There are no buildings left on the road to Darlings Island, a low-lying strip of asphalt that curves gently along the Hammond River in southern New Brunswick. The demolition crews may have knocked them down, but it was the floods that did them in.

In the aftermath of another spring of extreme flooding in Atlantic Canada, few places have been as physically changed as this roadway in Nauwigewauk, a rural community on the front lines of Canada’s changing climate.

“It looks like a nuclear blast site,” Paul Thompson, a retired firefighter who was one of the residents who lost their homes, told The Narwhal.

Where his house once stood, there’s a pile of gravel, surrounded by debris left behind when the water receded. His neighbours’ homes are gone, too. Most notably, the volunteer fire hall across the road and the Nauwigewauk Community Centre ⁠— a local social hub that had hosted countless kindergarten classes, dances, variety shows, Halloween parties, Beaver Scouts meetings and strawberry-shortcake socials since 1948 ⁠— have also been demolished.

A Nauwigewauk Community Club building underwater during flooding in 2018 in New Brunswick. Photo: Nauwigewauk Community Club

After back-to-back historic floods along the St. John River watershed, this community and others like it in New Brunswick are being redrawn by backhoes, demolition equipment and government officials — who are now enforcing flood-plain building restrictions that went ignored for decades.

In Thompson’s case, the province bought his house, which he’d spent years building up to withstand floods, and sold it to the highest bidder for $5,000 — provided they moved it to higher ground. In its place, there are plans for a new road that would be raised 1.5 metres above the existing road.

People in the province are talking about climate change in a way they never would have a few years ago. For the second straight year, hundreds of homes were evacuated and long stretches of the Trans-Canada Highway were underwater. Even officials who manage flood response seemed surprised at the level of destruction this spring.

Many in the province say New Brunswick needs to start making hard choices about how to adapt.

‘Not even peaked yet’

“The world is changing. I see it every year,” Taya Wallace, president of the Nauwigewauk Community Club, told The Narwhal. “You see how it’s affecting things. It’s right in front of us here.”

In May, Wallace and her neighbours watched as heavy equipment knocked down their community centre. It was an emotional moment for some, including Wallace, who had her wedding reception and many family reunions there.

The Nauwigewauk Community Club hall was demolished in May 2019 after back-to-back historic floods. Photo: Catherine White / Oak Lawn Images

The decision to demolish the hall was made prior to this spring’s flooding that once again left the building half-submerged — something that only confirmed it was the right choice.

“It was devastating,” she said. “But we didn’t really have a choice.”

The building’s fate was sealed the previous spring, when Wallace watched as the river rose higher and higher over the covered bridge by her house. That wooden span, the postcard-esque entryway to Darlings Island since 1914, has long been a measuring stick for the annual spring thaw.

The last time the river was that swollen, Pierre Trudeau was in his second term as prime minister. Residents had to strap the historic bridge down to keep it from floating away. More than 45 years later, Trudeau’s son was calling that kind of extreme weather “the new reality.”

Residents on Darlings Island have grown used to becoming stranded from the mainland for days, their road vanishing under flood waters. When Wallace’s husband arrived by boat to report the community centre was also under water, she sensed that something serious — and unprecedented — was happening to her community.

“I remember Brent coming home and saying, ‘The flood, it’s in the hall, and it’s not even peaked yet,’ ” she said. “I just had this overwhelming feeling that we were up against something we’d never dealt with before.”

Average temperatures could increase by five degrees by 2100

New Brunswick, with its sprawling network of rivers, wetlands and low-lying communities, is grappling with an increasingly expensive flooding problem. The Insurance Bureau of Canada says flood claims paid out by insurance companies in New Brunswick grew from $59 million in 1996 to $144.3 million in 2015. That’s larger than the average annual flood payout for all of Canada between 1990 and the early 2000s.

For people who live in the province’s flood-prone communities, climate change has sparked a debate over costly mitigation projects, such as diverting water channels, building dikes or raising highways. Premier Blaine Higgs, a vocal opponent of the federal carbon tax, believes permanent fixes are needed — fixes like changes to building patterns and regulations around how close people can build to rivers.

Some argue the federal government should require homeowners move out of areas with repeated floods if they want to receive disaster relief funding. Critics say New Brunswick needs to become more proactive when it comes to climate change, instead of reacting once disasters hit.

Nauwigewauk flooding in 2018, New Brunswick. Photo: Nauwigewauk Community Club

The floods are only expected to get worse. The province’s legislative committee on climate change has computer models that predict New Brunswick’s average annual temperature could increase by as much as five degrees within 80 years. That means more intense rain and snowfalls, exacerbating the spring runoff.

Some residents are choosing to adjust the way they live, raising their homes up above high water marks. Others are simply leaving. In some rural communities, volunteer fire departments are offering to torch flood-ravaged properties to save on demolition costs.

Thompson believes homeowners should be allowed to build in flood plains, as long as they’re prepared for recurring flood waters. He believes the government’s response to chronic flooding, by expanding restrictions on building near water, is an over-reaction.

“Common sense has to prevail,” he said. “Look at Vancouver. They have houses on piers. Down in Louisiana, they have houses on piers. Our house was built on concrete, with blocks all around it. We felt we were protected.”

‘We’ve had water pretty much every year’

Nauwigewauk has always existed on a floodplain, but the severity and frequency of the flooding here is literally reshaping the community. Flooding that used to happen every few decades has become an annual event. That concern, for future floods, was a big factor in the decision to demolish the community hall.

“We moved here in 1974, and for 30 years we never had a problem. The last ten years, we’ve had water pretty much every year,” Nancy Thorpe, a Darlings Island resident and longtime volunteer with the community club, told The Narwhal.

“There were quite a few people who thought we could save the hall, and continue. But there was so much we had to mitigate and do to handle the next flood. Here was two years in a row,” Thorpe said.

“Whatever we would have done last year, we would have to do again this year.”

Thorpe points out life was already changing in Nauwigewauk long before the flooding. It’s been harder and harder to get volunteers for community events, and the club’s directors were already pondering a future without their landmark hall. But the flooding forced their hand.

In a province where one out of every six homes is built in a flood-prone area, thousands of homes and businesses have been affected.

As the waters receded from the recent floods, the New Brunswick Emergency Measures Organization warned cleanup efforts could be hampered by contaminated water that posed serious health risks. From plunging property values to depleted disaster-relief programs, the economic impact is significant.

“I feel bad for people who can’t sell their homes because of all the flooding,” Catherine White, who has lived on Darlings Island for 48 years, told The Narwhal.

“It’s just one of the things with where we live… When the flooding starts, you have to decide if you’re going to stock up on groceries and stay, or you find somewhere to live off the island for a while.”

Climate change increases risk of flooding, scientists say

Chronic flooding has people paying more attention to sudden flips in the weather here, such as some wild swings seen last April when the temperature soared from snowstorms to 26 C in a matter of days.

The rising waters can’t entirely be blamed on climate change, but climatologists say higher seasonal temperatures and precipitation certainly increase the risk of flooding. In Nauwigewauk, Darlings Island and many other New Brunswick communities, people say life is already changing, and fast.

“In 2018, everyone said it’s a once-in-a-century flood. It’ll never happen again. And sure enough, it did happen again. The very next spring,” White said.

“If you don’t think global warming is happening now, you’ve got your head buried in the sand.”

*Updated June 18 at 8 a.m.: Nauwigewauk was originally incorrectly spelled as Nauwidgewauk. 

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.

The ocean swells were reaching more than eight metres high when the SeaRose decided to resume pumping oil in the middle of one of Newfoundland’s worst storms in decades.

That decision in November by the SeaRose, a floating production and storage vessel operated by Husky Energy, led to the largest spill in the region’s history. More than 250,000 litres of crude dumped into the ocean when a subsea flow line disconnected in the heavy seas.

For two Canadian researchers, the incident is just the latest evidence that the offshore oil and gas industry needs the oversight of an independent environmental agency to better protect Newfoundland’s Grand Banks region.

York University’s Gail Fraser and the University of Waterloo’s Angela Carter say it’s critical the offshore energy industry have stricter regulation, at a time when Newfoundland is trying to dramatically expand oil production in the ecologically sensitive region.

“Our concern, in light of that spill, is that the system is obviously not working,” said Carter, a Newfoundland-raised political scientist who focuses on the environmental politics of oil and climate change. “How is it possible that this was a procedure that was deemed acceptable? There’s something really wrong here.”

Fraser and Carter are asking the federal and provincial governments to establish a new, independent environmental authority they say would avoid the economic conflicts of the current regulator, the Canada-Newfoundland and Labrador Offshore Petroleum Board (C-NLOPB).

Newfoundland’s Grand Banks is a diverse ecosystem that’s part of a significant marine environment for seabird colonies, marine mammals and a $1.4 billion fishery. It’s a habitat for millions of migratory birds, endangered leatherback turtles, harbour porpoises, seals and multiple species of whales.

Puffins fly in front of an iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland. An oil spill in 2004 is believed to have killed 10,000 seabirds. Photo: Gail Fraser

10,000 seabirds killed in 2004 spill

But more than 350 kilometres off the eastern coast of Newfoundland, it’s also out of sight for most Canadians. A 165,000-litre oil spill in 2004 in the same area is believed to have killed 10,000 seabirds, but because it happened so far from land in heavy seas that dispersed the damage, few people saw any signs of it.

“It’s out of sight. There’s no graphic images of seabirds being killed to grab the public, and promote outrage that this is going on. It’s a hard one to get the public engaged in,” said Fraser, a biologist whose research focuses on the environmental management of offshore oil and gas industry, and avian wildlife.

That 2004 Terra Nova spill, the worst in Atlantic Canada’s history until the SeaRose incident, resulted in $290,000 in fines for operator Petro Canada. Compare that to the $3 million penalty for Syncrude Canada for the deaths of 1,600 ducks at one of its Alberta tailings ponds in 2008.

The oil sector’s track record for protecting this often-unseen environment, and self-reporting the damage it’s doing, is poor, Carter and Fraser argue. And it’s not just spills that cause challenges. Routine waste discharges, marine noise, light pollution that impacts seabirds and flaring are all common problems, they say.

Husky Energy’s decision to resume pumping oil in a major storm followed a near-miss with an iceberg in May 2017, when the SeaRose delayed disconnecting and opted to gamble in favour of continuing oil production.

“These incidents show that the existing regulatory structure allows oil companies to act primarily in accordance with their economic interests to restart production as soon as possible, or continue with risky production, rather than to protect the environment,” reads a letter Fraser and Carter sent to federal Environment Minister Catherine McKenna, Natural Resources Minister Amarjeet Sohi and his provincial counterpart Siobhan Coady.

Offshore petroleum board has gaps in oversight

Critics say the offshore petroleum board is more concerned with developing the offshore industry and producing revenue for government coffers than protecting the environment. One obvious problem is that the regulator doesn’t have the power to tell operators when to resume production in severe weather. That leaves the oil companies free to take too many risks, Fraser said.

“They made a revenue decision, rather than thinking, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,’ ” she said. “It has identified another gap in overseeing what’s going on.”

Husky Energy, meanwhile, says it has since updated its guidelines for operating in severe weather, put in new protocols to prevent similar spills and is “deeply sorry for the incident and committed to learning from it and putting measures in place to ensure it does not happen again.”

Fraser and Carter want a stronger, more transparent environmental agency that would focus on all stages of offshore activity, from site leasing to decommissioning. That should also include the power to monitor waste treatment, emergency response and evaluate the long-term and cumulative environmental effects of offshore oil and gas extraction, they said.

Newfoundland plans to double oil production by 2030

The calls for more environmental oversight in the Grand Banks come as Newfoundland forges ahead with ambitious expansion plans to add 100 new exploration wells and double production to 650,000 barrels of oil per day by 2030 — all this in a challenging and remote marine environment vulnerable to hurricanes, winter storms, icebergs, fog and rogue waves, obstacles that could delay by weeks the delivery of equipment used to stop major leaks.

But increased scrutiny of the offshore industry isn’t always welcome in an economically challenged province where many see oil as a ticket to prosperity.

“We hope the government will act, but history would tell us they don’t have an appetite for that,” Carter said. “We’ve got a government that is hell-bent on increasing production, and is doing it further out, ever deeper, in more extreme, harsher environments. We’ll have more chances of spills, and no possibility of cleaning them up.”

Both the federal and provincial governments would need to agree to create a new regulatory agency, and neither appears motivated to do so. Environment and Climate Change Canada and Newfoundland’s ministry of natural resources declined to comment for this story.

Natural Resources Canada insists the Canada-Newfoundland and Labrador Offshore Petroleum Board (C-NLOPB) is doing a good job regulating the offshore industry, and ensuring that development is being done in a responsible way. It also points to the Frontier and Offshore Regulatory Renewal Initiative, a federal-provincial partnership that aims to improve standards for safety and environmental protection.

“The Government of Canada has confidence in the C-NLOPB and its ability to ensure safety and environmental protection,” the ministry said in an e-mail. “The board’s mandate is to oversee responsible development in the offshore, and that is exactly what we expect it will continue to do.”

It adds that Bill C-69, legislation that will amend the environmental impact assessment process for resource projects if passed by the senate, would create a new agency that it says would ensure reviews of proposed offshore projects would follow a consistent, neutral process.

The C-NLOPB, meanwhile, defends its record of protecting the environment for over 30 years as a regulator. It says it works closely with Fisheries and Oceans Canada and other agencies from both governments to make sure its decisions are based on the latest science.

“Offshore safety and environmental protection are paramount in all board decisions. The C-NLOPB will not approve any offshore activity until an operator demonstrates that it has met the legislative and regulatory requirements and has reduced risks to as low as reasonably practicable,” Lesley Rideout, spokesperson for the regulator, said in a statement.

‘I wonder how we’ll look back on this in 20 years’

Some in Newfoundland aren’t so sure, and are beginning to sound the alarm about what’s happening in the Grand Banks. Gerry Rogers, leader of the provincial NDP, as well as the island’s fisheries union, have joined the lobbying efforts for an independent offshore regulator.

After the SeaRose spill, Carter and Fraser hope public opinion may slowly be shifting in favour of better protecting the ocean environment off Newfoundland’s shores. But they’re not holding their breath.

“I wonder how we’ll look back on this in 20 years,” Carter said. “We have a government redoubling efforts to increase oil production offshore, at a time when, globally, other countries are banning exploration and extraction of oil… I feel like Newfoundland is completely out of step with the climate crisis.”

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.

John Casselman doesn’t need to consult 70-plus years of climate data to know the Great Lakes are undergoing some dramatic and troubling changes.

He just follows the fish.

Casselman, a biologist at Queen’s University, has been studying climate change in the Great Lakes Basin longer than almost anyone else in his field, tracking the connection between water temperature and fish populations.

Fish have long been biologists’ best indicators of the Great Lakes’ health, through decades of battles against pollution. Now, Casselman says, they’re telling us a concerning story about climate change, too.

“The fish are telling us that these changes are real. If we don’t pay attention to this, it’s at our peril,” Casselman, former scientist for Ontario’s Ministry of Natural Resources, told The Narwhal.

The Great Lakes are 1.6 degrees Celsius warmer than they were in the 1940s, according to daily temperature readings from the City of Belleville’s pumping station that draws water from the Bay of Quinte.

For fish, that’s a significant change that affects all aspects of their physiology, from spawning rates to growth to feeding patterns. Casselman’s research shows rising temperatures have caused a two-and-a-half fold decrease in the population of cold water fish such as northern pike or trout, while fueling a population boom for warm water fish such as bass.

“We’re seeing significantly more warm water fish, and for cool water fish, like pike or walleye, it’s becoming precarious,” he said. “In many places, lake fish and trout in inland lakes have simply disappeared.”

Now there’s new evidence the pace of the warming may be quickening.

This summer, researchers in a laboratory on the edge of the Detroit River began seeing an alarming spike in the readings coming back from a network a buoys spread across the lakes.

The report, from the Great Lakes Institute for Environmental Research at the University of Windsor, showed increases of 3 degrees Celsius above the long-term average for surface water temperatures in some parts of the Great Lakes. Increases like that, if sustained across the system, would be devastating to cold-water fish populations.

It’s caught the attention of climatologists who worry about the implications on the entire Great Lakes ecosystem — from impacts on fish stocks and toxic algae blooms to shrinking ice cover and more aggressive invasive species.

Light blue streaks in Lake Michigan and Lake Huron, left and top right, are due to high winds drawing up sediment. The light green hues in Lake Erie, bottom right, and in a small bay of Lake Huron are due to aglae blooms which build on the waters surface when winds are calm. Photo: NASA Earth Observatory

For those who earn a living on the Great Lakes, the warming trend is one of their most pressing issues.

“It’s quite concerning,” said Kevin Reid, a biologist with the Ontario Commercial Fisheries’ Association. “Although we expect the industry to be viable going forward, we just don’t know what that’s going to be like. There’s so much uncertainty because of all the change that’s occurring.”

In some areas of the Great Lakes, commercial fishers are already starting to change the way they harvest fish because of climate change. Along the western shore of Lake Erie, fishing crews have switched to setting their nets only in the early morning, because as the water warms through the day they’re reporting smaller and smaller catches.

“The quality of the fish is degraded, because the water is so warm,” Reid said.

In parts of Lake Michigan, cold water species such as ciscoes have all but vanished. Larger algae blooms, fueled by warmer water, are also becoming a more pressing issue.

Although the toxins from algae haven’t been shown to be harmful to fish, they cause problems for the gill nets fishers use. In the colder waters of Lake Superior, where there hasn’t been a history of algae blooms, scientists are reporting increasing outbreaks.

Biologists also worry what the warming Great Lakes mean for invasive species, from Asian Carp to zebra mussels, which along with overfishing and pollution have already threatened dozens of native fish species.

One of the biggest threats is sea lampreys, which entered Lake Ontario through shipping canals in the 19th century and almost caused the collapse of the lower Great Lakes fishery by the late 1950s.

A mature male parasitic sea lamprey found in the Great Lakes. Sea lampreys, which are native to the Atlantic Ocean parasitize other fish by sucking their blood and bodily fluids. Photo: A. Miehls / Great Lakes Fishery Commission

Sea lampreys (which are essentially 340 million-year-old demogorgons of the sea) do not usually kill their host fish in the Atlantic Ocean where species co-evolved. However, because sea lampreys were only recently introduced into the Great Lakes system, they often kill the species of fish they parasitize there. Photo: T. Lawrence / Great Lakes Fishery Commission

A sea lamprey was found on this salmon, caught at the Rogers City Salmon Derby. According to the Great Lakes Fishery Commission, lampreys prey on a wide variety of Great Lakes fish including lake trout, brown trout, lake sturgeon, lake whitefish, ciscoes, burbot, walleye, catfish, and Pacific salmonids including Chinook and coho salmon and rainbow trout/steelhead. Photo: M. Gaden / Great Lakes Fishery Commission

In warmer water, the lampreys transform into destructive adults much more quickly, leading some to wonder if current lamprey control programs should be dramatically expanded.

“The Great Lakes are quite susceptible to invasive species. As the lakes become warmer and winter becomes warmer, those species could find the lakes even more hospitable and spread even more rapidly throughout the system,” said Marc Gaden, an adjunct assistant professor at the University of Michigan who is also communications director of the Great Lakes Fishery Commission.

“Then there’s the distinct possibly that the Great Lakes could become more hospitable to invaders from places that we hadn’t considered. Those would be really lethal, because the lakes could have no defense. It would be a one-two punch for native species.”

The lakes’ natural defense against some invasive species — harsh, cold winters — is also weakening.

Ice coverage on the Great Lakes has declined an average of 71 per cent over the past 40 years, according to the American Meteorological Society.

That’s caused increased evaporation and more frequent and intense storms that batter shorelines and fish habitat.    

Combine all this with shifts in the lower-end of the food chain, with shrinking populations of forage-based fish such as alewife that feed larger species, and you’ve got an ecosystem under immense stress. Whether people realize or not, the changes happening in the Great Lakes will eventually reach their communities, Gaden said.

For fisheries worth millions to local economies, there’s a lot on the line.    

Biologists from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service hold a lake sturgeon caught in the Great Lakes. Sturgeon are listed as threatened in the Great Lakes and are estimated to be at just one per cent of historical levels. Photo: Justin Chiotti / USFWS

“Changes in the fish community do affect people. They affect recreational fishers, subsistence fishers and commercial fishers. Losses to any of those communities have severe economic consequences,” Gaden said. “There are concerns that these kind of wholesale changes in the environment would have repercussions that folks don’t always think about.”

Casselman, meanwhile, has been warning for years about the impact of climate change on the Great Lakes’ fish. He just hopes the broader public is finally ready to take that warning seriously.

“The fish are trying to tell us something,” he said. “They were the indicators that told us about pollution. They were the indicators that told us about acid rain. Fish can be the indicators that tell us climate change is real.”

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.

Ron Pottle Jr. barely has time to lay down on the wooden sled before his dog team bolts across the frozen ground, yelping and howling and sprinting after some invisible prey.

He holds the reins tightly and directs his animals with short commands in Inuktitut, trying to keep them on track, as he quickly disappears out of sight. With just two weeks to go before an annual dog sled race in honour of Pottle’s late father, the young dogs still have a lot to learn.

Pottle, 21, is learning, too – he’s trying to master the ancient Inuit practice of dog mushing, as a way to honour his father’s memory and help keep an iconic part of his people’s culture alive.

But Labrador’s dog mushers are facing new challenges even Pottle’s father rarely saw.

The coastline that surrounds Pottle’s home in northern Labrador is going through unprecedented changes. In the winter of 2018, one of the mildest on record, the sea ice in the bay he races on didn’t freeze up until February, months later than usual.

“Is this going to be able to happen; is this safe?” —RCMP Cpl. Mike McKee

Most people in Canada’s northern regions long ago abandoned dog sleds in favour of snowmobiles. But for people like Pottle, keeping up the dog mushing tradition is getting harder and harder as cold winters become increasingly unreliable.

“It’s been a strange winter,” Pottle acknowledges.

Climate scientists back him up. All along the remote and rugged Labrador coast, they’re seeing more snow, milder temperatures and higher winds. In early March, in what traditionally should be the dead of winter, there was talk of cancelling another local dog race out of safety — the ice was thawing too quickly.

“Before the race, it was so warm people were concerned: ‘Is this going to be able to happen; is this safe?’” said Cpl. Mike McKee, one of two RCMP officers posted in Pottle’s hometown of Rigolet. “This is stuff that, typically, they never used to worry about.”

That same month, organizers of Cain’s Quest — a 3,100-kilometre skidoo race that circles Labrador — were scrambling to plan for unexpected thaws where the race route crosses lakes and bays that are normally frozen. They considered bringing in pontoons in case racers ran into open water.

The loss of sea ice has been dramatic, according to Happy Valley-Goose Bay-based climatologist Robert Way. Labrador’s northern region has lost about a third of its ice cover in the past decade, according to the Canadian Ice Service historical database.

“It impacts every ounce of life here”

Labrador’s coastline is a volatile place when it comes to climate, with extreme swings in the weather that can both amplify and mask the changes that are happening. In tiny Rigolet, the southernmost Inuit community in Canada, the changes are being felt profoundly. Compared to historical norms, Way says winter is already about six weeks shorter than it used to be.

“It impacts every ounce of life here,” Way said. “If you look at the rate of warming from the late 1980s to 2015, this is one of the fastest warming places in the world. It’s quite concerning.”

What worries the climatologist is what the new normal will be within a few decades in Labrador, and what that will mean for a culture long built around cold, reliable winters.

“It’s sad, really. If I look at my lifetime, it’s already included some of the most rapid changes we’ve ever seen,” Way said. “But I’m more cognizant of the changes expected to come. Right now, we’re still able to do a lot of things we still care about. But whether that becomes as plausible 30 years down the road, I don’t know.”

Climate change is also affecting Labrador’s Inuit dog sled racers in another, more direct way — making it more difficult for them to reach the seals that are the main supply of meat for their dogs. Pottle’s people have long hunted seals as a source of food and clothing, but his ancestors never had to contend with retreating sea ice and unpredictable swings in the weather quite like this.

“Getting seals is the hardest part, especially when it comes to the ice,” Pottle said.

“If I look at my lifetime, it’s already included some of the most rapid changes we’ve ever seen.” —Robert Way

One seal might provide only a day and half’s worth of food for his animals, so Pottle has to head out on the ice regularly to catch more. But as the sea ice vanishes, they’re travelling further to reach the seals, over increasingly unsafe routes to get there. They say the seals seem less plentiful.

“It means you’ve got to work harder,” said his cousin, Todd Pottle. “It takes longer for us to get the seals we need.”

Hunters say the ice is increasingly unreliable and prone to breaking up under the weight of a snowmobile. Some seal hunters will try to use boats, riding over open water, to reach the seals at the edge of the receding ice. But that’s not without risks, especially in choppy seas in the middle of winter.

“Every time you go out, you don’t know what’s going to happen,” said Guido Rich, 28, one of the other dog racers in the village. “It can lead to trouble when the ice is no good. There was a couple who went out last year who almost drowned.”

That’s a major problem in a place where there are no roads connecting the village to other communities, and snowmobile trails over the ice are a lifeline out for many people.

Traditions melting away

The Inuit of northern Labrador are a people of the sea ice, and have long built their traditions to survive using it. But they’re being forced to adapt on the fly.

“Life is going to be hard, and it’s changing really fast,” said Oz Allen, 66, who’s lived in Rigolet most of his life. “The last few years, it’s getting warmer and the ice gives out sooner. The ground never even froze this year, because we had so much snow.”

Elders say they used to go ice fishing well into May. Now winter fades so quickly here some worry the local tradition of travelling over ice roads to their families’ remote cabins for the Easter holidays could come to an end.

“If this continues the way it’s going, we won’t even be able to do that anymore,” said Paula McLean-Sheppard, who works with the Nunatsiavut government.

Pottle’s father began taking him out on dog sleds when he was around eight years old. The boy was only ten when his father died of a heart attack on the ice. It was another ten years before Pottle decided he would get a dog team of his own and keep the family tradition going.

“It’s good fun, I’d say, when you’re out there. But it’s a lot of work. I only do it because my father done it. That’s what pushes me to keep dogs,” he said. “My father pretty much grew up with dog teams.”

Pottle’s mother, Cora Pottle, is proud that her son is taking after her late husband, who was known locally as a skilled dog musher. On the weekend of the memorial race, the start time was postponed twice by unusually high winds, another symptom some here blame on a warming planet.

When the race was finally held the following day, she was among the crowd who gathered on Double Mer Bay, cheering in between sips of moose and partridge soup. Ron Pottle’s young team raced hard around the bay for an hour and a half, finishing sixth. Next year, he plans to teach his 13-year-old cousin how to race, too.

“He really wants to keep this going,” his mother said. “It’s not getting any easier, with the way things are changing. But they don’t want to give up hope on this.”

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.