement, which were considered indicators of inundation risk; (c)  lithology and (d)  coastal landforms, which were associated with resistance to erosion; (e)  rates of erosion, which were considered indicators of sensitivity to coastal processes; (f)  wave energy, which was related to capacity for erosion; and (g)  tidal range, which was linked to both inundation and erosion hazards. Emphasis was placed on unconsolidated glacial deposits and low-lying shores. A coast with a high sensitivity would be in a region of low relief and unconsolidated sediments, high tidal range, high wave-energy, and where sea level is already rapidly rising. Alternatively, a coast with low sensitivity index would have high relief, a rocky shore with resistant non-eroding bedrock, falling sea level, low tidal range, and low wave energy.                                                        9 Climate Leadership Initiative (CLI), Institute for a Sustainable Environment, University of Oregon, Eugene. 28   Figure 2.1  British Columbia sea level rise at 2100 (1m), 2220 (2m) and 2300 (3m). Solid red line depicts SLR curve to be used for policy purposes. Source: BC (2013:6, Fig.2)   Overall, the British Columbia has low sensitivity to change, primarily due to a preponderance of high, rocky fjords and skerry shorelines. Pacific Coast areas identified by Shaw et al. (1998:1) as high risk include the Fraser Delta (Ausenco Sandwell 2011a, 2011b, 2011c) and northeast Graham Island (NRC 2008; Walker et al. 2007). Low-elevation fjord-head delta settings, which are often sites of industrial and residential development, are also of concern. A prominent example of this in the Strait of Georgia is the community of Squamish, located at the head of Howe Sound (Shaw et al. 1998:39). In addition to fjord-head delta landscapes, which form where streams draining large watersheds meet the fjord coastline, smaller but innumerable side-entry deltas are also vulnerable. Also of concern in the Strait of Georgia (or Georgia Depression) region is the Nanaimo Lowland, located on the leeward side of Vancouver Island. Characterized by coastal bluffs comprised of unconsolidated Pleistocene sediment, they are susceptible to more severe erosion (Shaw et al. 1998:39). This area also has two large deltas, at Comox and Nanaimo. Similarly vulnerable bluff formations occur across the Strait of Georgia from the Nanaimo Lowland in the narrower Georgia Lowland area, which encompasses the entirety of the Sunshine Coast (Clague and Bornhold 1980; Turner and Clague 1999). Landward of this narrow belt, which ranges in width from 5 to 20 km, is the Coast Mountains area, which includes Howe Sound in the south. This area is cut through by numerous massive fjords which extend up to 70 km from the coast. This fjord zone contains many small but vulnerable deltaic landforms (Clague and Bornhold 1980:350, Figure 24.11). 29  Thomson et al. (2008:48-9) have estimated the local implications of a 1 m global SLR for selected British Columbia areas. Some are shown in Table 2.3, with Strait of Georgia localities highlighted*. The range of mean RSL heights shown  for the Strait of Georgia is from 0.8m (Nanaimo) to 1.2m (Fraser River Delta). Harford (2008:10) estimates that a one-metre sea level rise would inundate more than 4,600 ha (11,367 acres) of farmland and more than 15,000 ha (37,066 acres) of industrial and residential urban areas in British Columbia. Approximately 220,000 people live near or below sea level. Sea level rise is “an important B.C. issue, potentially threatening billions of dollars in infrastructure such as highways, sewer systems, waste treatment facilities, residential housing in areas like Richmond, shipping and ferry terminals, and the Vancouver International Airport” (2008:10). A recent National Roundtable study shows climate change costs for Canada could escalate from roughly CN $5 billion per year in 2020—less than a decade away—to between $21 billion and $43 billion per year by the 2050s (NRTEE 2011:15; see also Stanton et al. 2010). Under conditions of rapid population growth and high climate change, in 2075 the average annual cost is estimated to be CN $221 billion per year, with is a 5 percent chance the total cost could exceed $546 billion per year, and a 1 percent chance of exceeding $820 billion per year (see Table 2.2). The study also considers costs related to coastal erosion (NRTEE 2011:67). By the 2050s, in a given year, between 33,000 and 38,000 square kilometers of land will be at risk of flooding, with between 2,000 and 7,000 square kilometers of this area at risk due to climate change, “about 25% larger than Prince Edward Island, or roughly the size of the Greater Toronto Area” (2011:67).  The area of land at risk of ocean flooding in British Columbia is small relative to the other provinces and territories, a result of the Province’s steep coastal topography (see Figure 2.2); however, the majority of dwellings at risk are in British Columbia ņ about 8,900 to 18,700 by the 2050s, this due to the B.C.’s high coastal population density (2011:69) (see Chapter 3). This estimate may, however, be an order of magnitude low. Nationally, the annual cost of flooding of dwellings could be CN $4 billion to $17 billion by the 2050s (2011:71). For British Columbia, the range could be from $0.84 billion to $13 billion dollars by the 2050s. Per capita costs of dwelling damages by the 2050s in British Columbia are expected to range from $565 to $2146 per person per year.       30  Table 2.2  Annual Costs of Climate Change in Canada, 2075. Source:  NRTEE, 2011:43, Fig. 1 .   ņ Low Climate Change + High Climate Change  Slow Growth Rapid Growth Slow Growth Rapid Growth Average  Annual  Cost $51B $149B $80B $221B 5% Chance of Annual Costs Reaching At Least $119B $350B $198B $546B 1% Chance of Annual Costs Reaching At Least $180B $525B $300B $820B     Stanton, Davis and Fencl (2010:8) note that there are significant distributional differences in such estimates. In terms of land area alone, Canada’s flood exposure due to climate change is not substantial—just 0.14 percent of the nation’s total land. However, what magnifies the economic impacts dramatically is that Canada’s population and economic activity are concentrated in coastal areas. The more pronounced this concentration is in a province or territory, the greater the impact it will feel—which is why British Columbia, with more than half its population concentrated in the coastal Vancouver and Victoria metropolitan areas, is particularly exposed, with up to $1.9 billion in annual damages from climate change-related flooding by the 2020s and up to $25.1 billion by the 2080s, depending on the scenarios used. That means 91 to 97 percent of total annual damages due to climate change would occur in British Columbia, even though it has only 0.8 to 1.4 percent of the land exposed to inundation due to climate change. (2010:8)  Moreover, visible minorities and the aboriginal population are over-represented among those exposed to inundation.  In British Columbia, they account for more than 90 percent of the people living in areas exposed to inundation. Visible minorities make up 80 to 94 percent of the people exposed to climate-induced inundation overall; the vast majority of that population is in British Columbia, where they now make up 39 percent of the provincial population, and by the 2080s, this share is expected to grow to 49 percent. Aboriginal people make up 5 to 6 percent of the population exposed due to climate-induced inundation, with the greatest exposure in the 2020s in all scenarios. (2010:8)  Low-income people are also disproportionately affected. The average household income for the residents of areas exposed to inundation is lower than for the general population in all provinces and scenarios, ranging from 55 to 59 percent of the average for Canada as a whole. In British Columbia, the average income in areas exposed to inundation is 64 to 71 percent of the general-population average (2010:8).  31  Salish Sea   This dissertation uses as a baseline the global SLR rates of 0.5 m for 2050, 1 m for 2100, 2 m for 2200, and 3 m for 2300. Thomson et al. (2008:48) have applied this methodology to three Washington State localities. When viewed together, as shown in Table 2.3, they provide a useful baseline for thinking and talking about sea level rise in the Salish Sea region. The range in mean RSL height by 2100 remains unchanged from that described above for the Strait of Georgia (i.e., 0.8-1.2 m). Salish Sea landscapes most threatened by sea level rise include developed areas, bluffs and cliffs, and all low-lying areas, including shores, estuaries, and wetlands. Responses to SLR, especially armoring, may have a greater negative impact on coastal landscapes than the effects of SLR alone, i.e., than “doing nothing.” Regionally, sea level rise will cost hundreds of billions of dollars, and the socioeconomic toll will not be equally shared across society. Visible minorities and aboriginal and low-income populations will be hardest hit.   Table 2.3  RSL Scenarios for the Salish Sea Region Based on 1 metre global SLR by 2100. After Thomson et al., 2008:48, Table A2.  Location Mean RSL height by 2100 (m)  Puget Sound  Tacoma 1.01-1.03 Seattle 1.03-1.08 Port Angeles .82 Strait of Georgia  Vancouver 0.89-1.03 Fraser River Delta 1.2 Victoria 0.89-0.94 Nanaimo 0.8 Patricia Bay, North Saanich 0.9     32  Cultural Heritage Impacts (Archaeological)   The physical impacts of sea level rise on archaeological heritage are generally well understood. Such study falls under the purview of environmental archaeology broadly (Dincauze 2000:227-250) and coastal geoarchaeology specifically (Waters 1992:249-290; Wells 2001:149-182). The crucial lesson from geoarchaeology concerns that which keeps archaeological sites “whole”—that is, sediment. Sediment is the most common matrix, fabric, or “glue” that keeps sites together, or “intact”; it maintains site “integrity” and is what makes sites “in situ” (Stein 2001; Wells 2001). From this perspective, sediment loss is site loss. To reiterate from earlier, as goes the coastal sediment (and soil), so goes the coastal archaeological site—this rule applies equally to ancient Aboriginal campsites (Rick, Erlandson, and Vellanoweth 2006), medieval European churches (Murphy et al. 2009:14) and historic American lighthouses (Erlandson 2012:137). Globally, and since the late 1990s, there has been a steady increase in the number and frequency of such discussions (e.g., Australian National University 2009; Cassar 2005; Cassar et al. 2006; Chapman 2002; Fulford et al. 1997; ICOMOS 2006, 2006-07; Jones, Hinkel, Arp, and Eisner 2008; Mitchell 2008; Perry 2011; Shearing 2007; The National Trust 2005; UNESCO 2007a, 2007b, 2008, 2010). Despite about a ten-year time lag (however, see Easton 1990), this trend is now playing out in North America (Blankholm 2009; Erlandson 2008, 2012; Goetz 2010; Jones et al. 2008; Reeder et al. 2010; Rick et al. 2006; Westley, Bell, Renouf, and Lev 2011; see also Journal of Coastal Conservation , Vol. 16, No. 2 [2012]). Westley and colleagues (2011:352) provide this introduction: Erosion by waves and tides is a constant threat facing coastal archaeological resources, capable of destroying or damaging cultural sites and landscapes, and resulting in the loss of invaluable and unrecoverable information. Although coastal erosion is a natural phenomenon with actively eroding archaeological sites documented from across the world (e.g., Carrasco et al. 2007; Fitzpatrick et al. 2006; Jones et al. 2008), it is predicted that erosion rates will accelerate over the next century due to rising sea-levels and increased storm activity… This will potentially result in a range of destructive coastal responses, for example cliff retreat or collapse, coastal flooding, beach and barrier retreat, and saltmarsh erosion (Murphy et al. 2009). Intensified erosion in turn implies an increase in the number of threatened archaeological sites.   Accounts from regions where such problems are already underway—the Arctic in particular (Blankholm 2009; Goetz 2010)—highlight the many complexities of the situation. This includes the speed at which erosion can occur, the extent of land that can be impacted in those time spans, and the potential for global and near-complete loss of low-elevation heritage landscapes. As Goetz (2010:12) describes it, “Coastal erosion can sweep entire buried and built archaeological sites into the sea. It can also damage and weaken soil beds so that sites can collapse in upon themselves. In northern regions erosion thaws the permafrost causing slumping and the decay of organic artifacts. In the last decades 33  various coastal areas are already seeing dramatic losses. In some cases, such as Barrow, Alaska, up to 30 metres of land is being swept away through erosion annually (Barr 2009:146).” There are two immediate factors that seriously complicate what appears to already be a troublesome outlook, as described in the previous section. The first is that even a modest rise in sea level would be “problematic”—this because of the “current trend towards the aggressive development of coastlines” (Blankholm 2009:148; see next chapter). The second complicating factor involves a classic example of “uncertainty,” in this instance about the melting rates of polar ice sheets: Model simulations indicate that local warming over Greenland is likely to exceed 3°C by 2100 in the A1B ‘middle of the road’ scenario. Current ice-sheet models indicate that such a warming could lead to the eventual irreversible melting of the Greenland ice sheet, resulting in roughly 5-6 m of global sea level rise. Melting of the most unstable part of the Antarctic ice sheet…could add an additional 5 m. The models suggest that the completion of this melting could take a number of centuries. (Mann and Kump 2009:98)  In more accessible terms, “it is the world’s ice sheets in Greenland and Antarctica that are truly the 800-pound gorillas in the room of global climate change and sea level rise” (Pilkey and <oung 2009:65). IPCC modeling projects a rise of up to 6 m by 2100 as a result of their partial melting (2007:15), and Tol et al. (2006) have considered adaptation to 5 m for densely populated European coastal areas. Based upon their understanding of the “gorilla,” Pilkey and Young conclude that a 2 m (7 ft) sea level rise by the year 2100 “should be assumed,” but this is “a cautious and conservative approach” (2009:79). To be clear: Such increases will have catastrophic outcomes for physical heritage, “effectively devastating any low-lying archaeological sites around the globe” (Goetz 2010:12). To understand sea level rise impacts on (a) different kinds of archaeological heritage (b) located in different kinds of environmental settings, it useful to turn to the study of site-formation processes (Schiffer 1987). The logic here, simply put, is that if we want to know how archaeological sites “come undone,” we should begin by understanding how they are “put together.” Of specific concern here are natural transformations, or “N-Transforms,” that operate to change an archaeological site’s context. Understanding natural processes of site formation (and deformation) is considered to be one of geoarchaeology’s major research objectives. As Waters describes it, analysis of natural site-formation processes is concerned with “understanding the physical, chemical, and biological factors responsible for the burial, alteration, and destruction” of archaeological sites (1992:11). Importantly, such considerations have been made for the coastal zone, considered to be “one of the most dynamic landscape elements, with relative sea level, wave and tide energy, and sediment flux varying on time scales from seconds to millennia” (Wells 2001:149). While it is beyond the scope of the present inquiry to detail all aspects of coastal site formation processes, an overview of key issues is certainly needed. To achieve this, I provide three different 34  perspectives below that I think encapsulate the primary areas of concern. These perspectives, presented in order of general-to-specific, relate to (a) the factors that control the nature and transformation of the coastal zone, (b) the processes that impact coastal archaeological sites (Table 2.4, below), and (c) the factors that determine site survival through inundation (Table 2.5, below). Three primary factors control the nature and transformation of the coastal zone: relative sea level change, energy flux (waves, tides, currents), and sediment flux (Wells 2001:149). In general terms, sea level rise impacts will be greatest on open coasts, low-lying coasts, and subsiding coasts. Open coasts are those exposed to the full impact short-period, wind-driven waves; these coasts are commonly high-energy environments, typified by beaches or rocky shorelines (2001:149). Sediments that accumulate along open coasts are relatively coarse grained, and open coasts “are more likely to be erosive in nature than are protected coastline” (2001:149). By contrast, protected coastlines are found in environments “where wind waves are highly attenuated by refraction and tidal energy dominates both sedimentation and landform development. These coasts are commonly low-energy environments typified by estuaries and tidal marshes. The sediments that accumulate along protected coasts are relatively fine grained, and peat is common” (2001:149). Low - lying coasts are at higher risk for more severe sea level rise impacts. The term “low-lying” can be confusing as it is variously used to refer to two different scales, a regional scale, described first below, and a local scale. According to the IPCC, low-lying coasts are those less than 100 m above sea level, where, in addition, nearly one-quarter of the world’s population lives (Nicholls, Wong, Burkett, Codignotto, Hay, McLean, Ragoonaden, and Woodroffe 2007:319). Coastal plains, which may include large, broad delta platforms, are at greater risk because of the way rising water interacts with different shorelines profiles. As illustrated in Figure 2.2, sea level rise will impact a much greater area on low coasts than on mountainous ones. Erlandson (2012:141) describes the land-loss situation as follows: “In decades to come, especially where cliffed coasts are present, the general principles outlined in Bruun’s (1962, 1983) rule suggest that many shorelines will see horizontal erosion of 50 to 200 times any vertical rise, depending on the local geology, wave energy, and other factors.” Within the 100 m elevation zone, and as a general rule, the lower one moves in elevation the greater the risk becomes, with the most immediately threatened (thus “at-risk”) areas being those located at the contemporary coastline. That being said, sites located atop (or in) unconsolidated coastal bluffs are also at great risk. As a consequence, elevation data must be used with caution. These same low areas are also at greater risk to the effects of storm surges, which occur when strong onshore winds build up coastal water to an unusually high level over a period of hours or days (Bird 2008:31). Strong onshore winds also produce large waves accompanying the temporarily raised sea level, “over-washing beaches, flooding low-lying coastal areas and causing extensive changes in a short period” (2008:31). In terms of 35  archaeological heritage, storm surges are likely to have the same effect as global sea level rise, “i.e. inexorable” (Cassar 2005:23).    Figure 2.2  Impact of sea level rise (shoreline shift) on flat, low-lying coasts (left) and steep coasts (right).    Subsiding coasts are at higher risk for more severe sea level rise impacts than static or emerging coasts. Subsiding coasts are those that are actively losing elevation, relative to fixed sea level, as a result of regional or local tectonic activity or other forces. As these coasts are already subsiding into the sea, or “submerging,” the effects of sea level rise increases will be compounded. Characteristic features of subsiding coasts, independent of global sea level rise, include: initiation or acceleration of beach erosion and more rapid erosion of cliffs, with increased sediment loss generally; higher water levels (higher high tides) in estuaries, lagoons, and deltas, with increased salinity and associated ecological changes; higher water tables, contributing to more frequent flooding; and inundation (Bird 2008:59). Major regions around the world that are actively subsiding include the U.S.’s eastern and southern coasts, Alaska’s north coast, England’s southeastern coast, and much of Europe’s continental coast along the southern margins of the North and Baltic Seas (2008:65, Figure 3.12). Most deltas, which are already at greater risk due to their low elevation and profile, are undergoing natural subsidence, a process that is exacerbated by human water extraction and diversion (Nicholls et al. 2007:327, Box 6.3). Looking at Figure 2.2, and putting together some of the key concepts addressed so far, a sense of how to comprehend the scale of sea level rise impacts begins to form. Using a sea level rise rate of 2 m by 2100 (Pilkey and <oung 2009), and applying Bruun’s rule (1983), low coasts could see horizontal erosion on the scale of 100 to 400 m over the next century. In the extreme, then, we might see heritage sites located as far as 0.5 km inland affected by sea level rise. This effect will be exacerbated by subsidence, for example on deltas. 36  The second area of concern relates to the processes that impact coastal archaeological sites under “normal” (i.e., non-SLR) conditions. This is important because sea level rise and population growth/impacts will be operating in concert alongside and in addition to these processes. These “normal” processes are outlined in Table 2.4, which links non-human processes with specific archaeological impacts. While this summary was created specifically for California’s Channel Islands, the processes described are applicable to most coasts. The “human processes” section in Table 2.4, specifically the “modern human activities” entry, will be the subject of the next chapter. Of significance here is how “marine processes” fit into the broader array of processes (left-hand column) and impacts (right-hand column). By focusing on “marine processes,” in this case inundation, the complex nature of the sea level rise problem begins to take form, at least in terms of physical impacts on archaeological heritage. The specific issue of inundation has recently been taken up by Nutley, who summarizes the “determinants of site survival” (2005:104-6). As illustrated in Table 2.5, consideration must be made for a variety of environmental as well as archaeological factors. In addition to destroying archaeological sites, erosion processes also reveal new archaeological sites (Chapman 2002; Fulford et al. 1997).  37  Table 2.4  Major taphonomic and formation processes on California’s Channel Islands. Source: Rick, Erlandson, and Vellanoweth 2006:571, Table 1.  Process Description Impact on Archaeology [Non - human] processes  Animal transporters Deposition or removal of materials in a site by animals Introduce noncultural materials, remove some cultural materials Argilliturbation Shrinking and swelling of clay soils Mixing of constituents Eolian processes Erosion and deposition of materials by wind, abrasion, and production of ventifacts Deflation/destruction of sites, deposition of “new” sites Faunalturbation Burrowing and mixing of deposits by animals Mixing, fragmentation, erosion Floralturbation Disturbance and mixing of deposits by plants Mixing, fragmentation, erosion Fluvial processes Erosion and deposition of archaeological deposits by stream, creek, or other freshwater runoff Destruction of sites, introduction of materials from other areas  Marine processes Erosion and deposition of archaeological deposits by tidal surges and wave action Destruction of sites, scouring of light fraction, introduce materials Mass wasting/gravity Landslides, cliffing, etc. Erosion, redeposition, and burial of archaeological record [Human] processes  [Premodern] human activities Construction, cleaning, trampling, cooking, etc.; excavation of houses, storage areas, burial pits, etc. Mixing, fragmentation, and destruction of archaeological record [Modern] human activities Building or road construction, agriculture, bombing, looting, etc. Movement, fragmentation, and destruction of archaeological record Introduction of exotic animals Overgrazing, stripping of vegetation and soils, trampling, burrowing, rooting, etc. Fragmentation, mixing, deflation/ erosion       38  Table 2.5  Determinants of site survival through inundation. Source:  Nutley, 2005:104-6.  Determinants of Site Survival through Inundation Environmental factors Speed of water level rise Rapid inundation minimises the opportunity for mechanical, chemical and biological attack. Slow or repeated inundation and exposure maximises the degradation of sites and individual artefacts. Fetch over water to land-water interface A short fetch minimises wave height and consequently minimises wave-induced erosion. Dominant wind direction Sites facing the dominant wind direction are far more susceptible to wave action and destabilisation from wind, rain and falling trees. Dominant wave direction A direct response to the dominant wind direction and producing the most destructive of the on-shore forces influencing site survival. Strength of water flow Largely related to a riverine environment but also an aspect of estuaries and long-shore coastal currents. A strong flow of water will not only undermine sites but also result in greater dispersal of the component parts. Tidal and non-tidal Non-tidal water-bodies will result in less damage from frequent wetting and drying as well as minimising the strength of water flow over the site. This may however be offset by the extreme changes between a saturated environment and a ‘baked earth’ environment during drought as well as the impact of grazing animals on the exposed sediment flats during periods of low water. Frequency and duration of inundation and exposure episodes See ‘tidal and non-tidal’ above. Slope  A steep slope is accompanied by a marked increase in the gravitational factor. Earth, vegetation, rocks and any associated deposits of cultural material are more likely to be destabilised and result in the loss of integrity of the original site formation. Geological composition Sites protected by coastal barriers, whether igneous rock, sandstone or sand dunes, but with a healthy budget of sand or silt are much more likely to already be below sea level by the time that the coastal barrier is broken down and to therefore be spared the worst of the erosive forces of wave action. Prograding/aggrading shorelines Prograding/aggrading shorelines that provide habitation sites and artefact deposits with a protective depth of overburden may provide a sufficient buffer to ensure long term survival during subsequent and relatively rapid inundation. Artefactual composition ( a)  Chemical impacts ± susceptibility to permanent inundation in saline/fresh water  Shell/bone Shell and bone can survive extended periods in fresh and saline water. Wood Can survive extended periods in fresh and saline water. Fibre (e.g., woven from leaf, grass, reeds) Can survive extended periods in anaerobic freshwater and saline environments. In a marine environment, this is most likely to occur only in concretion formed through a combination of corroded iron and calcite from marine organisms. Charcoal Can survive almost indefinitely in marine and saline environments. Stone Can survive almost indefinitely in marine and saline environments. (b) Mechanical impacts  (i) Susceptibility to abrasion  Shell/bone Highly susceptible to mechanical abrasion. Wood Highly susceptible to mechanical abrasion. Fibre Highly susceptible to mechanical abrasion. Charcoal Highly susceptible to mechanical abrasion. Stone (flaked or ground stone artefacts and stone structures) Moderately susceptible to mechanical abrasion, with greater resistance from metamorphic rock and some igneous rock and less resistance from sedimentary rock. 39  Determinants of Site Survival (cont.) (ii) Susceptibility to dislocation  Shell/bone Highly susceptible to dislocation. Wood Highly susceptible to dislocation. Fibre Highly susceptible to dislocation. Charcoal Highly susceptible to dislocation. Stone (flaked or ground stone artefacts and stone structures) Susceptibility to dislocation is proportional to size; small flaked stone artefacts moving sooner/easier than larger items. (iii) Susceptibility to biological attack  Shell/bone Mildly susceptible to biological attack. Wood Highly susceptible to biological attack unless buried. Fibre Highly susceptible to biological attack unless buried. Charcoal Minimally susceptible to biological attack. Stone (flaked or ground stone artefacts and stone structures) Mildly susceptible to biological attack through abrasion from grazing fish and sea urchins and other colonising fauna and flora.     Responses  It was in the context of the irrevocable and dramatic loss of coastal sites that one particular conservation theme…arose: ‘We’ll never save everything, so hard decisions are needed as to which to “let go.”’ Coastal loss also raised the issue of heritage input into broader planning: ‘...I presume that major sea level rises will be a non-heritage issue (i.e. of such wider concern that it will be dealt with by other authorities).’   – May Cassar, 2005:3  Having gained a general understanding of sea level rise and its impacts on tangible heritage, I now turn attention to how people are responding to that situation. The goals here are to (a) briefly survey the variety of responses and (b) identify the perimeter of response discourse as it stands today. Later on, in Chapter 4, I analyze these responses with the goal of characterizing a “mainstream” response. Here, responses from Europe and Northern America are considered. As referred to by Cassar above, the stark reality for coastal archaeologists is that “in a situation where hundreds of historic assets are threatened, full mitigation is financially unrealistic”—“Heritage groups and agencies will need to prioritize their resources for sites and buildings of special interest” (Murphy et al. 2009:11). Put another way: “As all sites cannot be protected, it is essential that heritage managers know which sites and landscapes are most at risk so they can prioritize resources and decision-making most effectively” (Westley et al. 2011:351). Cassar’s comments above concerning which sites to “let go” and “broader planning” raises the twin issues that frame sea level rise responses as they pertain to archaeological heritage. These are (a) 40  prioritization: what “values” inform decision-making (e.g., what to “save”), and (b) mitigation: the attendant “approaches” that are pursued (e.g., “generic policy options”). Together, these elements comprise the key points of departure for a “response.” One way to catch a glimpse of the perimeter delineating sea level rise discourse is by looking at the core values that underpin, inform and guide responses. Such values appear frequently in the stated objectives and rationale for most responses. Below are a few examples with emphasis added: “Because many countries lack sufficient laws to protect archaeological sites, particularly in coastal areas where development is extremely desirable, archaeologists are working quickly to survey and record the wide array of prehistoric settlements in these regions before they are disturbed or destroyed.” (Rick and Fitzpatrick 2012:135)  “Few, if any, other disciplines can so successfully marshal the evidence of human activity and that of palaeoenvironmental change or, as a matter of course, join forces with geographers, climatologists and other environmental scientists to understand humanity within a framework that is at once historical and ecological, and thus able to critique Western narratives of environmental change. Without doubt, then, archaeologists can usefully contribute to academic, popular and political debates on the prediction and the management of climate change (cf CBA 2007).” (Mitchell 2008:1096)  “[W]e highlight the significance of coastal archaeological sites for helping better understand contemporary environmental and cultural issues, underscoring the need to preserve or salvage these sites for their significant research value.” (Reeder et al. 2012:187)  “[Global warming] presents potentially large problems for the future of site and landscape management. However, there are a number of ways that may be considered advantageous for addressing this threat. Primarily, monitoring needs to be conducted with regard to archaeological sites.” (Chapman 2002:244).  “We need a concerted, collaborative, and global effort to bring the problem to the attention of government leaders and the general public.” (Erlandson 2012:141)  “The conclusion is that although research and policy is moving ahead, much more needs to be done in order to understand and preserve these sites before it is too late.” (Milner 2012:223)   A core value expressed here is that heritage is important for its “research value” to produce scientific knowledge. A basic assumption is that the loss of knowledge about the past (i.e., the tangible record) is the most pressing issue when it comes to the maritime heritage crisis. Recognizing that not all sites can be conserved, the approach suggested is to learn as much about the sites as possible before they are destroyed, and focus efforts on those deemed most “significant.” Alongside a call for public education, the response from archaeologists is that more archaeological research is needed. This presumes that science is the limiting factor in the heritage crisis. The central role of government and cultural resource management in overseeing the response is also taken for granted. 41  Above, Cassar raises the notion of “major sea level rise” being a “non-heritage” issue. Here, Cassar highlights what I think is a fundamental concern, one that I have brought attention to already. That is, what defines the perimeter of the mainstream response? When heritage specialists talk about sea level rise impacts and responses, which issues are “in” and which are “out”? As Mitchell (2008:1093) asks, “What, then, is the responsibility of the archaeological community and of the individual archaeologist to these challenges? Do either, in fact, even have a particular responsibility qua  archaeologists, above and beyond those that they may have as concerned citizens and inhabitants of the planet? And, faced with the harsh realities that global heating will bring, is archaeology anything more than a dilettantish luxury?” Sea level rise responses are typically framed within, thus constrained by, a set of “generic policy options.” This limits responses to between three and five options, which include (a) action (intervention) and inaction (no intervention) and (b) advance, hold, and retreat: 1. Inaction , or no active intervention, leading to inundation; 2. Managed retreat, or managed realignment, wherein a new landward line of defense is set; 3. Hold the line, wherein coastal defenses (seawalls) are built/modified to hold back the sea; and, 4. Advance the line, or move seawards, whereby defenses are built seaward of current ones.  Often included is a fifth strategy, accommodation (or limited intervention). However, as this response includes aspects of action, inaction and managed retreat, it does not qualify as a discrete category. Nicholls et al. (2007:342) illustrate the historic transformation of these various responses, providing examples for each. The most basic set includes only three options: protect, accommodate, and retreat. Application of this “generic policy option” to archaeological matters is described by Murphy et al. (2009:12) for English coasts: “The aim is to ‘manage risk…to people, and the developed, historic and natural environment’ in a sustainable way… For each Coastal Policy Unit—a discrete definable length of coast—one of four options is selected.” The “preferred option” will depend, among various other factors, “on risk management, on the value of assets to be protected (from houses to nuclear power stations) relative to costs of defences, and on the requirement to comply with nature conservation legislation and biodiversity obligations” (2009:12). In England, the agency charged with overseeing the management the country’s historic built environment, English Heritage, has developed a comprehensive guidance program—the Rapid Coastal Zone Assessment Surveys (RCZAS) —to “enhance the coastal National Monuments Record (NMR) and county Historic Environment Records (HER)” (2009:12).” The RCZAS process is laid out in ‘A Brief for English Heritage Rapid Coastal Zone Assessment Surveys’ (English Heritage 2007; see also 1999). That document provides an outline methodology for “rapid baseline coastal surveys” commissioned by English Heritage.  42   In sum, the archaeological response to threats of sea level rise and impacts on coastal heritage sites has been the government’s response, which is cultural resource management. The RCZAS provides an excellent example of a comprehensive coastal change response and, as exemplified by Westley et al. (2011), this can be modified to focus in particular on sea level rise, or broadened to take into account more coastal change variables. However, sea level rise and other climate-induced changes cannot be fully understood without considering the built landscape, including future development and community values. While climate-induced heritage site destruction is a hot topic, the past, present, and future impact on cultural heritage from population growth and development has received less focused attention. Instead, the impact of urbanization on natural heritage has been given more attention, as I discuss in the following chapter. 43  Chapter 3:  Coastal Population Growth and Change  Our coasts are among the most rapidly growing and developed areas in the nation. – Kristen M. Crossett et al., 2004:3  While waves are the most consistent natural force causing coastal erosion (Rampino 2005:432), most of the problems affecting communities today are the product of human interventions in the coastal zone, what are termed “anthropogenic factors” (Scott 2005:254). On its own, the effects of sea level rise on archaeological heritage will be tremendous; yet, those impacts will be compounded by, and responses to those impacts complicated by, human factors. As populations grew exponentially over the past century, along with levels of consumption, the fate of many heritage landscapes has generally been either destruction or degradation. As human populations continue to grow, the remaining physical connections people have to past maritime lifeways will become increasingly important. As with sea level rise, the concern here is global in scale. It turns out that western society’s desire to grow, develop and progress has now affected every coastline on Earth, with no exceptions. While “development” is widely recognized as a general threat to both tangible and intangible heritage, the concept itself is rarely a clear focus for cultural heritage specialists. Rather, the byproducts of development (i.e., heritage site loss) and issues of policy and management are typically given centre stage, in the process shrouding, marginalizing or ignoring more basic problems. This is surprising, given that CRM is fundamentally about development, as I discuss further in Part Three. In this chapter, I focus on the broad threats and impacts of population growth and change on coastal landscapes, and consider the responses to such change, specifically in the context of cultural resource management. As with the previous chapter, particular attention is paid to Washington State, British Columbia, and the Salish Sea region. This raises the issue of amenity migration and how that process can change communities’ views towards and thus valuing of heritage. While focus here is placed on growth or “development,” specifically coastal development, population decline has its own set of implications for heritage (Ommer et al. 2007).  44  General Threats  Our findings show that, regardless of which coast, regardless of major environmental differences, coastal communities suffer remarkably similar ills. These, we repeat, cannot be merely the product of geography, location, the particular provincial (or subprovincial) culture, or the particular sector ailments—they are the result of our own systems, institutional, economic, and social. – Rosemary E. Ommer with the Coasts Under Stress Research Project Team, 2007:437.  Nearly a quarter of the world’s population lives within 100 km of the coast and 100 m above sea level, resulting in population densities that are about three times higher than the global average (Nicholls et al. 2007:319): The attractiveness of the coast has resulted in disproportionately rapid expansion of economic activity, settlements, urban centres and tourist resorts. Migration of people to coastal regions is common in both developed and developing nations. Sixty percent of the world’s 39 metropolises with a population of over 5 million are located within 100 km of the coast, including 12 of the world’s 16 cities with populations greater than 10 million. Rapid urbanisation has many consequences: for example, enlargement of natural coastal inlets and dredging of waterways for navigation, port facilities, and pipelines exacerbate saltwater intrusion into surface and ground waters. (2007:319).  Coastal areas are major destinations for tourism, which represents the fastest growing sector of the global economy (Creel 2003:1). Migration into rural coastal communities by former urbanites escaping “city life”1 adds additional pressure (Gurran et al. 2007). In the United States, the coastal population has grown steadily in recent decades, increasing from 47 million people in 1960 to 87 million people in 2008 (Wilson and Fischetti 2010). During this period, the Pacific coastline region gained the largest number of people (17 million). The Pacific region is the second most populated coastal region in the United States, and all five states that comprise it have the majority of their populations in coastal counties. In 2003, the Pacific region population reached 39.4 million people, or 26 percent of the nation’s total coastal population. Since 1960, the national coastal population has consistently added between 5 million and 10 million people each decade. Manson (2005:10) summarizes the Canadian situation as follows:   In 2001, 38.3 percent of Canadians lived within 20 km of a marine or Great Lakes shoreline.  The majority of the coastal population lived within 5 km of a shoreline, and on most coasts, population decreased exponentially away from the shoreline.  Of the 38.3 percent of the total Canadian population living within 20 km of a Great Lakes or marine shoreline, 23 percent lived on the Pacific coast (i.e., in British Columbia), where, due to geologic factors, population exhibits a high exponential fall-off away from the coast.                                                      1 That is, escaping the negative effects of modernity. 45   Between 1986 and 2001, growth of the Canadian coastal population closely followed the trend of the total Canadian population, towards increasing population but at a decreasing rate.  By 2015, the trend toward decreasing rate of population growth is expected to reverse, and growth of the Canadian coastal population is expected to occur faster than previously, and the percentage of Canadians living within 20 km of the coast is expected to increase to 50.7 percent.  Three core themes emerge from this summary: (a) capacity, (b) home construction, and (c) amenity migration. These are expanded on below. ( a )  Capacity.  While the concept of “capacity” has received significant attention as a result of “increasing anthropogenic pressure in certain natural environments” (MacLeod and Cooper 2005:226), emphasis is increasingly being placed upon the issue of coastal population growth, “with the implication that the carrying capacity of the world’s coast is finite and such considerations form part of several coastal management initiatives” (e.g., UNEP 1996). MacLeod and Cooper (2005:226) distinguish between four kinds of capacities: physical, ecological, social, and economic. In addition to these “single discipline assessments,” there are available a number of composite measures such as “recreational and tourist carrying capacity which attempt to define the threshold of an area for tourism or recreation” (2005:226). There is, of course, no such thing as heritage carrying capacity. How much pressure can cultural heritage take before it is deemed “too much?” Indeed, in archaeology there has been little discussion about the kinds of indicators that might work as proxy measures for site destruction. Archaeology permits issued through time is one (La Salle and Hutchings 2012), and home construction is another. ( b )  Home construction. In 2000, coastal counties in the United States contained over half of the nation’s total housing supply (Crossett, Culliton, Wiley, and Goodspeed 2004). There were also approximately 2.1 million seasonal homes in coastal counties (just over half of the nation’s total). Construction of family homes can act as an indicator of increased coastal sprawl: in U.S. coastal counties from 1999 to 2003, 2.8 million building permits were issued for the construction of single-family housing units and 1 million building permits were issued for the construction of multi-family housing units. More than 1,540 single-family housing units are permitted for construction every day in coastal counties. Within the United States, some 23 million people (8% of the total population 2) live in the highly sensitive low-elevation coastal area, defined and as the contiguous zone along the coast less than 10 m above sea level (Curtis and Schneider 2011:29). ( c )  Amenity migration. In their discussion of governance responses to rapid population growth, Gurran et al. (2007:445) conclude that the “[t]he twin forces of rising affluence and population are                                                      2 This estimate would be significantly higher if the population of the 20 major metropolitan areas at risk for inundation is considered (Curtis and Schneider 2011). 46  altering coastal communities around the world. High amenity, environmentally sensitive areas—particularly attractive, non-metropolitan coastal environments—are witnessing a tidal wave of in migration from former urbanites. As a result, these communities are struggling to accommodate growing numbers of people with urban tastes and rural dreams in areas with governance structures and physical infrastructure designed for occasional tourists.”  “Sea change” is Australia’s expression for what is generally termed amenity migration: “the movement of people from large urban areas in search of a better lifestyle in attractive settings characterized by high natural amenity, particularly along the coast” (2007:445-6). As a result, such communities are struggling to accommodate growing numbers of people in areas with governance structures and physical infrastructure designed for occasional tourists. Places likely to attract amenity migrants commonly have high natural and rural scenery values, recreational amenities, a mild climate, and affordable residential land… For some migrants, particularly those who need to retain job connections to a major center, proximity to metropolitan areas remains an important criteria… Many migration decisions represent a culmination of a process starting with frequent holidays to a specific place, followed by acquisition of a second home, and finally permanent settlement. Smaller holiday towns are increasingly affected by amenity migration. (2007:446)  The likelihood of rapid growth appears greatest when these communities are situated within a few hours’ drive of a metropolitan area; however, some amenity migrants seek more remote locations. As a consequence, “a wide variety of coastal settings are prime targets for rapid growth and urbanization associated with the amenity migration phenomenon” (2007:447). Coastal urbanization, “particularly in areas of undeveloped, nonmetropolitan contexts, is one of the most significant challenges for […] coastal management” (2007:446). The effects of population growth and development are not limited to physical landscape degradation. Those processes also transform how communities see and engage with those landscapes, including heritage landscapes. As Gurran et al. (2007:446) point out, traditional migration theories hold that economic considerations—primarily the search for better jobs—underpin many migration decisions. However, “the growing population migrating from their place of residence mainly for ‘lifestyle’ reasons rather than to improve their financial circumstances has begun to challenge this model, particularly in advanced, industrialized nations, such as the United States, Canada, Europe, and parts of the United Kingdom” (2007:446). The “sea change” movement is therefore underpinned by basic economic and cultural changes. First, “changing social values, especially a belief in leisure, mean that people are willing to trade higher incomes for a better lifestyle” (2007:446). Second, “the growing population of ‘young elderly’ retirees 47  and pre retirees, expecting long, active post work lives, represent a ‘footloose’ group3 not tied to a specific location for their work” (2007:446). Third, “the global economic shift from ‘Fordist’ (or manufacturing based economies) to less location-dependent information, service, and consumption-based industries is generating new opportunities for accessible regional areas characterized by high amenity” (2007:446). The environmental and socioeconomic repercussions of amenity-driven migration into coastal areas are “significant,” and the social impacts are “profound” (Gurran et al. 2007:451). Unlike other high growth contexts, usually in major urban centers, “population growth in undeveloped coastal areas occurs in extremely fragile environmental and cultural landscapes. Many local authorities in the sea change contexts, particularly the smaller coastal hamlets, have been unprepared for the sudden increases in demand for new housing and tourist developments in their localities and have inadequate controls in place. […] It is often the case that historical planning decisions mean that environmentally sensitive or culturally significant land has already been zoned for urban development, and it can be difficult to remove an expectation of development entitlement once land has been allocated for urban purposes. (2007:451)  Rapid population growth impacts the physical character of a community (2007:452). In response to these changes, many coastal communities report “a loss of ‘sense of place,’ particularly when new residential, tourism, and commercial developments are of a scale and appearance that is radically out of step with local vernacular design” (2007:452). Residents of high growth coastal areas can also experience “a loss of sense of community or connection to social networks, because of the influx of new residents and visitors” (2007:452). Gurran et al. (2007:454) also note that, despite the perception that “population and tourism growth is good for local economies,” their study found that “overall economic outcomes in high growth coastal settings are often disappointing.” In their study of demographic change and shifting views in Downeast Maine, Safford and Hamilton (2012) highlight some key issues related to coastal change broadly and amenity migration specifically. They begin by noting that “[c]onnections to the sea often define the character of coastal towns. However, as migrants arrive and economic diversification occurs, views about the use of marine resources and the ocean environment can change” (2012:285). Using survey data from Maine, Safford and Hamilton examine whether shifting demographics affect public perceptions of marine resource uses and coastal environmental concerns. The results of Safford and Hamilton’s study indicate (a) that the level of education and the county of residence predict Mainers’ views about different marine resource uses and ocean-related environmental issues; (b) that political party affiliation strongly influences                                                      3 This groups “geographic freedom” is supported by the “expansion of non earnings forms of income, such as superannuation and investment payments” (Gurran et al 2007:446). 48  environmental concern but not views about the use of marine resources; and (c) that migration history has “little effect” (2012:284).  Gurran et al. have developed a useful matrix of environmental, social, economic, infrastructure, and governance issues affecting sea change communities (2007:453-454, Table 1). In that matrix, the five issues are characterized in light of a five-part typology of coastal settings, which ranges from “coastal commuter” cities to “coastal hamlets.” Coastal commuter settings are suburbanized satellite communities in peri or exurban metropolitan locations adjoining capital cities. On the other end of the spectrum are coastal hamlets, which are remote local government areas (more than three hours from a capital city) with populations of less than 15,000. The isolation of coastal hamlets, which usually exist as a small town, or grouping of villages, surrounded by a rural and/or protected natural hinterland, has meant that these places have escaped major development pressures to date. The complete typology includes: coastal commuter, coastal city, coastal getaway, coastal lifestyle, and coastal hamlet. Issues ranked as problems in four out of five or five out of five coastal settings are mentioned here. In the category of environment, pan-coastal (i.e., 5/5) or nearly pan-coastal (i.e., 4/5) issues include water quality (5/5), loss of rural land (4/5), urban encroachment on world/national heritage areas (4/5), and loss of cultural heritage (5/5). In the category of social, high-ranked issues include high seasonal populations (4/5) and loss of local character (4/5). In the category of governance, major issues include competing coastal management, natural resource, conservation, and planning legislation (5/5) and overlapping State/local jurisdictions (5/5). In the category of infrastructure, seasonal infrastructure demands (4/5) were the only issue to affect four out of five of the coastal settings. No economic issue affected more than three coastal types.  While the complexities of amenity migration are only beginning to be fully understood (e.g., GeoJournal Vol. 76, No. 4, 20104), the impacts of “sea change” on coastal landscapes are broad and significant (e.g., Boucquey, Campbell, Cumming, Meletis, Norwood and Stoll 2010; Gurran et al. 2007; Ommer et al. 2011; Safford and Hamilton 2012). As demonstrated in Part Two, amenity migration is directly relevant to understanding coastal heritage destruction and degradation in shíshálh territory.  Washington State   In 2003, approximately 153 million people in the United States (53 percent of the nation’s population) lived in the 673 coastal counties, an increase of 33 million people since 1980. Ten of the fifteen most populous cities in the U.S. are located in coastal counties (Crossett et al. 2004:1).                                                      4 Special Issue: “Amenity Migration, Exurbia, and Emerging Rural Landscapes” 49  Since 1980, U.S. coastal population growth has generally reflected the same rate of growth as the entire nation, but in the limited space of coastal counties. This increasing density, coupled with the fast-growing economy of coastal areas […], will make the task of managing coastal resources increasingly difficult, especially with the nation’s coastal population expected to increase by 12 million by 2015 (2004:1).  During peak vacation periods, coastal areas are also subject to major population influxes; and with more people “comes the need for increased infrastructure, which may lead to even more negative effects on…resources” (2004:1). Crossett et al. predict that in the next few decades, coastal areas will also see “a growing proportion of older Americans and an unprecedented number of Americans reaching retirement age. This also has the potential to place demands on coastal resources as there will be more time for people to enjoy the many coastal amenities (2004:1).” Median household income for coastal counties is approximately 17 percent higher than non-coastal counties. (2004:12). Most of the nation’s most densely populated areas are located along the coast, with 23 of the 25 most densely populated U.S. counties being coastal (Crossett et al. 2004:7). Coastal counties average 300 persons per square mile, which is much higher than the national average of 98 persons per square mile (excluding Alaska). Since 1980, population density has increased in coastal counties by 65 persons per square mile, or by 28 percent. By 2008, it will increase by 13 persons per square mile, or 4 percent (2004:7). In 2000, coastal counties contained 52 percent of the nation’s total housing supply (Crossett et al. 2004:9). One component of total housing units is seasonal or vacation homes. The location and growth in the number of seasonal housing units “indicate areas where people congregate seasonally or for short periods.” In these areas, “commercial, hotel, and recreational construction is an important component of the coastal economy and contributes significantly to overall development” (2004:9). Further, construction of single-family and multi-family homes can also act as an indicator of both economic growth as well as increased ‘sprawl’ along the coastline. In 2004, it was estimated that more than 1,540 single-family housing units are permitted for construction every day in coastal counties (2004:9). The Pacific region, which includes the coastlines of California, Oregon, Washington, Alaska, and the entire state of Hawaii, is the second most populated coastal region in the United States. In 2003, the population reached 39.4 million people, or 26 percent of the nation’s total coastal population (2004:20). All five states that comprise the Pacific region have the majority of their populations in coastal counties. Population growth and concomitant development pose serious problems for already stressed maritime landscapes. In the Salish Sea Basin in particular, current consumption rates5 and land-use practices far exceed locally sustainable levels, and forecasted growth rates for the next few decades will                                                      5 Current high levels of consumption are supported through the externalization of costs, primarily to Asia, Mexico and the Southern hemisphere, as well as rural North American communities (e.g., Sachs 19XX, 2001).  50  only exacerbate what are arguably already insurmountable problems – all of this without factoring in future sea level rise. Here, the link made in the previous chapter between population growth, development and environmental degradation is reinforced and expanded upon: [T]he future of Puget Sound remains at risk. The Sound’s overall trajectory…continues to be one of decline, with continuing harms to the clean water, abundant habitat and intact natural processes that are the foundations of a healthy environment. The pace of growth in the region, coupled with associated increases in impervious surfaces, alteration and loss of habitat, and pollutants in the air and water, continue to drive a silent crisis. (Puget Sound Action Team 2007:88)  Further, “[w]hile the Sound appears beautiful, its web of life is at risk. To continue our current path will mean further losses.” Washington State has over 5000 km (3085 miles) of highly diverse coastline (Huppert et al. 2009:285), most of which occurs in Puget Sound (Shipman 2004:81). Washington’s coastal region can be considered as two distinct areas, the outer coast and inner coast. The much less populated thus developed outer coast, which stretches from the Columbia River estuary in the south to the Olympic Peninsula in the north, is exposed to the full force of the Pacific Ocean and its storms. As a consequence of the latter, the outer coast experiences extremely high shoreline erosion rates (Barnard et al. 2011).  The inner coast, situated on the eastern and leeward side of the mountainous Olympic Peninsula, is defined by the drowned estuary that is Puget Sound, which defines the southern extent of the Salish Sea. While general shore types include rocky coasts, coastal bluffs, bluff-backed beaches, depositional beaches, deltaic shores, and spits associated with protected lagoons and salt marshes, the most prevalent is the bluff-backed beach, i.e., coastal bluffs fronted by narrow mixed sand and gravel beaches (Johannessen and MacLennan 2007:v). The Puget Basin contains the City of Seattle, the economic center of Washington State, and the City of Olympia, the State Capital. In 2010, the population of the City of Seattle was 608,660, making it the twenty-third largest American city. King County, in which Seattle is located, had a 2010 population of 1,931,249, an 11.2 percent growth since 2000. As Shipman (2004:81) points out, rapid population growth in the region “has greatly increased development along the shoreline.” Washington State’s population grew by 830,419ņto 6,724,540ņbetween 2000 and 2010. This 14.1 percent increase was the slowest rate of growth the state has experienced in five decades (State of Washington Office of Financial Management 2011). However, Washington still grew at a faster rate than the nation as a whole, and is now the thirteenth most-populous U.S. State, up from fifteenth in 2000. Washington was the eighth fastest growing state between 2000 and 2010 in terms of numeric increase and the thirteenth fastest growing state in terms of percentage increase in resident population. Population distribution between coastal Western Washington and landlocked Eastern Washington remained unchanged with the same 78/22 percent split in place in 2000. Put another way, nearly 80 percent of Washington’s population resides in coastal watersheds, most within the Puget Basin. 51  Washington’s population doubled over the last 40 years and is expected to reach 8.4 million by 2030, an increase of approximately 1.6 million persons from 2010. Net migration is expected to contribute 932,200 persons, or 57 percent, to the population increase (State of Washington Office of Financial Management 2010; see also U.S. Census Bureau 2005). In 2006, the population of Puget Sound was 3,991,911. This the U.S. Census count for the Seattle-Tacoma-Olympia, WA CSA, or Combined Statistical Area, which includes the following counties, listed clockwise around the Sound: Island, Skagit, Snohomish, King, Pierce, Thurston, Mason, and Kitsap (U.S. Census). Excluded from this measure are San Juan and Whatcom Counties in the far north, which are technically not part of Puget Sound, and Jefferson and Clallam Counties in the west. Arguably the single greatest source of transformation in the Puget Basin “is the conversion of lowland forests to a mosaic of residential, commercial and industrial lands created for human use” (PSP 2011:449). As the Puget Sound Partnership (PSP) recently reported (PSP 2011:449), “[c]hanges in the landscape are driven by expanding human populations associated with growing businesses... Increasing population growth results in more roads, more industry, more houses, more transportation, and more businesses.” In Puget Basin terrestrial systems, “forests, wetlands, prairies and agricultural lands are converted to residential, commercial and industrial uses. The rates of conversion have increased significantly in the late 20th century and are projected to continue to increase (Alig et al. 2004; Alberti 2005; Robinson et al. 2005; White et al. 2009). The region most heavily impacted by the human footprint in Puget Sound is in the central Sound: the amount of developed lands increased from 16 percent to 23 percent of the total area between 2002 and 2007 (Alberti et al. 2004; Hepinstall et al. 2008), an increase of approximately 1.4 percent per year. Continued development at this rate will result in developed lands extending well into the Cascade Mountain foothills by 2027 (Hepinstall et al. 2008). (PSP 2011:449)  Shoreline and nearshore landscapes have been – and will continue to be – severely impacted by population growth and development. The high level of human activity in the Puget basin “both partly springs from and leads to extensive use of nearshore ecosystems. Access to shipping, fishing and other commercial and recreational endeavors makes the region an attractive location for human settlement” (PSP 2011:462). Coastal zone modification results in a wide range of changes in nearshore ecosystems, and these changes impact the shoreline, adjacent upland and freshwater systems, and the Puget Sound estuary. Collectively, nearshore modification has resulted in shortening and simplification of shoreline over the past 150 years, from both direct (e.g., artificial structures) and indirect (e.g., disruption of shoreform sediment transport processes) modifications; the Sound has experienced a loss of over 1000 km of natural shoreline and the introduction of almost 400 km of artificial shoreline… This loss of convoluted shoreline has resulted in an overall loss of nearshore area, leading to disruption or loss of important ecosystem functions such as sediment, detritus and nutrient transport, loss of habitat and changes in species composition. (2011:463)  52  Approximately 1/3 of the total Puget Sound shoreline contains bulkheads and other hard coastal structures (Huppert et al. 2009:303). Shoreline modification, in particular armoring and filling, has had significant impact on Puget Sound wetlands. Approximately 53 percent, or 273 km2 out of 514 km2, of historical wetland extent has been lost (PSP 2011:471). The Puget Basin also contains a total of 436 dams, impounding approximately 13,000 km2, or 37 percent, of the total sub-basin drainage area (2011:471). Residential development of coastal bluffs is also a serious problem (Shipman 2004). Extensive bluff development “sets the stage for serious long-term management problems.” According to their study, “[l]arge numbers of homes have been constructed in locations that if not hazardous now, will be in several decades. In addition, engineering measures intended to address bluff erosion pose serious implications for the long-term health of the region’s beaches” (2004:92). Pressure to develop bluffs is “rising rapidly with the increasing population growth and urbanization of the Puget Sound region” (2004:89). According to Shipman (2004:89), the demand for waterfront and bluff property is “driven primarily by access to the water and unimpeded views of the Sound and nearby mountains.  The physical impacts of development (especially armoring and residential development) on Puget Sound coastlines (notably shores, bluffs and sea cliffs) are well understood (Barnard 2010; Johannessen and MacLennan 2007; Huppert et al. 2009; Myers 2010; Quinn 2010; Shipman 2004, 2008, 2010; Shipman et al. 2010a, b). Despite such knowledge, a “chronic problem is society’s tendency to ignore the fact that beaches and bluffs are not static systems, and that interfering with their dynamic processes may have undesirable consequences” (Johannessen and MacLennan 2007:1). In sum, Human use of beaches and bluffs can jeopardize habitats and reduce the sustainability of the features. The construction of waterfront homes puts them in areas prone to natural hazards. Building houses on spits and beaches poses serious hazards from coastal flooding and storm damage and may cause increased erosion. Erosion control and diking associated with building near beaches can cause the destruction of salt marshes and backshore habitat. Constructing access roads to developments at beaches often restricts water flow into estuaries, altering habitats and aesthetic qualities. Building on bluffs can exacerbate landslide hazards due to loss of stabilizing vegetation and alteration of drainage patterns. Attempts to stabilize bluffs and reduce erosion through the construction of bulkheads and seawalls ultimately decreases the supply of sediment to nearby beaches, altering habitats and possibly shifting erosion problems to other shorelines. The cumulative impact of human modifications to the shoreline (currently one-third of Puget Sound’s shoreline has been armored) may be far-reaching in terms of both habitat and existing human activities, particularly in the face of anticipated increases in the rate of sea level rise.  British Columbia   Manson (2005) provides a useful baseline for Canada. Between 1986 and 2001, the Canadian population increased from 25.3 million to 30.0 million people at a rate of 1.24 percent per year (2005:4). Similarly, the population within 20 km of a coast increased from 9.6 million to 11.5 million people at a 53  rate of 1.32 percent per year. Projection of the total Canadian and Canadian coastal populations to 2015 indicates continued growth of the total population to 33.0 million people and accelerated growth of the coastal population to 16.75 million people6. A plot of the percentage of the number of Canadians living within 20 km of the coast (2005:5, Fig. 4) shows a substantial increase into 2015 suggesting increased densification of the coastal population. While the density of the total Canadian and Canadian coastal populations increase linearly to 2015, that of the population within 20 km of a coast begins to accelerate after 2001 (2005:4). In 2001, 38.3 percent of the total Canadian population (30.01 million) lived within 20 km of a Great Lakes or marine shoreline (Manson 2005:6). Of this, 56 percent lived on the Great lakes coast, 23 percent on the Pacific coast (i.e., British Columbia), 20 percent on the Atlantic coast and <1 percent lived on the Arctic coast. The inhabited coastal area represents 2.6 percent of Canada’s total land area. Population tends to exhibit an exponential fall-off away from the coast. This is illustrated most dramatically on the Pacific coast, where steep mountain ranges are “constraining population to a narrow, low-elevation band, as well as a strongly coastal-dependent economy” (2005:6). Relative to the rest of the world, Canada shows similar trends in increasing total population count and density and increasing 20 km coastal population count and density (2005:8). Canada has a higher percentage of its population living within 20 km of the coast than globally, and this is increasing at a rate faster than that of the global coastal population. However, the number of people added annually to the global coastal population far exceeds that added to the Canadian coastal population (88.8 million globally between 1995 and 2000 versus 0.44 million in Canada between 1996 and 2001) (2005:8). Additionally, the percentage of Canadians living in the coastal zone is higher, and growth is occurring at a higher rate, though mean population density is much lower (2005:10). The Canadian coastal population is very small compared to the global coastal population, thus the contribution of Canada’s coastal population growth to that of the global coastal population is “negligible” (2005:10). Manson (2005:10) concludes that through increasing population and densification, “the vulnerability of Canada’s coastal population to hazards and climate change is increasing, a trend that is expected to accelerate into 2015.” Over the next 20 years, the coastal population is projected to increase by a million people, increasing pressure on the environment through land-use changes and water demand, discharge of sewage and other waste, and emissions of pollutants. Industries such as forestry, fishing, and tourism depend on healthy ecosystems, yet most economic activities have some kind of impact on those ecosystems, either temporary or permanent. (BC 2006:vii)                                                       6 This may be an underestimate (Manson 2005:4). 54  British Columbia’s population stood at 4.5 million in 2010, up from 4 million in 2000. In contrast, estimates of the pre-European population of British Columbia range from 60,000 to 200,000 (BC 2007:2). European diseases and other changes brought by early explorers decimated Aboriginal communities, and by the 1850s their population had dropped drastically. As the Aboriginal population “declined,” European settlement along the coast continued to grow. As illustrated in Figure 3.1, in 1851 the population of British Columbia was 55,000; in 1951 it was more than one million, and today it is over 4.5 million. In 2001, the Aboriginal population was 170,025 and accounted for 4.4 percent of the total Province. As shown in Figure 3.2, future growth will be concentrated around already densely populated areas, specifically in the southern Strait of Georgia, around Vancouver, Victoria and Nanaimo (see also Figure 3.3). In contrast, some regions of the coast are expected to see “negative growth,” including the Powell River area in the extreme northeast Strait of Georgia. In 2001, 76 percent of British Columbia’s population, or just over 3 million people, lived in coastal regions, primarily in the Lower Mainland area around the City of Vancouver, the Province’s economic center, and in the southern and eastern parts of Vancouver Island, including the City of Victoria, the Province’s Capital (BC 2007:2). Since the 1800s, about 20 percent of B.C.’s coastal land area has been disturbed by natural events and human activity (e.g., logging, agriculture, urbanization) (BC 2006:viii). British Columbia’s coast is 7,022 km long, measured linearly from the Strait of Juan de Fuca in the south to Alaska in the north. Total shoreline length, including islands, is estimated to be 22,200 km (Francis 2000:137). By 2036, British Columbia’s population is forecast to exceed 1.6 million, an increase of about 36 percent since 2010 (StatsCan 2011a:2; 2011b:1). The major factor driving population growth over this period will be migration: international migration will account for 77.4 percent of the population gain, followed by interprovincial migration at 17.3 percent, and natural increase (births minus deaths) at about 5.3 percent (StatsCan 2011a:2). As shown in Figure 3.2, population density (people/km2) in coastal British Columbia has changed significantly in the past, and is expected to continue growing over the next few decades. In the future, the most significant growth will occur in Greater Vancouver, the Fraser and Cowichan Valleys, and the Sunshine Coast.   55                     Figure 3.1  British Columbia population, 1866-2036.  Source: Statistics British Columbia   By 2036, British Columbia’s population is forecast to exceed 1.6 million, an increase of about 36 percent since 2010 (StatsCan 2011a:2; 2011b:1). The major factor driving population growth over this period will be migration: international migration will account for 77.4 percent of the population gain, followed by interprovincial migration at 17.3 percent, and natural increase (births minus deaths) at about 5.3 percent (StatsCan 2011a:2). As shown in Figure 3.3, population density (people/km2) in coastal British Columbia has changed significantly in the past, and is expected to continue growing over the next few decades. In the future, the most significant growth will occur in Greater Vancouver, the Fraser and Cowichan Valleys, and the Sunshine Coast. While all regions of the Province will see growth, only the Mainland/Southwest region around Vancouver will experience higher growth than B.C. as a whole (StatsCan 2011b:3). As the most populous region of the Province, this area receives the bulk of international migrants to B.C., as well as a significant share of migrants from other parts of Canada. Over the last five years, approximately 44 percent of interprovincial inmigrants and 92 percent of international inmigrants to B.C. chose to initially 0 1,000,000 2,000,000 3,000,000 4,000,000 5,000,000 6,000,000 7,000,000 British Columbia Population, 1866-2036 1866-2006 2016-2036 (projected) 56  settle in this region. This area is also home to over 80 percent of the non-permanent residents in the Province. Over 85 percent of the Mainland/Southwest population lives in the Greater Vancouver area, and over 10 percent reside in the Fraser Valley; the remainder lives in the Squamish-Lilloett area (1.5 percent) and in the Sunshine Coast area (1 percent). By 2036, the Mainland/Southwest population is expected to grow by more than 40 percent.     Figure 3.2  Regional district population growth, 2010 to 2036. Dark blue signifies areas of greatest growth (i.e., >35%) Source: BCStats 2011a:6, Figure 13.    57    Figure 3.3  Population density (people/km2) in the coastal Regional Districts of British Columbia for 1941, 1976, and 2003, with projected population for 2025.  Source: BC 2006:4, Figure 2.   The Vancouver Island/Coast region, which includes the western and northwestern portions of the Georgia Basin, will likely see “healthy gains from migration as it continues the expansion of its urban areas (i.e. Nanaimo and Greater Victoria)” (StatsCan 2011b:4).This is in part due to the fact that overall retirement age (65+) population count and its share of total population will continue to increase significantly over the projection period (from 15.0 percent in 2010 to 23.7 per cent in 2036) (StatsCan 2011a:5). According to Statistics Canada (2011b:4), the retiring baby boom cohort is “is expected to lead to larger net inflows.” This will result in population growth in amenity-rich areas, “particularly those 58  outside of large urban cores.” By 2036, “the Vancouver Island/Coast region is projected to have almost five elderly dependents for every 10 people of working age.” (StatsCan 2011b:4) Intertidal and upper shore zones in the Georgia Basin are “particularly vulnerable to development because people are attracted by the views and easy access to beaches and the ocean” (BC 2006:20). In 2001, an estimated 23 percent (60 km) of the estuarine and other nearshore habitat in the Georgia Basin had been urbanized and the shorelines altered by dykes, seawalls, docks, and other uses. In 2000, the Capital Regional District (CRD), located in the Vancouver Island/Coast region, analyzed data on the length of natural shoreline and the length of developed shoreline. More than 375 km of shoreline exist in the CRD’s study area (which excluded the Gulf Islands). In total, 68 percent of upper shore zones had some type of development, and 8 percent of intertidal zones had been developed [see Figure 3.4]. The more urbanized core of the CRD study area had the highest proportion of shoreline development (98 percent upper shore, 24 percent intertidal). Along the Saanich Peninsula, 87 percent of upper shore lands were developed and 5 percent of the intertidal, and in the Western Communities, 48 percent of upper shore lands were developed and only 3 percent of the intertidal (BC 2006:21; see also CRD 2000).   As illustrated in Figure 3.4, which shows the proportion of shoreline developed on southeastern Vancouver Island, dense populations are associated with high levels of shoreline modification. The most apparent impact on the environment from the growing coastal population “is the permanent loss of habitat to industrial and residential development, especially in the Georgia Basin” (BC 2006:5).     Figure  3.4  Proportion of shoreline developed in the Capital Regional District, southwestern Strait of Georgia and northern Strait of Juan de Fuca. Source: BC:2006:21, Fig. 9   With coastal sprawl, land becomes more highly erodible due to rapid surface runoff resulting from impervious surfaces. Recalling from Chapter 2, as goes the land, so goes the archaeological heritage. 59  Salish Sea  The growing population in this binational area, currently at seven million and therefore one of the large metropolitan centers of North America, is a major factor in generating environmental stress. ņ Georgia Basin Puget Sound Ecosystem Indicators, 2002:2   The Salish Sea was home to 4.1 million people in 1976; the region grew to 7 million people by 2001 and it is projected to grow to 9.4 million people by 2025 (GBPSEI 20067), as illustrated in Figure 3.5. Population growth in the transboundary watershed has outpaced the average global growth rate, a pattern that is expected to continue over the next several decades. Life expectancy is highest in the Greater Vancouver Regional District (81 years) in BC and San Juan County (82 years) in Washington. The average family income in the Salish Sea Basin is higher than the North American average. Once anchored in resource extraction industries such as forestry and fishing, the region’s economy has diversified into more service and value-added manufacturing including aerospace, biotechnology, film, tourism and software development, yet continues to be export oriented, particularly with Pacific Rim nations. Immigration is expected to account for over half of the population growth in the next two decades. (GBPSEI 2006:n.p)  Salish Sea population growth “is a major underlying force contributing to the cumulative stresses on the land, air, water and other ecosystem resources. This growth presents significant environmental, economic and social challenges both locally and across the basin ecosystem” (GBPSEI 2002:1). The impacts of this growing population, its “affluent lifestyles” and concomitant land use practices are reflected in various measures (for example, see GBPSEI 2002, 2006) that offer different perspectives on regional landscape quality and stresses (GBPSEI 2002:1). As these indicators are tracked over time, “they should provide a sense of how we as individuals and a society are affecting our basin ecosystem” (2002:1). In 2000, the major population areas immediately around Vancouver (Greater Vancouver Regional District) and Seattle (King County) had 29 percent and 25 percent of the overall basin population, respectively, so that over half the Salish Sea population was living in those areas (GBPSEI 2002:2) (see Figure 3.6). As pointed out earlier, even higher concentrations can be noted (especially in the Seattle area) when taken in conjunction with neighboring jurisdictions. Population expansion and the migration of people to suburban areas exert development pressure on terrestrial landscapes. The area of forest land in the Salish Sea Basin “continues to decrease as land is used to expand airports, railways, ports, roads and housing to accommodate the region’s increasing population” (GBPSEI 2006:n.p.).                                                      7 Georgia Basin-Puget Sound Ecosystem Indicators, or GBPSEI 60     Figure 3.5 Salish Sea population growth, 1976-2025. Source: GBPSEI 2006:n.p.   People are attracted to the Salish Sea region “for its spectacular natural amenities and quality of life, as well as its economic opportunities” (GBPSEI 2002:2). As a consequence, a major contributor of population growth is migration from outside the basin: in British Columbia, the net immigration rate during the mid 1990s was about three-quarters of the total population growth rate; in Puget Sound Counties, almost two thirds of the growth over the 1990s was due to net immigration. The sub-regional differences in growth rates, shown in Figure 3.6, “suggest that the population distribution is shifting somewhat from the large urban areas to outlying areas.  This may be due to considerations such as perceived quality of life differences, economic and demographic changes, housing affordability and transportation issues. In Jefferson County, for example, the high growth rate can be attributed, in part, to an expanding retirement population, proximity to significant natural areas and less than average rainfall8. (2002:2)  Ultimately, population growth in the Salish Sea basin affects all aspects of sustainability (environmental, social and economic) at various scales (locally, regionally and globally): Additional people generally require more jobs, goods and services, land for housing, businesses and transportation facilities, recreational space and associated environmental resources. Unless these activities are significantly modified to reduce their current impacts, they will continue to increase the stresses on the land, biota and other natural resources, as well as the human systems that support modern life. (2002:2-3).                                                      8 An example of this pattern in British Columbia is the Sunshine Coast (see Part Three). 61      Figure 3.6  Percentage of Salish Sea population by Regional District and County, 2000. Source: BC 2002:3   62  Cultural Heritage Impacts (Archaeological)   The growth of modern, developed coastal regions, defined as coastal urban centers and their immediate peripheries, has long been a subject of academic interest (Semple 1911), and the environmental consequences of such transformations are generally well understood (see below). All aspects of the environment—physical, biological, human—have been heavily impacted, and archaeological heritage has not been immune. As Reeder and colleagues (2012:187) observe, “Coastal archaeological resources around the world often coincide with dense contemporary human populations and a rapidly changing physical environment.” Most of the coastal erosion problems affecting communities are the product of human intervention in the coastal zone (Rampino 2005:432), what have be termed “anthropogenic factors” (Scott 2005:254). Population growth and change can impact heritage landscapes in two ways: (a) directly, by altering coastal landscapes physically through “development,” and (b) indirectly, by altering how coastal communities value, thus define, view and interact with maritime heritage (i.e., “sea change”). In British Columbia, for example, resource extraction and infrastructure building accounted for more than half of the 383 archaeology permits issued by the Archaeology Branch in 2011 (see Chapter 4). About 20 percent of permits issued were held by private residents doing home construction. Nearly all permits can be considered to be related to “development” (La Salle and Hutchings 2012). An array of human activities contribute to coastal erosion, and while these “interventions” often take place at or near the coastline, they may also be significant distances inland, as is the case with hydroelectric dams (Chen 2005). Such activities include: aggregate extraction (including dredging); aquaculture facilities; docks and piers; energy production (e.g., oil, wind); gas mining (relative sea level rise induced by land subsidence); harbor infrastructure and activities (including navigational dredging); land reclamation, nearshore or offshore (e.g., wind farms); maritime navigation (e.g., ship and boat-induced waves); pollution; recreation and tourism; industrial resource extraction (e.g., fishing, logging, mining); river water regulation works (particularly dams); shore protection structures; (e.g., breakwaters, groins, seawalls); seafront roads; tidal power facilities; and waterfront development, both industrial and residential (adapted from Eurosion 2004:8-10). Coastal specialists distinguish between direct and indirect human impacts; while some impacts are a result of “direct acts of development,” others are “indirectly the result of those activities” (Davis 2005:532). Indirect human impacts are typically more complicated and subtle than direct ones, and there are innumerable ways in which human activities along the coast can indirectly impact the behavior of coastal environments (2005:533). These range “from the obvious situations where jetties at an inlet may impact beach erosion kilometers down the beach to more subtle situations where activities in an estuary 63  can influence open coast morphodynamics” (2005:535). An even more subtle impact is illustrated in Tallis’ (2006) work on the Pacific Northwest Coast. She shows how logging has a “chemical footprint” in the coastal ocean with biological implications, lending support to the argument that “conservation planning and socio-ecological decision making need to consider links between natural systems” (2006:n.p.). From a geological perspective, coastal change occurs on multiple scales, thus defining coastal change as “gradual” or “rapid” is difficult. For Thom and Cowell (2005:251), the concept of gradual coastal change can be seen as “embracing different contexts, both spatial and temporal. ... Therefore, a wide-ranging time frame may be used covering geological, engineering, and arguably event scales.” As with gradual change, rapid coastal change can take many forms. As Scott (2005:254) points out, there are many definitions of what might be called “rapid events” occurring on coastlines, “including sea-level movements caused by global warming and/or cooling (10’s to 1,000’s of years) to tsunamis that occur in seconds.” In addition to tsunamis (Dawson 2005), other rapid changes of an instantaneous nature are storm surge (Gornitz 2005) and human activity (Davis 2005), both of which are of particular concern here. A very different way to think about coastal change and erosion is in terms of social, cultural, and economic transformation. This kind of change can lead to what Ommer and colleagues (2007:3) refer to as “coasts under stress,” where “[c]hanges in natural environments have interacted with political, industrial, and social change to adversely affect the health of the people who live there, their communities, and the natural environments in which they are embedded.” The outcome here is not simply the transformation or “wearing-away” of physical landscapes, but also the cultural attachments to those landscapes. Coastal change discourse, therefore, must be broadened to include the physical and social impacts of such processes as economic change (Ommer et al. 2007), migration (Gurran et al. 2007), and recreation and tourism (Goodhead and Johnson 1996), among others. In this light, the discussion is not just about physical erosion, but also the erosion of community identity (French 2005) and health (Dolan and Ommer 2008; Ommer et al. 2007).  64  Responses  As coastal development is intensifying, so are coastal property losses. The higher wind speeds, storm surge, flooding, and erosion hazards intrinsic to coastal regions increase the likelihood of property damage, degradation of coastal ecosystems, and subsequent social costs. Changing climate trends may increase the potential for more frequent and severe damage. Routinely, policymakers, developers, and property owners are not aware of the present and future risks associated with coastal development. –Heinz Center, Resilient Coasts: A Blueprint for Action, 2009:3  Demographic factors, especially migration, are major considerations in how people use coastal regions. Understanding how population issues can be integrated into coastal management will help policymakers, program managers, and communities design more viable and sustainable strategies for using and safeguarding the world’s coasts and the resources they provide. – Liz Creel, 2003:7  Cultural resource management is western society’s response to development-led heritage destruction. As such, there is no special branch of CRM9 that focuses on the issue; it is what most CRM specialists do daily. Prior to 2012, there were no local studies or assessments of the predicted impacts of or suggested responses to sea level rise on cultural heritage sites and landscapes (Grossman and Parker 2012); this is returned to in Chapter 9. To understand current responses to population growth and change, we need to examine the world that is CRM, and see what it and its critics have to say. This is discussed in detail in Chapter 4. Here, I instead consider two very different kinds of heritage responses to population growth and change from the Pacific Northwest Coast. The first involves the development of a “National Maritime Area,” while the second compares an anthropological/historical approach with one based in risk management.  A National Maritime Heritage Area Approach   I trace here the evolution of a decade-long attempt in Washington State to counter the ill-effects of modernity. The three documents I refer to here are by the Seattle-King County Task Force on Maritime Heritage (Task Force 2005) and Washington State Department of Archaeology and Historic Preservation (DAHP 2009, 2010). When examined in chronological order, they provide valuable insight into the development of a plan to “save” maritime heritage. In December of 2005, King County and the City of Seattle jointly released the document Seattle-King County Task Force on Maritime Heritage²Final Report (Task Force 2005). The report opens with                                                      9 Or archaeological resource management (ARM), or cultural heritage management (CHM), or academic archaeology. 65  this introduction by then-politician and Task-Force Chair Jim Compton, titled “A New Maritime Heritage Consensus.” Our region’s history is tied to the sea and its industries. This is a rare moment when the ‘stars are aligned’ to launch a long-overdue effort to preserve Puget Sound’s rich legacy of maritime history. Centuries of maritime activity on Puget Sound have created an extraordinarily rich body of traditions, artifacts, and history. But efforts to bring them together and honor them at some focused location have been fitful and unsuccessful. It is no overstatement that regions with fewer maritime treasures have made a much better effort of preservation. The challenge ranges from finding a home for tall ships and work vessels, to making documents, plans, and models accessible, to teaching the skills of boatbuilding and boat handling. (Task Force 2005:2)  As this illustrates, maritime heritage is conceived of in very specific terms, including technology, exploration, and discovery. While the earlier, high-profile Maritime Heritage Foundation “had failed to bring together the necessary consensus in 2002,” Compton writes that King County’s cultural services agency, 4Culture, subsequently convened in 2004 a Summit and Task Force for a “last-ditch effort to pull together the strands of maritime heritage.” The Task Force’s objective, described in their Executive Summary, was to “Create a vision and chart a course for a sustainable maritime heritage presence in Seattle, King County and Puget Sound.” The “problems” of concern, as alluded to by Compton above, include:  “Working waterfronts are fast being displaced by development and gentrification,” with the result that heritage sites are increasingly slated for demolition.  Historic vessels are deteriorating while appropriate facilities and funding to house and conserve them are more and more difficult to establish.  “Seattle’s maritime preservation remains in the hands of a number of small organizations, each with its own mission and interest,” leading to a fragmented community of interest.  Although “[t]he identity of the region is linked inextricably to its maritime culture,” there is no “defining maritime heritage amenity in the city,” preventing Seattle from “positioning itself as a world-class, heritage-rich seaport city” (Task Force 2005:5-6). The objective, then, in a nutshell, appears to be to ‘brand,’ ‘market,’ and ‘house’ Seattle/King County’s maritime heritage under ‘a single leadership’ with the goal of delivering a ‘cohesive,’ ‘unified’ and ‘authentic’ message regarding maritime heritage. This represents the centralization and commodification processes central to “authorizing” heritage, discussed further in Chapter 8. Significantly, in this document, there is no recognition of or discussion about climate change and sea level rise. There was also very little specific information provided regarding population growth and the impacts of development on heritage. Indigenous peoples are only mentioned in the Appendix as a potential “Theme.” Ultimately, tourism is offered as the solution to a declining maritime cultural heritage. 66  In 2009, the Department of Archaeology and Historic Preservation produced a draft report titled Washington State National Maritime Heritage Area Feasibility Study (DAHP 2009). The goal of the study was to evaluate “whether western Washington’s maritime heritage resources might qualify for designation as a National Maritime Heritage Area” (2009: n.p.). The proposal was building on the 2005 Task Force’s observations and suggestions, offering designation as a National Heritage Area as a “solution” to some of the problems identified previously. The report states that “[p]art of the challenge of the heritage area is to emphasize the common issues that face western Washington’s shoreline communities, and model shared stewardship for the region’s maritime heritage resources” (2009:12). In stark contrast to the 2005 Task Force report, the 2009 document includes discussion of Indigenous history and contemporary interests in the Area. Indeed, the economic benefits for tribes overall is especially emphasized, since tourism and related economic development is offered as “one of the important potential benefits of designation as a National Heritage Area” (DAHP 2009:11). Towards this, maritime commerce, past and present, is given central stage in the proposal. The report (2009:52) refers to potential “direct and indirect effects” of establishing the proposed Heritage Area. Effects mentioned include increased pollution associated with vehicle and boat travel and associated impacts of visitor traffic (2009:58-9). However, without such designation, the report’s authors indicate that cultural resources “would continue to be lost” (2009:55). Again, climate change and sea level rise impacts on heritage is not mentioned in the text. Again, heritage is viewed as a commodity and potential money-maker for willing communities.  In the 2010 final version of this report, Washington State National Maritime Heritage Area Feasibility Study for Designation as a National Heritage Area, several noteworthy changes have been made specifically to incorporate “stakeholder” feedback (DAHP 2010). The report restates five primary goals of designating this National Maritime Heritage Area (2010:3), including: to share Washington State’s unique and nationally distinctive maritime heritage resources and stories with a broader audience; to support local communities by promoting heritage tourism; to support local heritage organizations; to support contemporary working waterfronts; and to support healthy marine waters. Like its draft, the 2010 document does not address any climate change issues for coastal heritage. It likewise does not address any impacts or management issues for cultural resources; indeed, the subject of archaeology is scarcely mentioned. The effect of this designation on the management of archaeological sites is wholly absent. As such, this report cannot be seen as motivated by the protection, preservation and/or conservation of heritage sites. Instead, the proposed project to establish a National Maritime Heritage Area is primarily about economic development through tourism, under the guise of rejuvenating a local sense of maritime “heritage.” 67  A Risk Management Approach   The Washington State study above illustrates a “tourism” response to the threat of maritime heritage deterioration; yet, the actual impacts on heritage sites and landscapes and the archaeological response are, for the most part, remain vague at best. In contrast, the case presented by journalist Mapes (2009; see also Charles 2010; Stapp and Longenecker 2009) provides a detailed account of the Tse-whit-zen village archaeological project and the all-too-real impacts resulting from development and CRM. Despite an apparent regard by the City of Port Angeles for the concerns of the Lower Elwha Klallam, as detailed in their 1995 Shoreline Master Plan Regulations, in 2002 the City sold to the Washington State Department of Transportation (WSDOT) a 22.5 acre (9.1 hectare) waterfront parcel. The site was to be used as the location of a 200,000 cubic foot (5,663 cubic metre) dry or ‘graving’ dock to facilitate the replacement of the Hood Canal floating bridge, a project expected to total $30 million. Construction and use of the graving dock, projected to cost around $19 million, was a massive and unexpected infusion of wealth (and power) into the relatively small community of Port Angeles. “This would prove to be a mistake, as over a 24 month period, WSDOT would disrupt 276 full burials and 500 partial burials of Lower Elwha Kallam ancestors. The costs for recovering the burials and the millions of artifacts were staggering” (Stapp and Longenecker 2009:41, emphasis added). By 2008, four years after the Port Angeles project had been abandoned by the State, the estimates for the bridge and graving dock had ballooned to $291 million and $85 million, respectively. When the State of Washington “broke ground” for their bridge project in August 2003, inadvertently unearthing Tse-whit-zen, they “actually broke ground for a different sort of bridge altogether,” one leading to a “sense of history” (2009:xi). Not unexpectedly, project ‘abandonment’ did not bring closure, for “breaking ground at Tse-whit-zen uncovered not only the past of this place but its present” (2009:215): The true history under every footfall, along every shoreline, is often silenced by collective amnesia. But here, on a twenty-two-acre waterfront property, the ground spoke: of the Indian village here, and of a river that once sustained an entire ecosystem and way of life. Of uncounted Indian burials, ancestors of the Klallam people. Of the sawmill built right over their village and cemetery, transforming the look, but not the truth, of this ground (2009:xi).  For Mapes, “the buried past came alive” on the Port Angeles waterfront (2009:13); but it is not the burials but rather “the invisibility of the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe, here for more than 10,000 years, that is the real surprise” (2009:10). In this sense, “Port Angeles still seems perplexed by the Indians who refused to die off. Local histories of the town usually give scant mention to the area's first residents.  They are often consigned to a misty realm, usually with a combination of romanticism and insult” (2009:56). Mapes thus uses archaeology to confront head-on deeply rooted and ongoing colonial structures, 68  challenging along the way “the history of the forgetting,” a “collective amnesia [that] is so profound that no one even asked the question,” what about the Indians (2009:107)? The Tse-whit-zen story thus parallels the history of colonialism and Native-white relations on the Pacific Northwest Coast, where they, for a variety of reasons, “dont understand each others history” (2009:120). While Mapes presents a very personal, emotional and historical account of the social tensions and ongoing politics of Indigenous-settler relations in Washington, archaeologists Stapp and Longenecker (2009) offer a resource management approach to “avoiding archaeological disasters,” such as the Tse-whit-zen situation. The authors begin by recognizing the primacy of archaeology and industry in the heritage response, and note that “[d]evelopment projects constitute one of the greatest physical threats to the archaeological heritage” (ICOMOS 1990, cited in 2009:17). Their work Avoiding Archaeological Disasters: A Risk Management Approach is focused on the cultural resource management process, drawing on two Washington State case studies of archaeology “gone wrong.” For Stapp and Longenecker, CRM is a “profession…relating to the preservation of cultural resources. It was developed to assist the government and the private sector to comply with legislation passed to protect the nation’s heritage” (2009:156, emphasis added). King’s definition also includes this important reference to modernity, where CRM is “the management both of cultural resources and of effects on them that may result from land and other activities in the contemporary world” (1998:265). CRM is also an “institution,” a “field,” an academic “discipline,” a “profession,” a “community,” a “philosophy,” an “identity,” as well as a response or “adaptive strategy.” Its central element, however, is—as it has always been—legal compliance. For Stapp and Longenecker (2009:15,) “[t]he problems associated with the discovery and disturbance of archaeological resources are serious and can significantly affect the budget, schedule, and even the successful completion of a project.” They conclude by offering ten basic principles for avoiding an archaeological disaster and a “risk management matrix” to assist project managers “in balancing the probabilities and consequences of specific risk events” (2009:92), involving three steps (79): 1. Perform a baseline risk assessment…[which] involves developing archaeological scenarios specific to the project 2. Identify the actions that need to be taken to address the problems posed by those scenarios 3. Revisit the risk scenarios regularly to determine if any new information has surfaced  As I have previously discussed (Hutchings 2010), I am wary of Stapp and Longenecker’s assertion that if a project manager is able to incorporate these ten principles and three-step risk management approach, “the risk of turning the project into an archaeological disaster will be virtually eliminated” (2009:23, emphasis added). This simplifies and underestimates the dynamic, multifaceted, and inherently social and political nature of the archaeological landscape (David and Thomas 2008a, b; Nicholas 2006). It also 69  assumes that development does not inherently present a threat to archaeological heritage sites, contrary to the ICOMOS statement cited early in the text. Although not stated, a basic premise of the book is that cultural resource management and legislation are actually effective tools for dealing with these issues—for, if they are not, and if, instead, CRM is part of the problem, Stapp and Longenecker’s entire project would be undermined. Reflecting on the Tse-whit-zen “archaeological disaster,” Lower Elwha Tribal Chairwoman Frances Charles identified two major concerns. The first, regarding policy and hindsight: “Everyone would go back and say, ‘What we would we do differently?’ It’s good to have a checklist. But what is the next crisis going to be?” (Mapes 2009:117). Her point, emphasized by Stapp and Longenecker, is this: checklists are for the expected, not the unexpected. If anthropology has taught us anything, it is that history repeats itself. Yet history never reproduces itself perfectly, thus the landscape, including the archaeological landscape, is subject to change, for better or worse. In this sense, these perspectives are in line with Hicks and McAtackney (2007:15), who suggest that landscapes are complex and uneven, “where many past and present voices are silenced or erased.” Charles’ second point cuts closer to the quick: “I don’t blame [DOT]. I don’t blame federal highways. I blame the City of Port Angeles. They knew what was here 150 years ago. They knew the heritage, of what was here. They can’t sit there and be unaware. They ignored it because of their greed” (Mapes 2009:117). While the Tse-whit-zen case study may represent a “disaster,” it is by no means an isolated event. Sea level rise and population growth pose significant risks to maritime cultural heritage on the Pacific Northwest Coast. While mainstream responses to sea level rise are significantly limited (Grossman and Parker 2012), archaeologists have been dealing with the problem of “development” since the 1960s, as discussed in the following chapter. The mainstream response to coastal change threats, as defined here, is what Stapp and Longenecker refer to as “the risk management approach.” This is a checklist approach to heritage stewardship whereby site loss is taken for granted.  70  Chapter 4:  British Columbia Resource Management in Historical Context  [T]he granting of permission to build factories or other structures at places where [archaeological] sites are located…should be made contingent on the provision by the interested parties of funds for the investigation of such sites before construction commences. We cannot prevent urban expansion and industrial development, but by intelligent legislation they could be turned from a bane to a boon to archaeology. – Charles E. Borden, 1950  In order to understand contemporary global human problems, history must be placed at the centre of the conversation. To understand the maritime heritage crisis—a specific kind of global human problem—the history of resource management must become the focal point. In Northern America, resource management is a relatively new cultural product, largely not much more than five or six decades old. Prior to the 1950s in Canada, and regarding only European settler populations, different government policies were used to address the various concerns of the day. Before 1900, there were either no formal government policies or only ones that simply charged fees for access to land and resources. In either case, before 1950, administrative provisions for resource protection were “minimal, fragmented, and framed primarily in terms of human economic and organizational requirements,” while existing ‘lands and forest’ departments “actively abetted the pillaging of Canadian resources by issuing many and cheap licenses to companies willing to extract resources at a rapid rate” (Hessing and Howlett 1999:48-49, 49-50). A central issue, then, is how and why these policies were produced and modified and, most importantly, who benefitted from those changes. More to the point, did these policy changes represent true shifts in values toward heritage, or were they simply old paradigms dressed up in fancy new language? Without going into too much detail, the answer to both questions is yes and no. I illustrate below how resource management has remained consistent throughout Canadian history insofar as it has always been linked to economic development and resource extraction. In this chapter, I provide a brief overview of land use in British Columbia, from pre-occupation to present, and then place in specific historical context (a) resource management, (b) coastal resource management and (c) (coastal) cultural resource management. As discussed in Part Three, historical approaches are useful because they can put into context what is all-too-often “taken for granted” —in this case the intent of resource management. This is particularly important because resource management represents the mainstream response to coastal change. A focus on resource management also emphasizes the intrinsic link between “cultural” and “natural” heritage (for example, the idea that soil and sediment are the matrix that hold archaeological sites together).  71  A Brief History of Land Use from Preoccupation to Present1  The aim of this section is to provide an historical baseline for thinking and talking about contemporary coastal resource management. Working to bridge Indigenous and scientific knowledge systems, Ken Lertzman (2009) offers an integrated approach to resource management in British Columbia. He suggests that “strong commonalities” exist between Indigenous Traditional Resource and Environmental Management Systems (TREMS) and modern Western Science-Based Management Systems (WSBMS). When linked, these commonalities comprise different “gradients of management and anthropogenic influence” (2009:349, Figure 1). These commonalities, he suggests, are “rooted in many of the fundamental attributes of both types of systems and can be observed in many of the issues that arise regarding the relationships between the management systems, the managers themselves, and their broader social context” (2009:348). Thus, they can be “placed on a common scale or gradient of the degree of anthropogenic modification of ecosystems, which illustrates both commonalities and differences among them. This suggests that TREMS and WSBMS exhibit differences in degree, not kind. They are not different kinds of things; they are different examples of the same thing.” For Lertzman, the following key continua can be identified:         hunting and gathering  ←ņņ→ industrialized forestry/agriculture              “wild” ecosystems ←ņņ→ human determined ecosystems  Building on this, Lepofsky (2009:162) notes that “many of the TREM practices are subtle and/or will not leave an easily detectable footprint.” In this vein, then, we can also add the following spectra:             light footprint ←ņņ→ heavy footprint  Lertzman also points out that the poles that define these spectra are extremes, thus those archetypes (e.g., “wild” ecosystems) are “unlikely.” Towards this, on the Northwest Coast, as in other parts of North America, assumptions about a precontact, culture-free “wilderness” are now being “seriously challenged” by academics (Oliver 2007:5). According to Oliver, scientific study and renewed scrutiny of the ethnographic record demonstrate that “earlier perceptions were bound up in a kind of cultural myopia” and that “the so-called ‘wilderness’ was often under some form of ‘low intensity cultivation’” (Deur 1999: 139) or other form of alteration.” In short, various approaches show the                                                      1 I use the terms “preoccupation” and “occupied” to highlight the colonial undercurrent to Canadian society, including archaeology. 72  “degrees to which people managed ecosystems or otherwise altered the physical landscape in places once considered ‘wilderness’ by newcomers” (2007:1). For Oliver (2007:5), these contributions have “convincingly shown that what Europeans previously took for unbridled ‘nature,’ was not uncommonly, in part, a product of human intervention … a result of resource procurement or landscape management practices, some of which may date to the early Holocene.” Oliver concludes, however, that one “cannot separate economic (or cultural) patterns from the social qualities that are implicated within the practice of landscape modification.” Indeed, for him academic interpretations too often operate at a scale “that has less bearing on the historical experience of those groups caught up in working the land” (2007:6-7). This is an important point, because for all of the detail that is starting to be forged into arguments about Indigenous land-use practices, we actually have very little understanding of how the ‘material culture’ of landscape management—those ecological forms that can be defined as a product of cultural intervention—and the social practices and routines of working that became inscribed within such contexts, helped to reproduce, transform or challenge past social orders. (2007:6-7)   What can be said about preoccupation land use practices in general? Anthropologically speaking, and in broad terms, Indigenous groups reflect “small-scale societies,” which have attendant small-scale impacts on their environment when compared to industrial or commercial scale activities (Bodley 2008a:76). However, as Bodley (2008a:76) describes the process generally, “[t]he massive government-financed development programs of the twentieth century largely ignored the human advantages of small-scale production systems. Development planners arrogantly dismissed domestically organized systems as ‘primitive’ and ‘pretechnological,’ assuming that people had little knowledge of their environment and no ‘control’ over it.” As such, Indigenous land use practices were not integrated into government policy. In occupied Canada, the function of the government has “evolved dramatically,” according to Hessing and Howlett (1999:47-70). They identify four stages of Canadian natural resource and environmental policy, culminating in the contemporary era. The four stages are presented in Boxes 4.1 and 4.2.  The four-stage evolutionary sequence reflects changes in the “institutions, processes and actors in the resource and environment policy sector” and shows government policy moving from (a) inaction to (b) a concern with resource rents, then to (c) a concern with resource management, and finally to (d) the current resource and environmental management regime (1999:47-48). Before examining the post-1950 “Management Era” in greater detail, there are two important concepts that require attention because they inform both Hessing and Howlett’s four stages as well as the ideas introduced throughout the remainder of this chapter. The first concept is world systems theory, the analytical approach that views national societies in the context of global power differentials (Hiller 2000:46). 73  Basic to this theory is the idea that capitalism developed a world system of economic power which consisted of core societies, peripheral societies, and semi-peripheral societies. Core societies are highly industrialized and invest in societies weaker than themselves. Peripheral and semi-peripheral societies [may] seek to emulate core societies through the adoption of economic, technological, and political systems and processes. Despite this imitation, peripheral societies remain subordinate to the core economic powers who possess the capital needed for development. Because core societies need the markets, resources and labour of the weaker societies, they tend to assume an expansionist posture.  Hiller also reminds us that, long before world systems theory was proposed, political economist Harold Innis (1930, 1933, 1940) described Canadian society as being founded upon staple industries established for export to empire societies (Hiller 2000:47), this comprising the second important concept to consider. As Hillier (2000:47) discusses, “[w]hether it was the cod fisheries, trapping, lumbering, mining, or agriculture, Canadian hinterlands were developed for the exploitation by external markets. Canadian society, then, could be viewed as a series of resource-based communities centring around extractive processes and primary industries.” Such staple-based communities are recognized for their social instability, in part because human wellbeing is inextricably tied to the boom and bust economy, a point made clear by Innis’ protégé, Clark (1942; see also Bowles 1982; Clement 1980, 1983). Importantly, local stability is not linked to just local or regional economic factors, but to foreign ones as well. As Innis asserted, it is impossible to understand development in Canada “without viewing its rich resources as a commodity in demand by more industrialized nations” (Hiller 2000:47). The concept of externally-driven development is central to this dissertation, a point made clear in Part III.  Hiller points out that there has been renewed interest in the staples thesis because, although considered an industrial nation, “Canada possesses a truncated industrial base which is still highly dependent upon natural resources” (2000:47).  The dependence of many Canadians on resource-based employment means that the staples thesis is an important way of understanding the society and its dependence on external forces. There are two aspects about a resource-based economy that are important. First, much of the impetus, capital, and technology for resource exploitation comes from core nations (particularly the United States but also countries like Japan), and results in a high degree of foreign ownership. Second, resource-based economies are highly vulnerable to market demand. When market demand increases, boom conditions prevail; when market conditions are poor or weak, poverty, unemployment, and displacement or population result. (2000:47-48)  The significance of the staples economy to cultural resource management is discussed in the Cultural Resource Management section of this chapter.   74    Box 4.1  The Evolution of Canadian Resource and Environmental Policy, Part I  Hessing and Howlett’s first three stages are “inaction,” “revenue,” and “conservation” (1999:48-49).  The Era of Government Inaction—pre-1800  In the colonies of Great Britain in the northern half of North America, it took several decades for governments to realize that they should take action on behalf of natural resources. Although some key resources of great financial or military value (such as gold or tall trees suitable for masts of wooden sailing ships) were reserved for the use of the Crown, other resources were simply used by settlers for their own purposes. The first actions taken by governments involved their securing different forms of property rights, which ensured early mining and forestry operations that they would have a secure supply and the exclusive right to remove the resources located on the lands that they owned or leased. While land in some parts of the country (notably the Maritimes and parts of Quebec) was sold to private owners, elsewhere the overwhelming majority of land was never ‘alienated’ but retained as Crown land. Resources located on private land...required little regulation save surveying and title registration. … Once the demand for timber, mineral, or other resource ‘concessions’ grew, it was possible to for governments to begin to charge different kinds of rents for the use of their lands and resources, and Canadian government policy entered a new era.  The Era of Revenue Generation—1800-1880 The second period lasted for almost 100 years as governments in Canada developed a host of legislation containing a bewildering variety of charges for resource use. They included annual rents for mineral claims or timber limits, the development of extensive royalty or stumpage charges for the extraction of resources, and the development of embryonic taxation schemes levied against company profits. It was during this era the first government departments were established to deal with resources. These ‘lands and forest’ departments actively abetted the pillaging of Canadian resources by issuing many and cheap licenses to companies willing to extract resources at a rapid rate. By Confederation [1867], when most lands and resources were retained by the provinces, royalties from their sale by far amounted to the largest proportion of provincial government revenues. This great revenue made control over resources a subject of much inter-governmental competition. Between 1867 and 1900, the federal government attempted to use its powers over trade, commerce, and fisheries and other means to extend its control over provincial resources.  The Conservation Era—1880-1950 By the 1880s, the negative aspects of the policies of revenue enhancement were obvious in the deforestation of much of central and eastern Canada. In addition, due to technological improvements [industrialization]...governments were increasingly called upon to moderate the rate of resource extraction and to secure supplies for industries and towns over the long term and not simply on an annual basis. These calls led to the development new administrative arrangements embodied in regulatory agencies...and long-term tenures. It was also during this era that Canada’s system of national parks and forest reserves was created.  After 1900, having lost its constitutional battles with the provinces, the federal government had to be content to administer its own lands through the Department of the Interior and to attempt to influence provincial policy through reason and persuasion. … The constitutional arrangements for the distribution of federal and provincial authority over natural resources during this period also established the framework within which policies aimed at environmental protection have since been created. As Rankin notes, when the Constitution was adopted in 1867, ‘‘the environment’ was not perceived as a coherent subject for the legislators’ attention … The jurisdiction of the federal and provincial governments for the protection and enhancement of environmental quality is not explicitly addressed. ... Prior to World War II, environmental functions, including resource management...were allocated to different ministries, legislated and administered largely at the provincial level. Administrative provisions for environmental protection were minimal, fragmented, and framed primarily in terms of human economic and organizational requirements.  75    Box 4.2  The Evolution of Canadian Resource and Environmental Policy, Part II  Hessing and Howlett’s final stage is the “management” era (1999:50-52).  The Management Era—1950-present After the Second World War, federal reconstruction efforts targeted expansion of the national economy though resource development. Although the federal role remained limited by the constitutional division of powers and provincial resource ownership, [certain federal] governments attempted to influence the direction of provincial resource policies though the utilization of the federal spending power. … Throughout this period, efforts were also made at the provincial level to secure long-term resource conservation. This initiative involved long-term land zoning—such as the creation of forest and mineral reserves—as well as the establishment of new boards and agencies to secure resource supplies—such as those established in Alberta to regulate oil and gas production. …  Over this period, the consolidation and force of environmental activity, in both legislation and administrative character, accelerated dramatically. The administrative structure for Canadian environmental protection was the focus of considerable attention. These changes reflected two major developments: an overall increase in the role and powers of the state in regulatory processes, and a corresponding increase in the complexity of legislation and administrative structures to facilitate this movement. In this period, environmental protection essentially underwent a transformation from de facto self-regulation by industry to more sophisticated state supervision of the regulatory process. … Regulatory models were adapted from many countries, especially the United States, where a flurry of postwar regulatory legislation was directed not only to pollution but also wilderness and species preservation. …   The establishment of ministries of the environment at both federal and provincial levels represents the formal recognition of an environmental agenda that both transcends and … appropriates the responsibilities of existing resource departments. At the federal level, Environment Canada, whose jurisdiction included both resource management and pollution prevention, was created in 1971. …   Departments of the environment were created at the provincial level throughout the 1970s and 1980s, although they provided primarily environmental regulatory, rather than resource management, functions. The technique of the environmental impact assessment was introduced. Provincial legislation and administration was significant in its extension of regulatory provisions and its increased ‘get tough’ policy, with greater punitive sanctions available for enforcement. <et the legacy of structural fragmentation in jurisdiction and regulatory standards continues to make resource and environmental administration a complex and difficult process.  76  While it is tempting to keep these historical moments and movements locked in the past, Hessing and Howlett’s four stages should in no way be seen as replacements for each other. They usefully highlight policy shifts, but fundamentally all fall under the larger cultural paradigm of capitalist growth, development and progress. Our present “Management Era” fits within this and yet is very modern in its penchant for economic, science and technology-based policies and shallow in its date of origin at 1950.   Resource Management  In 2025, a little over a decade from now, there will no doubt be many reflections upon the 75 years that have passed since “1950”—arguably the most transformative year (and decade) in postwar history. In 1950, with the vision of World War Two (1939-1945) still lingering in the western consciousness (some 50 to 80 million died), U.S. President Harry S. Truman ordered the development of the hydrogen bomb, this in response to the detonation of the Soviet Union’s first atomic bomb the previous year. That response helped usher in the new “arms race” and the doctrine and national security policy of Mutually Assured Destruction, or MAD. In 1950, U.S. Senator Joseph McCarthy accused the United States Department of State of being filled with 205 communists, in the process amplifying the Red Scare (1947 to 1957) and Cold War (1946-1991). In 1950, Truman ordered American military forces to aid in the defense of South Korea, a move that set the stage for the Korean War (1950-1953), and sent military advisers to support French forces operating in Vietnam, a move that led to the two decade-long Vietnam War (1955-1975). 1950 also spawned an era of unbridled post-World War Two economic expansion (1950-1973), a period commonly referred to as the “Golden Age of Capitalism.” It is the latter point that makes the year 1950 so important to understanding resource management. As I will show, modern resource management was developed in response to the worldview that was—and in many ways still is— the “1950s.” It might be useful here to recall Mark Twain’s favorite theory: “to wit, that no occurrence is sole and solitary, but is merely a repetition of a thing which has happened before, and perhaps often” (1903:64). It is in this light that consideration of the Golden Age of Capitalism, alternatively termed the “postwar economic boom” or “long boom,” is so vital. The question at hand, then, is what else do the “Golden Age of Capitalism” and the “Age of Management” have in common besides a birthday? In addition to the Korean, Cold and Vietnam Wars, the Golden Age of Capitalism was associated with the rise of civil rights movements, feminism, decolonization, postmodernism, consumerism (i.e., the “culture of consumption”), suburban sprawl, and the baby boomer generation. In many ways, the Golden Age defines both “America” and the “American Dream” (or “Canada” and the “Canadian Dream”). Also 77  during this period, science and technology solutions were increasingly marketed to the public as solutions to the ever-growing social and environmental problems that were (and still are) a consequence of unchecked growth, development and progress. Mid-century British Columbia offers a prime example. The 1949 provincial election was an “interesting affair characterized by a high-powered, extremely effective expression of the paranoid style of B.C. politics. Most of the coalition’s pitch was for a renewed mandate to encourage investment and development in the province” (Mitchell 1983:94). In that election, William Andrew Cecil (or W.A.C.) Bennett was returned to the British Columbia Legislative Assembly. Bennett is perhaps best known for two things: the hydroelectric dam on the Peace River that bears his name and this illuminating quote: “The finest music in the land is ringing of cash registers” (Bennett, in Mitchell 1983:255). In many ways, W.A.C. Bennett embodies what historian David Mitchell terms “The Rise of British Columbia.” As Mitchell describes it (1983:256), Bennett came to power when the province “was ripe for development, a rich frontier ready for experimentation and innovation.” Mitchell’s “rise” maps reasonably well onto economist Rostow’s “stages of economic growth” (1960). As explained by Hessing and Howlett (1999:23) in relation to Canada: Economic takeoff occurred from the turn of the century to the First World War, with early industrialization. The drive to maturity took place in the contest of continuing industrialization and culminated in post-Second World War years with the expansion of the service sector and the age of high mass consumption.  Under Rostow’s framework, Mitchell’s post-1950 “rise” of British Columbia encompasses (a) the drive to maturity, characterized by the emergence of self-sustaining economic growth and (b) the age of high mass consumption, that is, the “culmination of the drive to maturity” (1999:23). Under this formulation, the takeoff stage, characterized by intensive growth and a “new sociopolitical framework promoting change,” was already well established. After 1950, however, it became an institutionalized, bureaucratized and self-propagating ideology (see Chapter 8). After 1950, development increasingly became the dominant paradigm for government problem solving. This is perhaps best highlighted in the worldview of one of Premier Bill Bennett’s (the son of W.A.C. Bennett) appointments, Bill Vander Zalm, then a newly elected minister of human resources. According to Persky (1989:61), Literally within minutes of being sworn in, on December 22, 1975, as the new government sipped champagne at Government House, Vander Zalm made his indelible mark on provincial politics. ‘If anybody is able to work, but refuses to pick up a shovel,’ said the new welfare minister, setting the tone for the freshly-minted government, ‘we will find ways of dealing with them.’ The shovel would quickly become Vander Zalm’s personal emblem … and the minister signed his personal notes, ‘Happy Shoveling.’   78  Given this credo of growth, development and progress, and recognizing British Columbia’s position as a staple economy, it is perhaps not surprising that Vander Zalm would go on to become Premier himself in 1986. During the 1950s, concludes Mitchell (1983:256-257), the Western industrial world, especially British Columbia, “embarked upon a period of economic expansion and material prosperity that, in retrospect, we realize was exceptional. That decade in particular has become perceived as a time of social, political and economic innocence which later generations both long for and deride.” Hessing and Howlett (1999:232) summarize the troubled history of resource and environmental policy as follows:  Over a long period, Canadian policy can be understood to have shifted from a system of laissez-faire resource exploitation to a system in which governments are heavily involved in a complex regime of resource management and environmental protection. The shift encompasses several features. Canada’s history as a staples economy has encouraged resource extraction, traditionally driven by private interests. The growth of government’s role in resource extraction parallels the general expansion of the Keynesian welfare state, increased public knowledge about the potential adverse effects of resource degradation, and increased competition and conflict over access to resources.  It is in this light that resource management developed in British Columbia, supported in large part by the passage of environmental protection legislation that in many ways define the “environmental movement” of the late 1960s to early 1980s.  An outstanding dilemma here is whether the resource and environmental policy shift, from its “early support of environmental extraction” toward a more “environmentally friendly” orientation (Hessing and Howlett 1999 232), has fundamentally changed resource management’s prime directive that is “resource allocation” (Mitchell and Sewell 1981:1). In short, the endeavour has not changed from determining who gets to do what with the landscape. This is important because environmental concerns under the latter view become merely sidebars to the primary task that is facilitating resource development. Based on knowledge accumulated during the 1960s and 1970s, researchers Mitchell and Sewell (1981:2-19) identified nine key barriers to “effective” resource management in Canada. Those are: 1. Incomplete information: too little data about resources 2. Divided and fragmented responsibility: ambiguities and inconsistencies in jurisdiction over resources 3. Poorly integrated institutional arrangements: as a consequence of point two, realizing integrated management of resources is difficult 4. Trade-offs and compromises: resources may be traded-off to obtain other things, or used as mechanisms to achieve gains in other areas 5. Diffused and changing public interests: the resource management policy field experiences varied and changing public interest 6. Educational structures: organizational structures at universities which are based on disciplines provide little opportunity for students to be exposed to the necessary cross-section of concepts 79  7. External events and decision: resource management is influenced by events outside the country, i.e., globalization 8. Lack of control: foreign investment reduces domestic control over resources, i.e., economic globalization 9. Political commitment: political leaders are often seen as having low commitment to environmental issues  While now over thirty years old, this list of challenges in resource management has only grown longer (see Chapter 9). At the end of the next section, which focuses on coastal resource management, I examine two key contemporary debates that are co-management and integrated management, which have been proposed as solutions to some of the above problems.   Coastal Resource Management  By the 1970s, North American coastal observers had become keenly aware of the impacts of industrialization and development on coastal landscapes, including those working in western Canada (Harrison and Kwamena 1981; Johnston 1977). In 1981, and focusing on the specific issue of coastal management in British Columbia, Harrison and Kwamema observed that “[b]eing concerned is not sufficient. What is needed is a reasonable attempt at solving some of the problems which arise in coastal areas in more than ad hoc fashion, and at defining objectives for the type of coastal environment which society is willing to accept” (1981:84-85). Unfortunately, there is little agreement as to what these objectives are, how they should be enunciated, and who should promote their realization. The very field of coastal and shoreline management in Canada, as in most countries, is typified by confusion – over definitions of what constitutes the shoreline and the coastal zone, over conflicting requirements between different resource users, over government agency responsibilities, and even as to how to approach the possibility of “managing” a resource area which is difficult, if not impossible to define.  Harrison and Kwamema (1981:92) posited that “there does seem to be a consensus emerging. The approach to institutional arrangements in the Canadian situation should (a) focus on coordinating existing agencies and programs and (b) relate to specific ‘areas’ and their groups of problems rather than dealing with extensive coastal/estuarine areas.” This is especially important given the problem that decision-making or political boundaries do not usually coincide with ecological units (1981:91-92). They concluded that old problems of coastal zone development, including urbanization, industrialization and recreation issues, “are increasing in importance.” In 1983, University of Victoria geographer Barry Sadler assembled and edited the volume “Coastal Zone Management in British Columbia” (Sadler 1983a). He set the tone in his introductory 80  remarks with the following observations (1983b:1) about the Strait of Georgia, “the urban and industrial heartland of the province.” According to Sadler, Much of the regional coastline has been modified in character and configuration by urbanization. […] Landfill and dredging activities, for example, have been required to construct and maintain port, commercial and recreational boating facilities. These activities collectively have caused the permanent loss and temporary impairment of a great deal of productive habitat. Marine ecosystems are undergoing subtle and, in certain cases, drastic alterations though the use of coastal waters as a flushed sink for waste disposal. Uses which are wholly or partly dependent on the maintenance of natural conditions, notably mariculture and fishing, have been correspondingly affected.  Such problems and conflicts “transcend jurisdictional boundaries,” Sadler observed—this despite the fact that in British Columbia most of the coastal zone is under crown ownership (mostly provincial) and that “private title becomes important only on the landward margins” (1983b:1). From this vantage, the late twentieth century coast was, therefore, a complex place, politically, economically, and managerially. For Sadler, the complexity of use of the coast “is both the product and cause of fragmentation in public administration of resources and environment” (1983b:1). Specter (1983), writing in the same volume, illuminates these complexities and multiplicities further in his description of then-current practices in environmental impact assessment (EIA), the latter serving as “the main tool for integration of coastal development and protection concerns in decision-making” (Sadler 1983b:2). Specter’s analysis hinges on the notion of “resource assessment” of coastal systems as an “aid to planning for their use, disposition and conservation, and in order to evaluate the impacts of specific proposals on the integrity and well being of coastal systems, including reference to the social and economic context” (1983:67). However, Dorcey (1983:73), in the same volume, begins by noting that “[f]rom observation and study it is clear that coastal zone management is a bargaining process.”  Before moving forward, it is appropriate here to quickly look back. In his overview of the historical development of coastal zone management, French (2005) notes that during the nineteenth century in particular, “the tendency to view all natural systems as: (1) “resources” to be exploited for the benefit of humans; and (2) something over which humans should have total control; laid the foundations for many of our contemporary coastal management problems” (2005:313-314).   The words and policies of W.A.C. Bennett exemplify the continuation of said tendencies into the twentieth century. Following his reelection in 1953, Bennett had this to say in his first post-election, province-wide speech: We in British Columbia … share the undoubted belief in the tremendous future of our province. Here in British Columbia are to be seen the wealth of mineral, forest, oil and natural gas and potential hydro-electric resources which constitute perhaps the last economic frontier of North America. … To the virtually limitless resources of British Columbia there must also be added as a 81  matter of deliberate policy the additional resources of population and of capital if this province is to develop as it should. (Bennett in Mitchell 1983:205)  Given Bennett’s closing observation concerning policy, we must add to French’s previous statement this: these very same tendencies have also “laid the foundations for many of our contemporary coastal resource management strategies.”  (Integrated) Coastal Zone Management   Since the early 1980s, when Sadler and colleagues were working, use of and reliance upon the coastal zone management framework have grown tremendously. Worldwide, it is a commonly used process for coastal management today. Coastal zone management (CZM or ICZM) refers broadly to an “integrated process which manages all areas of coastal activity which occur along a stretch of coastline, in an holistic manner, so that minimal impacts occur which may be detrimental to the coast itself” (French 2005:313). CZM is a tool by which “the multivariate uses of coasts, such as leisure, residential, industrial, conservation, protection, etc., can be integrated into a management scheme so as not to conflict. The outcome of CZM should be a management plan which identifies coastal problems and outlines solutions which should be appropriate to both the resource value and the natural process “value” for each coastal issue” (French 2005:313). During the 1970s, observes European geographer French (2005:313), there existed “a general worldwide increase in environmental awareness, both in official sectors, such as government and planning, but also within the general public.” However, despite this concern, the demand for coastal tourism resulted in “the continued development of the world’s coastlines, which thus allowed the continuation of many of the impacts associated with erosion, sediment starvation, and user conflict” (2005:313).   Recognizing the disastrous outcomes of “competition and environmental degradation” concerning carrying capacity, French (2005:314) identifies four key issues that need to be addressed within coastal zone management: 1. Coasts are used for recreation by many different user groups for many different things, producing conflicts of interest and locally intense usage. 2. Coasts are used by developers for many forms of structure, from urban to industrial. This may attract more people to the area (increased visitor pressure), or put people off coming (declining tourism); may cause pollution; or may interfere with natural processes. 3. Coasts experience a series of natural processes which can be modified by, or impinge on, human activity. This relationship of people to process is, therefore, critical because it will govern how the coastal environment undergoes change. This change can be unpredictable in both its rates and style. 82  4. Activities inland (catchments) and out to sea can also affect the coast. For example, dam building may stop sediment reaching the coast, or oil spillages may cause coastal pollution.   I will return to coastal zone management at the end of this chapter, examining some of the critiques laid against it, notably those of French (2005) and Billé (2008). This includes critique of the very notion “management” (Lertzman 2009). Before this, however, it is necessary to consider CZM’s cousins that are co-management and adaptive co-management.  (Adaptive) Co-Management   The language of “co-management” emerged in part from coastal resource management, specifically fisheries management (Pinkerton 1992, 1994; Pinkerton and Weinstein 1995), developing only a few years after the work of Sadler and colleagues. Since the1980s, co-management has permeated deeply into natural resource management, conservation and development discourse (Armitage et al. 2007a:xi; see also Berkes 2007). Emphasizing such alluring and democratic concepts as “sharing,” “partnership,” ”collaboration,” “co-operation,” and “responsibility,” it is no wonder that it has been thoroughly embraced by numerous branches of coastal resource management, including fisheries (Ayles, Bell, and Hoyt 2007; Charles 2007; McConney, Mahon, and Pomeroy 2007), coastal watersheds (e.g., Olsson 2007), marine protected areas (e.g., McConney et al. 2007) and Indigenous coastal land planning in Canada (e.g., Ayles et al. 2007; Landry et al. 2009; McDonald, Arragutainaq, and Novalinga 2006).  Co-Management   There exists no single definition of co-management, rather there exists “a continuum of possible co-management arrangements in the degree of power sharing” (Armitage et al. 2007b:3). Armitage et al. (2007b:3) identify three benefits of co-management: (a) community-based economic and social development, (b) decentralized resource management decisions, and (c) reduced conflict through participatory democracy. Additionally, co-management may enhance the functions of (i) data gathering, (ii) logistical decisions such as who can harvest and when, (iii) allocation decisions, (iv) protection of resources from environmental damage, (v) enforcement of regulations, (vi) enhancement of long-term planning, and (vii) more inclusive decision making. Trends towards collaborative management since the 1980s are both an outcome of “the limitations of a ‘command-and-control’ bureaucracy” and “the privileging of formal science” (Armitage et al. 2007b:2): 83  Collaborative or cooperative management are generic terms “conveying the sharing of rights and responsibilities by the government and civil society” (Plummer and FitzGibbon 2004:63). There are multiple strands of collaborative management, including integrated conservation and development, participatory natural resource management, participatory appraisal and participatory action research, decentralization and devolution, and community-based natural resource management and co-management (Berkes 2002).  Co-management in particular has evolved “as a more formalized management strategy with which to link local communities and governments” (2007b:2, emphasis added); indeed, some such arrangements are even codified in law (e.g., in various indigenous land and resource rights cases in the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand).  Adaptive Management   Adaptive management is described as a “learning approach focusing on improving policy and practice in the face of uncertainty” and as a “tool to frame the philosophical, methodological, and practical challenges associated with the management of natural resources. … Management strategies and policies are considered experiments…, and learning is encouraged through both structured experimentation and management flexibility” (Armitage et al. 2007b:4). According to Armitage et al. (2007b:1), Centralized, top-down resource management is ill-suited to user participation, and it is often blamed for the increased vulnerability of resource dependent communities worldwide (Zerner 2000; Colfer 2005). In response, co-management arrangements have emerged to secure an expanded role for stakeholder and community participation in decision making. Recognition that ecological systems are dynamic and non-linear (Levin 1999) has similarly highlighted the inadequacy of yield-oriented ‘command-and-control’ resource management. Centralized bureaucracies are limited in their ability to respond to changing conditions, an anachronism in a world increasingly characterized by rapid transformations (Gunderson and Holling 2002; Berkes et al. 2003).   As such, Armitage et al. (2007b:4) suggest that “[p]olicy decisions regarding natural resources are increasingly less a matter of appropriate expertise or the domain of specialist institutions, and more a question of negotiation and agreement among stakeholders.”  Just as the language of co-management was so warmly embraced by late twentieth and early twenty-first century resource specialists, adaptive co-management has been received with great fanfare, at least as indicated by its popularity today. Rooted in the theoretical paradigm of management, adaptive co-management is undeniably modern. Consider the following terms that in part make up adaptive co-management discourse: adaptive capacity, complex systems thinking, innovation, resilience, robust management, social learning, social-ecological systems, sustainability, transformability, and visioning.  84  These concepts reflect both the ideology of progress and a response to it, comprising a fundamental and seemingly insurmountable contradiction for resource management. While co-management tries to overcome the fragmentation brought about by modernity and capitalism, primacy given to science and technology as “solutions” is ultimately paradoxical, given that these same processes/tools initiated the “fragmentation” in the first place. I would suggest even the term fragmentation itself is flawed, given its complete lack of any human emotion. In this way, it is akin to the term “stakeholder.” Both work to neutralize and dehumanize what is always a human experience. Despite this, these make up the language that is resource management.   Cultural Resource Management  Back in the 1970s, archaeologists in the United States faced a challenge. New laws had been enacted promoting the protection of ‘natural resources’ on the one hand and ‘historic properties’ on the other. Government agencies were being required to conduct environmental impact assessments of their actions, seeking ways to protect the environment. How could archaeologists be sure that the places they were concerned about—archaeological sites—were protected by these legal requirements? – Thomas F. King, 2008  According to Eldon <ellowhorn (pers. comm. 2014), the notion of “cultural resource” emerged in the 1950s (see Meighan and Eberhart 1953) and developed in the 1960s (see Wendorf 1963), at which point the concept became linked with free enterprise.2 According to <ellowhorn, “The resource paradigm was a good fit too for public government who saw no difference between natural and cultural resources. In Canada, the constitutional division of powers meant that all archaeological resources are the property of the province in which they are found.”  Indeed, Thomas King (1998:6-7) posits the term cultural resource management was invented by archaeologists “to equate what they did with natural resource management.” While one might expect the term to mean the management of cultural resources, it is commonly used, primarily by archaeologists, in a much narrower sense to refer to “managing historic places of archeological, architectural, and historical interest and to considering such places in compliance with environmental and historic preservation laws” (1998:7).                                                       2 Elsewhere, I have linked British Columbia archaeology to capitalism, including its cycles of “boom and bust” (Hutchings and La Salle 2014a; La Salle and Hutchings 2012). A recent example of the latter can be found in Elaine O’Connor’s (2014) article “How B.C.’s resource and development boom allows a new generation of archaeologists to dig for a living.” 85  Canada has no federal overarching heritage legislation. In British Columbia, cultural resources are defined in relation to the Heritage Conservation Act (HCA) . As articulated by the province, the Act is designed to “encourage and facilitate the protection of conservation of heritage property in British Columbia” (British Columbia 1996). Archaeological sites are managed by the B.C. Archaeology Branch, currently run out of the Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resource Operations. In this sense, cultural heritage is viewed as another resource alongside, for example, fish, forests and minerals. Under the Act, the Archaeology Branch is responsible for “maintaining and distributing archaeological information” and permitting development “within protected sites” (BC Archaeology Branch n.d.). The role of the Archaeology Branch is described in their website as “not to prohibit or impede land use and development, but rather to assist the development industry, the province, regional authorities, and municipalities in making decisions leading to rational land use and development” (B.C. Archaeology Branch 2012).3 Archaeological work throughout the province is authorized through a permitting system and a provincial heritage registry is maintained of all known archaeological sites, heritage sites and objects, heritage wrecks and other types of sites. The CRM process in British Columbia has been described (ASBC Executive 2011:1) as follows: Those seeki