Beverley Isaacs stands on the algae-killed rocks on the land she helped save from becoming a golf course and breathes in the ocean air. Walking through an overgrown path, he points out the nectar in a pitcher, the laurel in the shape of a saucer, the wild blueberry still in bloom. The place is untouched, a pure piece of nature. If it weren’t for the struggle of Nova Scotians like Ms. Isaacs, many of those 266 hectares of coastal barrens and wetlands and eight kilometers of rugged coves and beaches on the province’s east coast might have been torn down by an American developer planning to build a luxury resort. “The owl’s head had no voice,” says Ms. Isaacs. “That’s how we used our voices.” A sign supporting Owls Head Provincial Park appears next to the municipal sign for Owls Head. Meagan Hancock/the Globe and Mail Across Nova Scotia, similar battles are being fought – to preserve public rights to the province’s coastline in the face of expanding private development, to balance economic interests against nature protection. Yes, in June, just like that the province was officially announcing that Owl’s Head would become a provincial park, another set of residents, 200km away on the south coast, started their own protest to stop private construction on the edge of a sandy beach that had been used by the community for generations. In Halifax, the Ecology Action Centre, a conservation group, began investigating why a developer had installed a locked gate on a road leading to a pier long used by locals for fishing. That same month, the Nova Scotia Supreme Court ruled that a property owner had illegally blocked a public right-of-way on a path leading to Silver Sands, a Halifax-area beach popular with surfers and dog walkers. These conflicts over who owns the shoreline only increase as coveted and expensive beachfront property is depleted and private and public interests collide. Meanwhile, nature takes its toll, with sea levels rising and erosion chipping away at the coastline. Next year, Nova Scotia about to enter into force a new Coastal Protection Act that will require new developments to address regulated water delays based on the projected impact of climate change. The legislation may ensure that new homes are built more safely, but it does not solve the issues of public access to the coast. Already in Nova Scotia, more than 80 percent of the 13,000 kilometers of coastline is in private hands, says Will Balser, the coastal adaptation coordinator for the Ecology Action Centre. Conflicts over use have increased in recent years, he says, because of the province’s building boom and waterfront shopping spree. The result, Mr. Balser says, is that a community’s path to the beach, which has been in use for as long as anyone can remember, can now cross a front yard, not an empty field – invading the privacy of the new owners they thought they were buying at a higher price than ever before. “We’re running out of shoreline that’s available to the public,” says Mr. Balser. The struggle for access can be complex because of overlapping jurisdictions from different levels of government. “It’s hard even for the people involved in the process to know who to call for what,” says Mr. Balser. In other cases, public rights of way traditionally used by communities have not been formally defined. So while the land below the high-water mark may be “absolutely public,” Mr. Balser says, the public has run out of ways to approach it. And since there is no provincial strategy for preserving the coastline as a public good, conflicts must usually be settled in court, a costly endeavor for grassroots groups. A stretch of coastline along Owls Head Provincial Park. Meagan Hancock/the Globe and Mail The courthouse is where the Save Owl’s Head group eventually landed. The community learned the province had quietly delisted the land as a conservation area when a local CBC reporter broke the story in 2019. The then-Liberal government began negotiations to sell the land, even though, according to a court ruling later, the province’s own document had identified the area as a nesting site for the tuber, an endangered species. A handful of protesters and a Facebook page grew thousands of Nova Scotians who signed a petition to oppose the sale. Scientists argued that the land was ecologically valuable. In court, the group tried to overturn the government’s decision. The judge ruled that although the land had been represented and treated as a park for decades, the provincial government had acted within its powers. By the fall of 2021, however, the developer had abandoned plans for the resort, and in June, the nearly year-old Progressive Conservative government announced that the land would be officially designated as a park. A group is now appealing the court’s decision, hoping, however, to make the future process for selling public lands more transparent. “There’s a real sense of unfairness and unfairness,” says Bob Bancroft, a retired biologist who is the lead plaintiff in the case. “It shouldn’t be up to citizens to try to keep tabs on backroom deals.” As Owl’s Head pointed out, communities may mistakenly assume that land is protected or that a right of way, used for generations, is written into title deeds. And they may only learn otherwise when the land is unexpectedly sold. The fight for Nova Scotia’s coastline has inspired determined grassroots activism, the kind that requires persistence, money and commitment to the cause, even in the face of critics. Nova Scotia attracts buyers who haven’t set foot in their future home In June, Talla Corkum, a summer college student, received a strange call from her grandfather. He watched as construction trucks headed for Eagle Head Beach, near Liverpool, a community 150 kilometers southwest of Halifax. Mrs. Corkum found that the path leading to the beach had been widened and blocked with boulders. Soon the residents discovered that a plot of land had been sold and the new owner was trucking the sand between the beach and a lake. The beach, a traditional gathering spot for locals, was a place where Ms Corkum had celebrated birthday parties and taken cold dips in early May. He became one of the leaders in the fight to stop any construction on environmental and public access sites – organizing site protests, calling municipal and provincial politicians and reporting the case to the media. “We just want to protect the coast,” he says, “whether it’s our beach or someone else’s.” Mrs. Isaac, meanwhile, he had never been involved in a protest before the Owl’s Head. “I like trees,” he says, “but I wouldn’t say I’m a tree hugger.” She didn’t expect to lose friendships because of her opposition to evolution. But the community around Owl’s Head was divided, with some wanting the touted economic benefits of the golf resort while others made speeches and signed petitions to fight it. Even now, the road to the new park land is strewn with faded signs from both camps. The signs at Owls Head show the community’s divided opinions. Meagan Hancock/The Globe and Mail Conflict also rose questions about who can have a say. Ms. Isaacs, for example, is originally from Nova Scotia but had moved to the area just eight years earlier. “They told me to keep my mouth shut,” he says. Standing at the edge of the newly designated park land, she and Wallace Publicover, another resident-turned-activist whose land abuts the owl’s head, share the lessons they’ve learned. The Wallace Publicover land is adjacent to the newly protected Owls Head Provincial Park. With no trail infrastructure, access to the park is limited. Meagan Hancock/the Globe and Mail Be strong and persistent, says Mr Publicover. Take the high road, says Mrs. Isaac. Find allies and environmental experts to support saving the earth. Stick to the facts, adds Mr Publicover. “Be honest and have science behind you.” In the end, organizers suggest, the controversy over Owl’s Head came down to vision: why a golf course, and not a place that could inspire ecotourism, held in trust for generations? Since 2005, for example, the Mahone Islands Conservation Association has managed, through donations and government dollars, to acquire 20 properties on islands and beaches in the waters of Mahone Bay. In early July, after weeks of public protests about Eagle Head, the township pulled the development permit for the site, at least for now. Borough Mayor Darlene Norman declined to comment on the decision, citing legal advice. “There’s so much here if you open your eyes,” says Mrs. Isaacs, pausing her tour at Owl’s Head. So much beauty, he says, that once sold and developed, would have been lost forever if not for the people who rallied to defend it. “I come here and come home feeling grounded.” And also, knowing now, they won’t be the last generation to enjoy it. Beverley Isaacs enters a wetland area of Owls Head Provincial Park. Meagan Hancock/the Globe and Mail
