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Laughter echoes through Totem Hall in Sḵwx̱wú7mesh as Charlene Williams weaves between nieces and nephews, delivering ice and buckets for fish guts across a long, plastic-covered table.

“Auntie, auntie, look!” a child yells out as she proudly holds up her first gutted slhawt’ (herring) for Williams to see.On April 10, members of Sḵwx̱wú7mesh Úxwumixw (Squamish Nation) and friends leaned in to learn how to clean and prepare slhawt’ — many for the first time.

Taking turns at the 20-person table, participants reached into crates to select silvery slhawt’, whose slender bodies flopped onto the work surface. With care, they cleaned and split each slippery fish, removing the orange roe before draping the meat over wooden racks for the smokehouse.

The gathering, ‘Mi chap ta7lt ta slhawt’’ (come learn about herring), celebrated the spring return of the fish and the rekindling of long-held traditions from their friends and relatives from Stz’uminus territories on Vancouver Island where slhawt’ have endured.

“Now’s not the time to be shy,” Williams says, inviting the 40 or so youth to the front to open with a song. “The herring aren’t shy — they’ve come to greet us.”

‘A powerful experience’

After years of quiet, the waters of Átl’ḵa7tsem (Howe Sound) are alive again with the silver flash of returning slhawt’. And with them, the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh people are rekindling traditional harvesting and food practices. In turn, these acts are reviving stories, songs, memories — and a way of being that remained dormant for generations. 

Williams laughs as she recalls a comical moment with her daughter, who looked at her with alarm when Williams said they needed to collect herring eggs for food. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” her daughter said. It turned out she’d misheard — thinking her mother meant heron eggs. Williams exploded with laughter.“That’s how disconnected our people have been,” she reflects. “Diabetes and health challenges are everywhere because we don’t eat those superfoods anymore.” 

Later, she adds, “Processing these fish is good medicine for us too.”

Since its inception as a small school event in 2020, Mi chap ta7lt ta slhawt has grown to include the broader Sḵwx̱wú7mesh community.

“This year it felt more like a festival,” Williams says. “Especially having our visitors, it was a powerful experience.” 

‘We were so surprised’: Community members lay down trees for herring spawn

Five years ago, developers at Nexen Beach spotted ch’éḿesh (herring eggs) and reported it to the Squamish Valley Elders group.

The sighting caught the attention of Kiyowil Bob Baker, who remembered harvesting herring eggs in Kwakwa̱ka̱ʼwakw territories, where his wife is from. He called Williams with an idea: get the local St’a7mes School involved and bring back traditional harvesting practices.

In fact, the herring had been returning every spring for about a decade already — local citizen scientist John Buchanan took it upon himself to record data on where the slhawt’ spawn each year — but since Fisheries and Oceans Canada never acknowledged herring in Átl’ḵa7tsem, for many it was a surprise.

Williams teamed up with her fellow teacher, Matthew Van Oostdam, and — after speaking with Elders, conservation groups and Buchanan — they pieced together their best guess at where achcháwten (spawning) might happen. When the timing felt right, they gathered a group of youth and laid two trees off the local Nexen Beach pier (now Sp’akw’us Feather Park), hoping the slhawt’ would come.

The practice of laying trees for herring eggs has been a tradition up and down the coast — from the Lingít, Haida and Tsimshian in Alaska to the Port Gamble S’Klallam Tribe in Washington state. Herring lay their eggs by attaching them to surfaces in the intertidal zone, so by laying anchored trees in the water right before the annual spawning event, harvesters provide herring with ample surface area for their ch’éḿesh to cling to.

Just six days after laying a cedar and hemlock tree off the pier, the branches were covered in ch’éḿesh.

“We were so surprised,” Williams says. “But we prayed a lot — and we had ceremony.”

She had also been learning about the timing of the spawn and its connection to lunar patterns, observing that slhawt’ seem to spawn on or near the first quarter or third quarter of the moon cycle.

The following year, she placed the branches again — and now, she was right on time.

The school soon wove slhawt’ season into their seasonal learning. In the spring, students headed out on the water — where they already harvest rose hips and cattail bullrush — now also keeping watch for signs of slhawt’.

Van Oostdam, a land-based coordinator at St’a7mes School, was so taken by the return of the forage fish to Átl’ka7tsem that he developed the character “Harriet the Herring” — a beautiful silvery herring with big eyelashes, who teaches kids about the importance of slhawt’ to the Átl’ka7tsem ecosystem. 

 “I didn’t know that they’d listen to me, but I knew they’d listen to Harriet,” he says.

During the pandemic’s relentless virtual learning conditions, Van Oostdam started sending letters to his students, signed off by Harriet the Herring. She soon became a hit. 

In 2024, Van Oosten co-authored Tem Lhawt’: Time of the Herring with Welwaltenaat Myia Antone, illustrated by Latashkinem. The children’s book presents two parallel but separate stories — one in Sḵwx̱wú7mesh sníchim, the other in English — both following Harriet and her auntie. All profits support Sḵwx̱wú7mesh language revitalization.

“It’s cool to think that in five years, kids know who Harriet is, that you can taste the eggs, that herring spawn every year here,” Van Oostdam says.

Surveying the slhawt’

As a keystone species, slhawt’ are also essential to the broader ecosystem — supporting a complex web of life across land and sea. Chinook and coho salmon feed on them, as do harbour seals, humpback whales, seabirds and bears. Their ch’éḿesh nourish everything from gulls to crabs. The health of slhawt populations ripples outward, shaping the well-being of entire coastal food systems.

But in British Columbia, slhawt’ have been in decline for decades because a range of pressures including industrial fishing, habitat loss, pollution, warming oceans and increased predation by marine mammals. 

In the Strait of Georgia, the commercial sac roe fishery has had a major impact, targeting mature, egg-bearing females before they spawn. While the roe is exported, the rest of the fish is often ground into animal feed.

Critics say the practice undermines herring recovery and ignores warnings from Indigenous leaders and conservation groups.

In 2022, more than 800,000 herring were killed at salmon farms in the province, after being caught in hydrolicers — high-pressure machines used to blast sea lice off farmed salmon. The delicate fish reportedly had their eyes blown out by the force of the water, raising serious concerns about the impact of aquaculture on wild stocks like slhawt’.

Without genetic testing, we don’t know whether the slhawt’ in Átl’ḵa7tsem are the same as those in the Strait of Georgia, but for now, a small team of Sḵwx̱wú7mesh Úxwumixw members, along with project coordinator Van Oostdam have continued the work of Buchanan, surveying occurrences of ch’éḿesh in Sḵwx̱wú7mesh waters. 

On a chilly, overcast day in March, the group went out, wetsuits and snorkels, searching for slhawt’ in the usual spots at the northern end of Átl’ka7tsem.

Among the 10 sites they visit weekly, one stands out: the Woodfibre LNG site — where slhawt’ have spawned extensively since Buchanan’s earliest surveys. There, the team is required to check in with security for safety precautions, complete paperwork outlining their activities and often face questioning about their intentions. 

“It’s an onerous process,” Van Oostdam says.

Along the same stretch of shoreline — part of a spawning site that extends from the Woodfibre LNG area to Foulger Creek — two log booming tenures have been approved for forestry companies, set to expire in 2026. So far, the sites have remained inactive, said Van Oostdam, but recent work on a nearby forestry road suggests log storage may be imminent.

In a report, the tl’ka7tsem / Howe Sound Marine Stewardship Initiative wrote, “This is extremely concerning, as log booms can destroy herring spawning habitat and other marine life in the intertidal zone.”

“It cannot be stated more clearly that this shoreline from Woodfibre Creek to Foulger Creek is important herring spawn habitat — this shoreline consistently has the highest density of herring spawn documented within our study region.”

This year, for the first time, Williams and Van Oostdam invited youth and community members to help select cedar and hemlock trees, tie on rock anchors with cedar strips, attach buoys and lay the trees in the water at Foulger Creek — one of the most consistent spots for ch’éḿesh. 

“This year was more about passing on the knowledge,” Van Oostdam explains during one of the dedicated Sunday outings in March. 

During the day’s closing circle, Williams offers gratitude and thanked the youth for coming out on the water during a rainy morning.

“With the sun and rainbow over us, that was Creator looking down on us and giving us his blessing. It was no coincidence,” she says.

“You won’t understand now but you being here is really important and doesn’t go unnoticed,” she adds as the youth listen closely. “I’m proud that you’re here because in the future, people will talk about the time the herring came back to us and there were these people who looked after them — and that’s you.”

‘We need to share the good stories, too’

At the herring celebration in April, Kiyowil Bob Baker — now in his 90s — scoots to the centre of the performance space, where Williams gently wrapps him in a blanket. 

Performers sing a newly composed slhawt’ song, which had come to cultural and language teacher Tsitsayxemaat (Rebecca Duncan) just the year before, while working with children at St’a7mes’ sister school, Xwémélch’stn Etsímxwawtxw (Capilano Little Ones).

As dancers sway around him to the new song and a projection of silvery slhawt’ lights the room, it feels as though the herring themselves are circling the gathering in celebration.

The display, Williams explains, was for Kiyowil, to honour his guidance and work around revitalizing slhawt’ in the community.

“My hope is that I can one day share the same guidance as you,” she tells him. 

Apparently, Kiyowil has already put in a request for next year: that the dancers use clappers to keep time with the drums. Williams chuckles over the phone as she shares the update.

As the celebration continues to grow, Williams hopes what began as a small school event will one day become something the whole of Sḵwx̱wú7mesh takes part in. 

“It’s a powerful thing to come together and remember the good things happening in the world,” she says. 

“We’re always worrying about the state of things — but we need to share the good stories, too. That’s what inspires us and keeps our fire going. It’s these stories — the herring coming back, and bringing our community together.”

The Narwhal’s reporters are telling environment stories you won’t read about anywhere else. Stay in the loop by signing up for our free weekly dose of independent journalism.

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On an overcast afternoon in early August, Siyamexwelalexw (Troy Ganzeveld) paces up and down the bank of the Vedder River in Stó:lō territories. 

He was hoping to have had the fish weir in place by now. Water levels are higher than average, because of a late snowmelt, and a part of him wonders whether the weir will succumb to the river’s relentless flux.

As the crew cranes the metal weir into the river, no one is confident whether it will stay. 

“It’s a mixture of nervousness, tension and excitement,” says one biologist. 

Heavy concrete slabs are lowered into the weir’s trap box, along with sandbags filled with pea gravel — more friendly to spawning salmon than sandy sediment — in the hopes they will provide enough weight and stability to withstand heavy surges of passing water. 

Fish weirs, a traditional freshwater fishing technology designed for shallow, slow-moving streams, were used by Indigenous communities as a sustainable fishing method for thousands of years prior to colonization. 

From carefully placed rocks in a U-shape, to a wooden fence driven into the riverbed, weirs varied from community to community depending on specific environments, fish species, and cultural practices. 

Traditionally, the Semá:th (Sumas First Nation) would have secured wooden fences to the riverbed, often with a walkway overtop, extending across the entire width of the river. 

But the Fisheries and Oceans Canada (DFO) — which is funding a large chunk of the project through investments made under the Pacific Salmon Strategy Initiative — has forbidden any permanent structure that would anchor the weir to the river bank or bottom, or extend the full width of the canal.

This is likely to limit the impact on the environment and save money, says Ganzeveld, an elected councillor for Sumas First Nation), but he believes there are also politics at play.

“I think there would be some pushback from the recreational sector if a First Nation established a permanent location for their fishing site,” he says.

Ganzeveld has been overseeing a scientific study on behalf of Sumas First Nation. In partnership with the Centre for Indigenous Fisheries at the University of British Columbia (UBC), the First Nation is attempting to reintroduce a weir on its traditional territory for the purpose of studying its impacts.

But in late August, just weeks after the scientific team’s hopeful construction efforts, the region experienced record breaking rainfall and Ganzeveld’s fears were realized. The fish weir was swept away. 

“How do you achieve structural stability in a weir if you can only cover two thirds of the channel?” Jared Connoy, a PhD candidate involved in the project, asks. 

Ganzeveld adds that the heavy flows of water lifted the weir and trap box from below, making it inoperable. 

These environmental challenges are, in many regards, a legacy of law and policy decisions. The draining of Xhotsa (Sumas Lake) a century ago, and the construction of a narrow, channelized canal — stripped of natural friction from vegetation, irregular surfaces, and meandering curves — has left the system vulnerable to the effects of heavy rainfall, which courses through it with intensified force.

“The environmental and the bureaucratic challenges aren’t necessarily separable from each other,” says Connoy, “and so we’re having to deal with both.”

‘What if we drained the lake?’

The last time the Semá:th fished with their own weir, the territory looked vastly different. Cradled between the Kwekwei:qw (Sumas) and Qoqó:lem (Vedder) Mountains, the First Nation, along with their eastern neighbours, the Ts’elxwéyeqw Tribe, shared a weir that stretched 200 feet across the width of Xhotsa. 

During the postglacial period, this vast body of water covered 85,000 acres of land, nearly twice the size of the City of Vancouver, with continuous nourishment from the Semá:th and Chilliwack River systems — Mother Nature’s gift from the last Ice Age. 

Although salmon spawned in the millions around Xhotsa, it was better known for its sturgeon. This was the preferred catch from the weir, which grew villages at either end, as well as many other villages around the lake.

According to Chad Reimer’s 2018 history Before We Lost the Lake, the Semá:th weir was constructed from about five pairs of large wooden poles driven into the clay bottom at an angle, forming a groove for more poles to rest on. 

A wooden gate was then plunged down into the clay and a walkway three poles thick would allow for travel and harvesting. A generation later, Stó:lō Elder Bob Joe recounted:

“In the mornings, when the water was fairly clear, one could see sturgeon resting against the weir, held by the current. Carefully a noose was slipped over the head of the fish, then it was harpooned, quickly dragged away from the others, and landed in shallow water. When enough sturgeon had been caught, the weir was opened.”

Once the most widespread salmon fishing technique practiced by Indigenous fishers from California to Alaska, weirs, typically used on rivers, would block upriver migrations of returning adult salmon. Fishers would use dip nets or spears to harvest salmon, often leaving the females to spawn. Once a fisher harvested what they needed, the weir would open, leaving the rest of the salmon free to continue their travels.

But in 1894, weirs, along with spears and other traditional traps, were outlawed in British Columbia following pressure from canners — the most influential voice in fisheries policy at the time — who wanted better access to salmon. This ban, coupled with the broader 1888 Fisheries Act, were part of a deliberate colonial strategy to dismantle Indigenous fishing rights and practices, while eroding Indigenous economies and knowledge systems in favor of commercial and settler fisheries. 

Meanwhile, as more settlers arrived in the Semá:th Valley in their quest for gold, they found it necessary to adapt, begrudgingly, to the marshy landscape, and its recurring floods and mosquitos. Dreams of intensive agriculture planted in them an idea: “What if we drained the lake?”

A history of criminalizing Indigenous fisheries

One hundred years ago this past November, settlers successfully purged more than 1,200 square kilometres of watershed, transforming the landscape into farmland, while displacing Indigenous communities that were already decimated by smallpox and other diseases of the day. The loss of the lake severed their deep reliance on its abundant natural resources, further eroding their way of life.

Before long, in place of muskrats, ducks and sturgeon, grew tobacco, hops and livestock feed. 

Of the millions of people who drive through Sumas Prairie each year, few are aware of its lush, swampy history. Only major floods like the atmospheric river event of 2021, remind locals and news followers of the region’s wetland origins.

In place of Xhotsa, where the massive Semá:th weir once operated, flows the diked Vedder River (renamed in 2018 from Vedder Canal). 

Roughly five kilometres in length, the pin-straight man-made channel was constructed to permanently redirect the Chilliwack River, draining Xhotsa into the Semá:th River just short of its confluence with the Fraser River mainstem. 

For the Semá:th to restore its traditional lake fishing practices, they needed to think creatively about where and how to do so. 

The nation partnered with the Centre for Indigenous Fisheries at UBC, and together, they applied for a scientific licence to study salmon using a fish weir. 

Connoy has dedicated the last two years to helping obtain the licenses from DFO and carry out scientific research during summer and fall salmon returns. He’s tasked with tracking the survival of fish released from the weir, which he can compare to popular licensed methods such as gillnetting and angling.

“And so our goal was to compare those gears and to understand which gears would be best for fish in these systems,” Connoy says from the seat of his UBC truck.

He records some basic observations like sex, length, maturity, wounds. Then, depending on the species of fish, he inserts either a tiny pit tag the size of a piece of long-grain rice, which will detect whether the fish made it back to the Chilliwack River Hatchery, or a larger radio tag, the size of a thumb, which will track the fish to five points along the 40-kilometre route upstream back to the same hatchery. 

But it’s not the science that was the most challenging part for Connoy. When the team first proposed their project to DFO, he ran into significant challenges securing science permits “because of [DFOs] perception that a weir could impede Pacific salmon migrations to their spawning grounds,” he says. According to Connoy, DFO was particularly concerned about fish weirs because of their ability to block all fish from passing. 

“But that’s not how weirs ever worked,” Connoy says. “It all comes back to the history of criminalizing these [traditional technologies].”

In an email, DFO says that the goal of the project is to assess “the feasibility of safe and effective fish capture, handling, release and by-pass through behavioral assessments.” DFO did not provide a response to a question from IndigiNews and The Narwhal about their reported concerns that the fish weir could block all fish from passing. 

‘We’re going to find a way forward, with or without you’

Connoy says he spent a long time trying to communicate to DFO that his project had no intention of harming all the migrating salmon. They were simply asking to monitor and tag some that were swimming by. 

Kwilosintun (Murray Ned) retired as an elected councillor in 2022 and was one of the visionaries for Semá:th’s conservation, guardianship and harvest program, of which the fish weir project is part. He believes the scientific license is important for Semá:th’s ability to manage salmon as a resource. 

“It’s about conservation,” he said. “It’s about being more involved with the management side of things, the science side of things, and then ‘ground truthing’ everything with our own Indigenous Knowledge.”

Ned, who is also the executive director of the Lower Fraser Fisheries Alliance and serves as a commissioner with the Pacific Salmon Commission, says that despite asking the DFO and the provincial government to partner and invest in the fish weir project, they wouldn’t invest until the nation began “pushing the envelope” without them. 

“We’re going to find a way forward, with or without you, that’s meaningful for the fish and our people,” he says, explaining why the nation chose to forge ahead with their own plans for the weir without the support of the federal and provincial governments.

Eventually, DFO granted the licence under terms that the weir be partial and mobile, spanning two-thirds of the canal only, allowing one-third as a salmon escape route. Ganzeveld said this rule also prioritizes summer float-tubers to enjoy bobbing down the canal, a rule reportedly set by the Canadian Navigable Waters Act under Transport Canada.

‘A lot of people were getting kicked out of their fishing spots’

Ned’s great grandfather, who carried the ancestral names Selesmelton and Kwa:losintun, was chief when the lake was drained and was the first to oppose it, Ned says. 

Although the draining didn’t affect his immediate family’s fishing sites, it destroyed the entire nation’s food security, livelihood and cultural practices. In the 1980s and again in 2014, dike stabilization efforts destroyed many of his Semá:th relatives’ sites, including Thiyō:qweltel/The:táx (Chris Silver)’s father’s fishing site. 

Silver, a current Sumas First Nation councillor, goes fishing “here and there” but doesn’t have a strong connection to the practice, largely because of the destruction of his family’s fishing sites. As a child, he strongly opposed fishing. He saw how it destroyed his family — or so he thought.

“A lot of people were getting kicked out of their fishing spots,” he says. “It was more illegal than drug dealing.”

Silver’s parents, who were on social assistance when he and his four siblings were young, relied on selling salmon illegally to get by. Silver remembers DFO raiding his house. 

“And I mean like — raided,” he says. Silver says DFO confiscated all salmon-related memorabilia from the family home.

“I remember there was like a huge collage of salmon on the wall. My mom loved it. And then as soon as we came home, I was like, where did all the pictures go?” 

Silver says growing up under the Indian Act felt like always being on the run, either from child and family services, or the DFO. 

“Both of those things went hand-in-hand, and it’s because we were poor,” he says. 

Silver believes it’s part of “poverty culture.” He says he could clearly see the stigma of fishing from a young age, that “only poor people do this, only broke people do this, only the welfare people do this. And that becomes a part of your culture.” He thinks that’s why there are fewer and fewer Indigenous fishers each year.

Access also plays a role in the number of Indigenous fishers participating in food, social and ceremonial — or FSC — fisheries. According to Ned, harvesting opportunities for First Nations fisheries has declined by about 90 per cent in the last three decades: from three days per week in the early 1990s, to about 15 days total in 2021.

This decline persists in spite of the landmark 1990 R. v. Sparrow Supreme Court of Canada decision, which affirmed that Indigenous people have “an Aboriginal right to fish for food, social and ceremonial (FSC) purposes and that after conservation, this right takes priority,” as stated on DFO’s website. 

However, Ned argues that First Nations are still treated as stakeholders alongside the commercial and recreational sectors. This stems from the fact that the Integrated Fisheries Management Plans and the Pacific Salmon Treaty, which guide annual fisheries allocations, were developed at a time when Indigenous Rights and Title were not formally recognized.

“The socio-economics of [the commercial and recreational] fisheries has been a key driver for the Fisheries minister in the past, and still is to this day,” says Ned.

It’s why the food, social and ceremonial fisheries are often seen using gill nets, says Ned, which are one of the least selective gears, with higher rates of mortality. 

“We don’t have time nowadays, especially if you only have three weekends to get your food fish.” 

If the food, social and ceremonial fishers were allowed to pick and choose the days they could go out and fish, things would look different. 

“But that’s my mentality now, which is unfortunate. You got to get in, and get out,” he says.

Given the limited number of days allotted for fishing, it’s easy to see why sports fishers are quick to assert that Indigenous fishers, and their gill nets, don’t belong.

Ganzeveld says he knows how it feels to be a sports fisher. He gained Indian status in 1985, the year Bill C-31 passed into law, which allowed those forcibly enfranchised under the Indian Act, like his mother, to regain their Indian status. 

But before 1985, Ganzeveld and his dad enjoyed countless days on the water together year-round.

“I definitely understand the connection that a lot of recreational fishers have — the relaxation, the satisfaction you get going out and harvesting your own — but it’s still not the same experience,” he reflects. According to Sq’éwlets, a Sto:lo community, finned food (salmon, sturgeon, eulachon, trout) was once as much as 90 per cent of the Sto:lo diet. 

“That’s absolutely amazing,” Ganzeveld says.

“It is challenging now to think of the limited access that we have to the resource.” 

Until five years ago, DFO didn’t permit any gill net fishing on the Semá:th and Chilliwack rivers, but after closing all recreational salmon fisheries on the Fraser River in an attempt to recover species of concern, the Semá:th and Chilliwack opened up for sports fishers, heightening tensions between sport and food, social and ceremonial fishers who found themselves crammed together in the name of scarcity. 

With the weir destroyed in late August, Connoy and Ganzeveld debated whether pitching to receive more money from DFO would be a good idea, but it seemed too unrealistic that late into the season. They shifted to a new plan: beach seining, which uses a huge, weighted net. It takes significant people power to haul the net through shallow water, trapping fish within its enclosure, where they can be selectively removed with a dip net.

Since the fall, the team has been working after sundown to avoid the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of sports fishers, and because night-time fishing is more successful anyways — the fish don’t see you coming. 

Clashes with non-Indigenous fishers continue

During a particularly dark evening of beach seining in October, Ganzeveld noticed a huddle of bodies in the shallow water near the crew’s net. No one paid much attention at first, they’d seen sport fishers out this late before, despite the DFO rule against salmon fishing after sunset. But eventually they approached to see what was going on.

“Their fishery had basically closed an hour prior to [us speaking to them],” Ganzeveld recalls. When he approached the sport fishers, he explained that they were undergoing a scientific study with a DFO licence, and asked them what they were doing.

“Are you Indigenous?” asked one of the settlers, to which Ganzeveld replies he was and that he was also an elected councillor for Sumas First Nation. 

The settlers laughed. “That’s not even a nation around here,” one said, standing on Semá:th lands. 

Ganzeveld called the DFO, who called the RCMP, who arrived after the sport fishers had left. According to Ganzeveld, the RCMP officers who responded didn’t know the intricacies of the Fisheries Act anyways. They stood for a long time on their phones looking it up. 

“We’re probably not calling as often as we should,” Ganzeveld says. “I mean, every night that we’ve been out, there’s been guys that have stayed longer than they should have.” 

But this time felt different, he adds. “The ignorance of whose territory they’re actually on, and the arrogance of him being out, openly fishing, and not caring about the regulations or anything else.”

The fish weir project was not what Connoy anticipated. He thought it would be about community-driven science — about how fish interact with traditional technologies, about bringing back those technologies. Now, he realizes that the bureaucratic, environmental and social challenges are a big part of what the team needs to address — and overcome, if they hope to restore their traditional practices.

“It’s just going to take a really long time before some of the more selective fishing methods can be returned,” Connoy says.

To prepare for the coming year, Ganzeveld is developing a plan for a new weir he thinks will be more structurally secure against the elements. He said Sumas First Nation is also looking at what it would take to rewild the Semá:th River, currently void of any complex habitat. 

Ned says discussions are happening between the nation, the city and the province about the return of — some — of the lake. Since the catastrophic flooding of the Fraser Valley that followed record-breaking rains in November 2021, the communities have grappled with the best path forward in an era marked by the volatile impacts of climate change.

“Could we have the whole lake back? Probably not. Can we have a portion of the lake back? It’s probably a good idea,” he says. 

Ned believes it’s in the interests of farmers and politicians, too.

“I think if the farmers and politicians were thinking longer term about these appearances of more droughts, more floods, more fires, then they should make some room for those drought years, where you can have storage for the water, and then the farmers can still have access to that.”

According to Ned, another flood is inevitable, “whether you want it or not.” 

The problem, he says, is how dirty and potentially toxic the water will be in the case of an unintentional flood. “If we bring water back, for me, it has to be productive. It has to be meaningful for fish, waterfowl and other beings that rely on water.” 

‘Trial and error’

In 2023, Sumas First Nation along with academics at UBC and a handful of non-profits released a paper that found that restoring Xhotsa in a controlled, meaningful way, what the authors call a “managed retreat,” would cost half as much as maintaining the current flood defence systems while improving resilience to future climate events. 

“It helps tell our side of the story a little bit,” says Ned, who adds that whenever the nation starts talking about bringing back the lake, local farmers begin pushing back that they’ll become displaced and lose their livelihoods. It’s just another one of the social challenges that Sumas First Nation has to address.

“If you see the stark contrast between what occurred in 1924 where our people were removed, to now where we’re talking about bringing some of the lake back and maybe displacing a few people,” he says.

In some ways, reviving the lake seems to mirror the struggle to reintroduce a fish weir. Both are bound by a legacy of colonial laws and policies that prioritizes settler economies over Indigenous Rights and ecological balance. 

“But that’s the thing about bringing back former practices in modern day with new kinds of materials,” says Ned. “It’ll be trial and error for a bit to figure out a way forward.”

Reporting for this story was made possible in part through a grant from the Institute for Journalism and Natural Resources.

Updated Jan. 9, 2024, at 2 p.m. PT: A previous version of this article stated in the headline that weirs were banned under the Indian Act. In fact they are banned under the Fisheries Act.

The Narwhal’s reporters are telling environment stories you won’t read about anywhere else. Stay in the loop by signing up for our free weekly dose of independent journalism.

Terry Jones’ Elders always knew wild cats roamed across Magnetawan First Nation lands off the shores of Waaseyaagami-wiikwed (Georgian Bay) in northern “Ontario.”

But the province’s Ministry of Natural Resources wouldn’t acknowledge them due to “lack of documentation,” according to the species-at-risk and research technician with the community roughly 80 kilometres south of “Sudbury.”

So when wildlife camera traps captured a photograph of a bizhiw (lynx) last spring, and again several months later, Jones and his community felt validated.

The camera traps had been set up on the nation’s territories to photograph medium-to-large mammals — particularly moozoog (moose) — after Elders and other community members expressed concern about their populations. 

Youth hunting on their territories had reported the large mammals weren’t found in areas the Elders had expected them. 

Moozoog populations have been rapidly dropping across Anishinaabek territory, according to a 2022 study by the Anishnabe Moose Committee, which concluded the species’ decline can be partly attributed to a mix of sport hunting, logging and climate change.

“We’d go out and see very little presence, or just nothing there at all,” Jones told IndigiNews. He wondered why the mammals were disappearing, how they were actually using the land and at what times of the year.

According to provincial data, there are an estimated 404 moozoog in the wildlife management unit that includes Magnetawan — a number predicted to decline 13 per cent by 2030.

Two decades ago, provincial researchers concluded the region hosted at least 550 of the massive ungulates, which gradually fell over subsequent years.

Camera traps are a scent-free, less-intrusive method of wildlife tracking

The First Nation has long been well-versed in species-at-risk monitoring, with long-standing programs to monitor mshiikenyik (turtles) and ginebigoog (snakes) in its territory, which Elders had noticed were being frequently run over by vehicles on two local highways.

But to start protecting other important species on their lands, Magnetawan leaders realized they first needed to grow the community’s monitoring capacity. 

So the First Nation teamed up with University of Guelph ecologist Jesse Popp, Canada research chair in Indigenous environmental science who holds a PhD in boreal ecology and is a member of Wiikwemkoong Unceded Territory.

She became quickly interested in supporting the First Nation’s efforts to monitor and restore biodiversity on its lands.

Magnetawan pitched the idea of setting up camera traps — a relatively easy and less-intrusive way of counting species compared to physical tracking, which can leave a human scent trail that risks scaring mammals from an area. 

Despite the time needed to set up the cameras — installing them can leave a person’s scent for a day or two — the devices are themselves scent-free, relatively affordable and can be left to collect footage for between six to 12 months. 

Now, the northern “Ontario”-based research project has joined forces with the University of Calgary as well as several communities in northern “Manitoba,” including Opaskwayak Cree Nation, which has also seen its moose numbers decline.

Together, they’ve formed a Moose Alliance to tackle the problem across provincial lines.

On Aug. 26, another “Manitoba” community, Pimicikamak Cree Nation, applied for a court injunction calling for the cancellation of all moose sport-hunting licenses on their territories due to the population crisis.

“Our nation advocates for stronger treaty, contractual, and environmental protections to ensure community engagement in moose hunting,” Pimicikamak Cree Nation Chief David Monias said in a statement.

“We believe in habitat restoration and in sustainable hunting practices reflecting our customary laws of the duty of stewardship.”

‘A resource that’s useful to communities’: research guide could help other First Nations track wildlife too

At Magnetawan First Nation, two graduate student scientists started working with Nadine Perron — a conservation biologist and wildlife specialist on the First Nation’s species-at-risk team — to help set up their camera traps.

One of the students, Claire Kemp, recalled how the community expressed the most concern about moozoog, but also hoped to capture as wide a variety of medium-to-large mammals as possible.

“We had to work out what the methods would be based on what the community wanted,” Kemp explained.

She and fellow graduate researcher Kate Yarchuk decided to place their cameras near two highways, 69 and 529, and a set of railway tracks, chosen because such “linear features” often have negative impacts on wildlife.

But working out some details of the cameras — such as how many to deploy, how far apart to mount them, and how to standardize their images — was more challenging than they expected, Kemp said. 

After drowning in research papers recommending various camera installation methods, they decided to create an easy-to-follow, step-by-step guide for other communities hoping to monitor local wildlife using the technology.

“Neither of us were really interested in publishing papers,” said Kemp, “but if we could create a resource that’s useful to communities, that’s something we care about.” 

In theory, any community interested in wildlife monitoring could use their guide, which was reviewed by Magnetawan First Nation, the province and Popp at the University of Guelph.

But Kemp said the resource they wrote is especially aimed at communities hoping to monitor large- and medium-size mammals. 

Kemp said the guide “almost walks you through the way we decided to do everything, and why,” addressing issues her team faced, including how many cameras to place where, and whether cameras are in fact the best tool for a community’s wildlife goals.

Protecting moose for future generations

Armed with nearly three years of camera data, Jones concluded larger mammals like moozoog and waawaashkeshiwag (deer) tend to avoid travelling close to highways — unlike mshiikenyik (turtles) and ginebigoog (snakes) — likely because of noise. 

But the larger ungulates do use local railway tracks, the study found, because they offer easier passage between areas.

“Our predators, like wolves, are using the train tracks to hunt,” Jones said.

Yet unlike many highways, railways typically have few accommodations to protect wildlife. 

“Railways are not doing anything,” Kemp said. “And it’s an issue because they’re everywhere.”

“Something that community members really want is for this research to show that this is an issue, and that [railway companies] have to do something about it.”

Kemp has discussed that problem with community members, based on their generations of knowledge — she’s been asking what kinds of wildlife protections they’d like to see near train tracks. 

Proposals include fencing, a lighting system or warning sounds to scare animals off the tracks. 

“But then you have to weigh up noise pollution and light pollution,” Kemp noted, “and what is the lesser evil of all of these things?”

A new highway is also slated to be built through the Magnetawan No. 1 reserve, and Jones hopes to use the camera trap data and community feedback to help determine what wildlife mitigation measures will be needed for the new road.

Additionally, Magnetawan First Nation is also planning to add an audio-recording element to its research, Jones said, thanks to a doctoral student who wants to install microphones along local highways and railways, to investigate the impacts of noise on wildlife. 

Jones said his community’s hope is to gather as much information as possible — and to work with youth and Elders to better understand the challenges faced by their moozoog relatives.

“We want to make sure that our future generations still have the knowledge and capability to go out and harvest the moose whenever they feel like it,” he said.

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Author’s note: Ray Williams, Ghoo-Noom-Tuuk-Tomlth, passed away just two months after he was interviewed for this story — on October 31, 2022. This story is dedicated to his memory. Like the coastal wolves Ray was named for, he was highly aware, family orientated and protective of his territory. Let his spirit live on. 

Ray Williams recalls the day Fisheries and Oceans Canada (DFO) confiscated all the Mowachaht boats from Yuquot — his hometown and ancestral territory on the southeast tip of Nootka Island — in the 1960s.

“There were still a few boats left on the beach that day,” said Ray. “But the DFO came and burned them.” 

With no prospect of earning a living, most of the community was forced to relocate to reserves near Gold River on Vancouver Island. Before long, Ray became the last remaining Mowachaht/Muchalaht to live in Yuquot year-round.

Ray was 80 years old during an interview in August 2022. A pillar of the remote Yuquot community and Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nation, Ray also holds the name Ghoo-Noom-Tuuk-Tomlth, which means “spirit of the wolf.”

As he tells his story from the small wooden house on the beach — the same one he grew up in — he looks out to sea and the memories rush over him like the tide. Memories of secret fishing spots, plentiful food and a way of life stripped from him and his family.

Although Ray and other Nuu-chah-nulth people have witnessed some progress on fishing rights — thanks to a landmark court case led by five Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations — it hasn’t been enough to break the cycle of harm caused by Canada’s forced control over fish management in their unceded homelands.

This disconnection from a keystone of Nuu-chah-nulth’s culture, territory and ancestral wealth — stemming back to the creation of the colonial capitalist fishery — has permeated through generations.  

Sammy Williams, Ray’s grandson, has grown up seeing his grandpa criminalized for trying to earn a livelihood through fishing in his traditional territory. Like his grandpa, Sammy has struggled to keep on the “right” side of colonial law.

One of Sammy’s earliest memories is of a strange, white authority figure removing his grandpa’s longline and taking his fish supper away. It was a fisheries officer from Fisheries and Oceans. 

“This is what they do,” said Sammy, now a rights-based commercial fisher. 

Even though he was just a child at the time, Sammy remembers that day clearly. 

“We headed out there waiting for the hours to go by,” he said. Sammy and his grandpa spotted a sailing boat edging towards their long line. 

Working undercover in an unmarked sailing boat wasn’t normal practice for Fisheries and Oceans. “I seen him take two halibut off, put them in his boat, took my long line away and put it in jail in Tahsis,” said Ray. “Two years later, they gave it back to me.”

In an email commenting on the events shared by the Williams family, Fisheries and Oceans acknowledged: “The memories shared by Ray Williams about his experience of DFO’s past relationship with his community are painful.”

The department also highlighted its commitment to “reconciliation with Indigenous Peoples” and said they are committed to working with First Nations “to increase their participation in the fisheries and to support the exercise of their rights.”

“In more recent years, efforts and progress have been made towards rebuilding a nation-to-nation relationship with First Nations, including the Mowachaht community, based on the recognition of rights, respect, co-operation and partnership,” the statement said.

“Today, DFO works closely with the community through collaborative programs, such as the Aboriginal Fisheries Program (AFS), consultation, bilateral meetings and other means, to collaboratively manage fisheries and protect fish and fish habitat.”

Long after the Mowachaht boats were confiscated and burned by Fisheries and Oceans, Ray said vessel owners were compensated with $7,000 per household, “to keep us silent about our fishing rights,” he said. “It wasn’t just their livelihood that was taken, but their identities as fishermen.”

Sammy stressed that $7,000 is barely enough to compensate for the destroyed fishing vessels. “It buys you a skiff, not an actual boat,” he said. IndigiNews did not independently verify this settlement amount.

“When they did that to our Elders, they took away fishing for our generation,” said Sammy, who learned to fish commercially from settlers. “We could have been on the water with our grandpa and my dad, learning the right way.”

When Sammy first entered the world of commercial fishing, he “got in with one of the wrong guys,” he said, referring to the infamous rule-breaker Scott Steer, who has been convicted multiple times for illegal fishing and now faces a lifetime ban. 

Before long, Fisheries and Oceans had seized Sammy’s boat and truck. “Pretty much what they did to my grandparents back in the day,” said Sammy, who began to feel as though history was repeating itself. 

Before colonization, the Mowachaht/Muchalaht people were wealthy fish traders, with abundant territories and carefully-managed fisheries that made returns year after year. With the introduction of colonial commercial fisheries, the resource was exploited to feed a capitalist system hell-bent on making a profit.

Even though colonial officials had no ancestral ties or expert knowledge about these lands, animals and waterways, they began using the force of colonial law to “manage” the resource above the expertise of Indigenous locals.

In 1877, the federal Fisheries Act was extended to all of British Columbia. For the first time, “food fishing” was defined and imposed as a limitation on what Indigenous Peoples in the province could, and could not fish for. 

It became illegal for Indigenous people to fish for any harvest amount that could be interpreted by imposed colonial standards as more than what was necessary for eating. The act also required all Indigenous people to purchase a fishing licence, and outlawed traditional fishing technologies such as weirs, spears and hooks.

A handful of court cases have attempted to uphold Indigenous Rights to fishing for a livelihood. Where there’s been success, Canada has been criticized for not properly implementing them.

In 1987, Dorothy Van der Peet, a Stó:lō woman, was charged for selling 10 salmon for $50, caught by her husband and brother with a food fishing licence that forbade them to sell their catch. At trial, the judge held that the right to fish did not extend to the right to sell. Van der Peet appealed her conviction, but in 1996, the Supreme Court of Canada dismissed her appeal. 

Although the case was a loss for Van der Peet, it became pivotal in further defining Indigenous Rights, as outlined in Section 35 of the Constitution.

In 1996, the Supreme Court deliberated on the landmark Gladstone case, involving two Haíłzaqv (Heiltsuk) men who faced charges under the Fisheries Act for exceeding their licensed allowance in selling herring roe-on-kelp — a traditional annual resource where herring eggs are attached to kelp in the water column.

It was ruled that the Haíłzaqv have a right, based on traditional practices, to sell or trade fish. But when the chief justice failed to decide whether the licence available was adequate for a “sustenance” income, they sent the question back to trial. It has not been continued. 

In 2003, 13 Nuu-chah–nulth nations began a court case to prove their right to a commercial fishery. But after pushback from the federal government, who refused to allow the 13 nations to participate without defined ocean territories, five nations pursued the claim, including Mowachaht/Muchalaht, Ahousaht, Ehattesaht, Hesquiaht and Tla-o-qui-aht. The group became known as the “Five Nations.”

In 2009, a ruling found the Five Nations had a commercial right to harvest and sell fish. The ruling also stated the Five Nations must negotiate with Fisheries and Oceans on how their commercial fisheries would be managed. The court allowed two years for negotiations, but an agreement was never reached. Fisheries and Oceans continued providing a limited allocation and restrictions on how the Five Nations could fish. 

In 2018, the Five Nations went back to court, stating that Fisheries and Oceans was infringing on their court-affirmed rights to fish commercially. But in an unexpected move, the chief justice limited the right that had been affirmed, describing the fishery as “artisanal” and “local” — only to be carried out using small boats with no technology. 

The Five Nations appealed, and in 2021, the B.C. Court of Appeal concluded all previous limitations would not be accepted. Again, fisheries were to be negotiated between the Five Nations and Fisheries and Oceans, and their rights-based fisheries were to take priority over the recreation and commercial sectors.

The ruling set a precedent for Indigenous fishers across Canada, who can now negotiate their right to sell fish with Fisheries and Oceans — without the lengthy and expensive court battle endured by the Five Nations.

However, a legal precedent doesn’t necessarily mean immediate changes out on the water. In 2021, just days after the B.C. Court of Appeal ruled that Fisheries and Oceans could not impose limits on First Nations commercial rights, rights-based fisher Harvey Robinson from Ahousaht was stopped by officials trying to land 250 fish. He was told to get rid of 240 — he was only allowed 10.

After some confrontation, Fisheries and Oceans walked away. Robinson said they were trying to impose the 10-fish rule, which applies to boats under 25 feet. But his boat was 42 feet.

“Ten fish wouldn’t cover the gas bill,” said Sammy. “Let alone ice, food and deckhands.”  

After being acquitted from 22 fisheries charges in 2019, Sammy faced five new charges in 2021 for crab fishing in səl̓ilw̓ət (Burrard Inlet), a closed area, without a licence. Sammy says the 250 crabs on his boat were leftovers from a catch from the Nanaimo area, where he did have a licence. His intention was to transport the crab to his family in North Vancouver. 

Sammy admits he made a mistake in bringing Scott Steer with him, who was banned from boarding any commercial boat, including Sammy’s.

When a Vancouver SeaBus captain reported suspicious traffic to the Coast Guard, Fisheries and Oceans headed for Sammy’s boat, recognizing Steer at the helm, according to court records. “I guess he got scared,” said Sammy. Steer took them on a high-speed boat chase while Sammy lay on the deck. He was having a diabetic attack.

When Fisheries and Oceans finally caught up with them, Sammy said he explained he was diabetic and wasn’t feeling good. Sammy alleged he was kept on the water for six hours, while handcuffed from behind, despite telling the fisheries officers it hurt. “I’m a big guy,” said Sammy. He recalled he asked why Steer was allowed to have his handcuffs in front of him in a comfortable position, while Sammy’s shoulders felt pulled from the cuffs. 

Eventually, the two men were transferred to the North Vancouver RCMP office where they called an ambulance to check on his blood sugar. “The paramedics were upset I’d been kept for so long,” said Sammy. His blood sugar level was intensely high. “They said I should have been taken to the hospital right away.” 

In the ruling, Sammy’s diabetic attack was taken into account to the extent that, “He was experiencing some physical distress due to his suffering from diabetes.” It continued, “He was co-operative with the police and was, ultimately, taken to the hospital and then released.” No additional context was provided. 

“There is no evidence that Mr. Williams was the operating mind of the operation and certainly no evidence that he was responsible for the high-speed chase through a darkened Burrard Inlet,” the ruling stated.

Despite this, Sammy, who had no prior criminal record, was sentenced to a three-year probation and a $6,000 fine. His boat, worth $20,000, was forfeited in Steer’s trial, despite it being Sammy’s property.  

“Now I’ve got no boat, no vehicle. I lost everything,” he said. “Everything I worked hard for.” 

Sammy also said he regularly experiences discrimination on the water fishing T’aaq-wiihak — with permission from the Hereditary Chiefs. To fish T’aaq-wiihak, fishers are required to fly a red flag onboard their vessel.

“It’s a red flag — a target,” said Sammy. “When me and my brother were fishing, there was probably one hundred sports boats out. DFO motored past every sports boat and came straight for us.”

For Sammy, fishing on his ancestral waters has been a fleeting refuge for him throughout his life. He struggled both in childhood and as a teenager. “We lost my mom, my sister, my grandma and my brother all within a year,” he said. “I’ve been depressed for a long time.”

One year on from the Five Nations ruling, Ray remained concerned about recreational fisheries, which he still believes take priority over their rights-based fisheries. He said he’s seen between two and three hundred recreational fishers in the area at any one time.

“There’s just too many [recreational] fishermen milking our stock out of the ocean,” said Ray. 

Kadin Snook, fisheries co-ordinator at Ha’oom Fisheries Society, says part of the problem is that the recreation fishery is seen as non-harmful.

“The thinking is, if I’m only catching two chinook a day, I can’t possibly be doing any harm,” he said. “But vessel participation is huge.” 

British Columbia has a reputation for being one of the greatest saltwater fishing destinations in the world — with more than 300,000 fishers participating in the tidal fishery every year, mostly for salmon.

Snook, who is Mowachaht/Muchalaht, worries about other impacts of recreational fishing. 

Rarely considered, he said, is the harm caused by the catch and release of unwanted fish by recreational fishers. He said, in a single day, there could be up to 4,000 fishers in the Mowachaht/Muchalaht area. That’s a lot of injured fish. 

Commercial and rights-based fishers aren’t afforded the same flexibility from Fisheries and Oceans as recreational fishers, who can fish both inshore and offshore, and are not required to report their catch, said Snook. 

Snook argues that the guiding industry, which requires only a recreational licence, is unfair. 

“There’s commercial interest and a lot of expertise, yet they are operating on a [recreational] licence,” he said. “They’re everywhere, and they’re not being monitored.”

Ray said he would like to see recreational licence fees flow to the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nation when recreation fishers harvest from the territory’s waters.

“DFO has no business in charging the sports fishermen to fish in our territory, in our ocean, our food,” he said. “It has to be our Ha’wiih [Hereditary Chiefs] that approves fishers to fish in our area.”

Ray also said fees should be increased to slow down recreational fisheries. In 2023/2024, an annual recreational licence in tidal waters costs a Canadian resident only $22.59, or $108.64 for a non-resident. To catch salmon, fishers must also purchase a “salmon conservation stamp” for $6.46.

“I can see it failing in front of my eyes and we’re not doing anything about it,” said Ray. “It’s important for the future of our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to see the changes that we might be making today, starting today.”

Some T’aaq-wiihak fishers have been attempting to fish as a group, but Fisheries and Oceans has, in some cases, shifted their attention towards targeting fish buyers, explained Sammy. “They raided our buyer in Quadra [Island],” said Sammy. “Thirty fisheries officers because our fish was sold there.” 

Sammy hopes that T’aaq-wiihak fishers and buyers can unite in defiance of colonial laws. “As long as the fish buyer knows you’ll stand behind him in court,” said Sammy, “Then our fishing rights will go a long way.”

In the future, Sammy would like to see an Indigenous-owned fish purchasing plant. “When you own that fish plant and you’re the one selling it for your people, then everyone gets paid a lot more,” said Sammy. “It’s pretty much cutting out the middleman.” 

Ultimately, Sammy said, he just wants his people to live healthy lives. 

“One day we’ll have a wealthy lifestyle. Our kids won’t have to worry about anything. I’ll go out, I’ll work hard to make sure we have a roof over our head, clothes on the kids’ back and food in the freezer — and that’ll be all,” said Sammy. “It’s a struggle right now, but I’m hoping one day it won’t be.”

This story was produced as part of the Fish Outlaws project, a multidisciplinary collaboration supported by the National Geographic Society. The Fish Outlaws project launched a living website on Earth Day featuring stories, research and participatory opportunities exploring how destructive colonial fisheries management and environmental practices have compromised Indigenous fishing rights and community wellbeing.

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Editor’s Note: This photo essay was created in collaboration with The Tyee.

Wednesday, June 30, 2021: the day British Columbia came out of a 67-week state of emergency. The day before an unmarked Canada Day. The day the town of Lytton burned down. 

We shouldn’t have been surprised. Three days of high temperatures had shattered all-time temperature records, with Lytton, B.C., reaching an unfathomable 49.6 degrees — the highest temperature ever recorded in Canada. 

British Columbia had already seen an unparalleled death toll that week — hundreds of sudden deaths brought on by “a heat onslaught more intense by some measures than anything in global records,” says Bob Henson and Jeff Masters from Yale Climate Connections, in an article for The Tyee. Many who died were found alone in their homes waiting for overrun paramedics to arrive. 

And then the Lytton wildfire happened. 

With only 15 minutes to gather their belongings and evacuate the town, Lytton residents fled in all directions, not knowing which, if any, direction was safe. By the time I arrived on July 2, residents had been constantly on the move finding loved ones, animals and places to sleep. Lillooet had been evacuated, re-evacuating those Lytton residents who headed north and Kamloops was under threat of intense lightning storms, which would set the city on fire that same evening. Oh, and more evacuations and re-evacuations. 

I was interested to know how residents in these highly affected areas felt about climate change and its role in the wildfires. It was barely July and our province was on fire. What I found even more disturbing is that First Nations account for 40 per cent of evacuations in Canada, yet make up only four per cent of Canada’s overall population, according to climate author and Queen’s University Fellow Ed Struzik. This overrepresentation speaks to the vast, systemic inequalities in Canada, a country seemingly obsessed with covering up examples of environmental racism. 

I received the full spectrum of opinions on climate change, from “it’s climate change — it will change. It’ll be hot, then it’ll be cold. It’s fine,” to “If we don’t start treating this planet with respect, we’re doomed.” What was made clear to me is that in a time of crisis people step up to help. Whether it’s giving, receiving or distributing donations, housing, feeding or uplifting spirits, both individuals and whole communities have given up their time and sleep to look after the needs of others. Let me introduce you to a few of these heroes. 

Members of the Siska First Nation welcome the River Spirit Canoe Family, who have travelled to Siska offering their help and support. “We know you. We love you. We respect you. This is the least we can do for you,” says Russell Williams, member of the River Spirit Canoe Family.

Siska is located 10 kilometres south of Lytton. The Siska community regard Lytton as part of their home. 

Wind played a huge role in spreading the wildfire at great speed. According to CBC, 71 km/h winds pushed the fire north into the Lytton community, engulfing it so quickly that residents were given only 15 minutes to get out, dispersing them in all directions. 

Tyrell Kenworthy is an elected Councillor and emergency response manager for Shxwhá:y Village.

When Kenworthy saw that a member of the Cheam First Nation had started taking donations for the Lytton evacuees, she told him that she would open Shxwhá:y Village Long House for lodging if needed. “It escalated from there,” she says. Members from Cheam First Nation delivered a truck and trailer full of donations to Shxwhá:y Village, where Kenworthy and volunteers began receiving and organizing them. 

Along with Skwah and Teddy’s Homes — which provides homes for children and youth in care — they’ve created a ‘Cultural Welcoming Centre’ for any evacuees in Chilliwack. “As First Nations People, we know the importance of their wellbeing and with a lot of people being traumatized from having to leave their homes, we wanted to be here to support all of the families in any way that we can,” Kenworthy says. Anybody that has been evacuated can turn up at the Shxwhá:y Village Long House and stock up on what they need — toiletries, clothing, food — as well as stay for dinner and singing each evening. “We want to take care of their spirit, take care of their wellbeing — try to heal them a little bit. I know that it’s a long road to healing, but we’re here to uplift them in any way that we can.” 

When I asked Kenworthy what role she believes climate change has played in the extreme weather events in the region, she said “climate change has really affected our First Nations People.” She told me that last year the salmon were so scarce that her community barely made it through the off-season. As people who live off the land, climate change has a much greater impact on First Nations Peoples than on those less connected with their environment. “We look after the land and we live off the land,” says Kenworthy. 

Kenworthy explained to me that as well as assisting any evacuee that need their help, her community is also assisting the province. “They need that Indigenous community drive work ethic that we have because we know so many people and we know how to communicate.” 

Just two weeks prior to the Lytton fire, Prest and Kenworthy “unofficially agreed” that they would act as the emergency social services for evacuees anywhere in B.C. “We just knew that we were capable of doing it and that we would work together in order to do it.” 

Kenworthy explained that unlike the dry lands of the Interior or the ocean towns, Chilliwack is well situated to avoid disasters from extreme weather events. “We’re just ready,” she says.

After returning home to Chilliwack at 4:30 a.m. after delivering water to firefighters in Lytton, Kenworthy received a phone call from a Lytton family. They’d been driving around all night and morning with nowhere to stay and were outside the Long House. Kenworthy rushed back to let them in to lay down and rest. 

“We had our morning crew take care of them, offering coffee and breakfast and filling their car with groceries for the next day.” The family moved on, hoping to find somewhere cooler. The Long House, spacious as it is, bakes in the heat and has no air conditioning. 

“We’re very lucky with all of our First Nations People being fully vaccinated, we’re able to hold hundreds of people to sit here and share an evening together to rejuvenate,” Kenworthy says. 

“They’re carrying on for those who couldn’t — who couldn’t have children or practice their culture. These kids are so full of culture. It lifts our spirits.” 

The campground is equipped with washrooms, showers and trees for shade. “An amazing thing that happened is that somebody donated their Airstream to us, so we’ll be able to provide a more robust temporary shelter for families.” 

Irene Klossner works at the front desk of the Plaza Hotel in Kamloops. The hotel has been housing evacuees and pilots from Lytton and the nearby fires. One evacuee from Savona, just west of Kamloops, has her two dogs, cat, two birds and a lizard staying with her at the hotel. “The community just gets together and tries to be flexible. It’s all we can do, right?” she says.

Klossner has lived in Kamloops for five years. After the third fire season, she was diagnosed with a breathing disorder. “I try to put my head in the sand and say I don’t have anything, you know?”

Raymond Stad and his wife Diana have lived just north of Kamloops since 2000. On Wednesday, June 30, they were evacuated from their home. “The government’s response has been less than adequate,”says Stad, who learned of the evacuation order via the internet.

This is the third time in five years Stad has been evacuated from his home due to fire. “Last time they gave us much more warning and it’s not as though they couldn’t see what was coming this time.”

Stad says he is disappointed there has been no help from authorities. “Why are they taking so long to issue a provincial state of emergency? If a city burns down like Lytton and it’s not a state of emergency, I don’t know what is.”

As of July 4, when I spoke to him, Stad’s home was still standing, but the neighbouring properties had burned down. “There was a change in the wind and we got lucky, for now,” he says.

I asked Stad how climate change has had an impact on the wildfires. “I’ve seen a huge change in the years I’ve been here” he says. “We’ve been blessed in this part of the world for a long time. The rest of the world has had their hurricanes and their fires and their disasters, but we’ve got to pay the piper too — payday is here.” Stad says he doesn’t blame Mother Nature. “The way we’ve been treating her, we don’t deserve much more.” 

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