It’s been an atypical winter in the nation’s capital, where lingering balminess has replaced sub-zero temperatures and signature cold snaps. And it’s a winter Ottawans will remember: the first year they were robbed of skating on the Rideau Canal since the tradition began five decades ago. 

In late February, the National Capital Commission, the Crown corporation charged with managing the ice, deemed it too thin and porous for skating due to higher than average temperatures, as well as snow and rain. Having launched Winterlude, the capital’s annual flagship winter festival, by redirecting crowds to other outdoor excursions, the Department of Canadian Heritage was forced to tell revelers that its usual focal point would stay behind locked gates. 

“The latest ice tests show that the ice surface remains unsafe,” the commission tweeted. “Any further efforts are unlikely to yield a different result.” 

Last week, National Capital Commission CEO Tobi Nussbaum wrote in the Ottawa Citizen that the commission has partnered with Carleton University to figure out how to adapt the Rideau Canal skateway to “warmer and shorter winters.” This year’s closure followed cautionary statistics in the commission’s past reports: a 2005 study found climate change would likely decrease the average skating season from roughly 61 days in 2005 to somewhere between 43 and 52 days by 2020. A more recent analysis in 2021 found the average season length is now around 46 days, and by 2080, the most drastic global warming scenario projects that, on average, Ottawans will only have one week of skating. 

Environmental groups have called the skateway’s closure a sure sign that climate change has come to Ottawa. And last week, the Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment began highlighting what it considers inappropriate sponsorship of Winterlude — the group is circulating a petition asking the federal Heritage department to drop longtime sponsor Enbridge Gas and refuse all fossil fuel funding. 

“It’s wrong for companies that are driving climate change to be promoting winter recreation because what they’re doing is making it more difficult for us to enjoy the outdoors in the wintertime,” Dr. Melissa Lem, president of the physicians’ association, told The Narwhal. “There’s overwhelming evidence that burning fossil fuels is driving climate change and harming our health through air pollution. This is greenwashing.” 

As the canal’s skateless winter came to a close, The Narwhal headed out to ask passersby whether they had missed the ice this year, and how they felt about a fossil fuel company sponsoring an ever-shrinking seasonal event. 

Global attention focused on carbon heavy companies sponsoring winter activities

On this mild Sunday in March, Ian Hunter didn’t hear the chatter or methodical scraping of blades from canal crowds as he ran along its paved perimeter. Instead, he saw the channel’s semi-frozen surface hosting nothing more than closed skate huts and food trucks.  

“I guess it was only a matter of time that we saw this happen with the winters getting more compact,” the retired public servant said. “It’s very sad. There’s a special feeling of freedom that comes with gliding through the city, taking in the sights and being able to share that with people of all ages, all walks of life.”

The Rideau Canal is a landmark that grounds Ottawa in its regional and cultural identity year round. It’s a UNESCO heritage site, and the homes that overlook it are prized for their scenic view. For residents and tourists alike, it has long been a touch point for outdoor recreation — whether that be walking, running, biking, skating or kayaking into the heart of the city. 

“It’s jarring,” Spencer Cuddington said, as he took a walk during the unseasonably warm weekend weather.

“One hundred per cent, I see the connection to climate change,” Cuddington said. 

He has skated on the canal since childhood, making pit stops with his family for hot chocolate and Beavertails: the pastry is synonymous with Ottawa winters, but its proprietor told CBC he closed all but one of his canal kiosks by mid-February this year. 

Enbridge produces natural gas, which is largely made up of methane — about 95 per cent, according to the company’s figures — the second biggest contributor to global warming. Much of it goes to heat buildings, which is the third highest source of emissions in Ontario, where Enbridge has 1.5 million customers. Impacts from natural gas extraction and processing carry significant environmental concerns, including methane leaks, and the controversial process of fracking. Last fall, The Narwhal reported that 32 Ontario municipalities have called for a natural gas phase-out.

In email correspondence with The Narwhal, Enbridge Gas said its sponsorship of Winterlude is part of a strategy to invest in the safety, sustainability and vibrancy of its communities. The company said that in 2020, it committed to reach net zero emissions by 2050. 

Enbridge said that natural gas ”provides residents and businesses with almost two times more energy than electricity” in Ontario, while Canada-wide, about 32 per cent of energy comes from natural gas, while 50.1 per cent is from crude oil and just 8.5 per cent from ”primary electricity.” According to the federal Energy Regulator, gas is the main source of home heating energy in western Canada and Ontario.

“A diversified energy pathway that leverages the existing pipeline infrastructure is the most cost-effective and resilient way to achieve net zero. Many North American jurisdictions have come to the same conclusion,” Enbridge continued. 

Enbridge also said it has created programs to assist customers with energy reduction and is trying to advance clean technologies for transportation, building heat and industrial processes. These include “renewable natural gas” — also known as biogas, it’s captured from sources like compost and manure, then purified — as well as hydrogen (which is sometimes derived from methane), hybrid heating, geothermal and carbon capture.

“Enbridge has committed more than $8 billion in capital to renewable energy and power transmission projects currently in operation or under construction, and is one of the largest renewable energy companies in Canada,” it said. 

Ottawa being a government town, the spectrum of responses from locals about Winterlude sponsorship indicated a nuanced perspective about funding, climate change and responsibility. 

Travel agency owner Carol Paleczny worried about Winterlude becoming a financial burden on taxpayers. “If the sponsors don’t pay for it then who’s going to?” she asked. “If there are companies that are willing to, then I’m grateful for them.” 

But the fact that events like Winterlude cost so much money is precisely “the regrettable,” aspect of the situation, said Ranjana Ghosh, another retired public servant, who has lived in Ottawa since 1989. 

“These big energy companies have big pockets and can afford to dish out sponsorship money, but what are they actually doing for the environment?” she said. “I guess as consumers we have to wake up. We enjoy the benefits of the canal and Winterlude, but I think we should be willing to forgo that if we can bring to light that we shouldn’t have companies that promote fossil fuels sponsor these environmental-related things.” 

In response to The Narwhal’s questions about how Canadian Heritage chooses sponsors and the campaign by the Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment, department spokesperson Caroline Czajkowski said sponsorship agreements are reviewed regularly.

“Our goal at the Department of Canadian Heritage is to maintain or improve the quality of the offering provided to visitors at Winterlude,” Czajkowski wrote in an email. “We work with many partners to offer a positive, enriching and relevant experience to all, and the success of programs and activities such as this one depends on the support and contributions of sponsors.”

Pedestrian Denise Paquette, a resident of Ottawa since 2010, saw some justification for sponsorship from Enbridge or other fossil fuel companies.

“It’s not all bad and I think it’s maybe their way of giving back,” she says. “I know we can’t change the environment overnight, so we have to deal with it.” 

But Lem said that such perceptions are what fossil fuel corporations are banking on, to distract from their emissions.   

The concept of carbon heavy companies using winter sports to prop up their reputations is getting global attention. The European think tank New Weather Institute recently put out “The Snow Thieves,” a study documenting 107 instances of fossil fuel companies, carmakers or airlines sponsoring winter sporting events, organizations or athletes. 

The report states that the world’s biggest cross-country ski race, the Vasaloppet in Sweden, is sponsored by energy company Preem and Volvo Cars, two companies that “combined are estimated to be responsible for the loss of 1,260 million tonnes of glacier ice each year, or 210 square kilometres of snow cover … this amounts to melting the equivalent of 233 Vasaloppet ski races.”

The paper notes the largest governing body in winter sports, the International Ski and Snowboard Federation, is sponsored by Audi — and that 90 per cent of the auto company’s vehicles produced in 2021 were petrol or diesel driven. 

University of Ottawa students Haaruni Babu and Jasmine Wong were looking forward to canal skating during their last winter as undergrads. However, they had mixed feelings about the thin ice: while both believe the skateway’s closure is related to climate change, they said that from a business standpoint, taking action towards sustainability is not as easy as people might think. 

“I’m not arguing for the status quo,” human resources student Babu said. “I think a lot of people using their voice to speak out against sponsorship like this are doing great because it’s putting more pressure on corporations and holding them accountable.”

“I just think we need to make sure we find the right balance between giving entertainment to the citizens here versus actually making sure that what they’re providing to us is appropriate for the environment,” finance student Wong added.

Others like Marc Mez weren’t aware of the company’s sponsorship — he said that the question of how badly Enbridge’s funds are needed is relevant.

“There are so many other companies you could ask for sponsorship, so I don’t know if there would be a shortage if you didn’t have someone like Petro Can or Enbridge Gas,” he said.

With one skateless season behind them, locals agreed on one thing: whatever happens in the months and years ahead, they are desperate for the chance to revive the tradition of canal skating. All felt it was unfathomable that a longstanding piece of the city’s winter culture could be lost forever. 

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 vast forest and rocky terrain on the north shore of Lake Superior offer a refuge and escape from the noise of Thunder Bay, Ont. However busy their days might be, the city’s 110,000 inhabitants know that the wonders of nature are never more than a 15 minute drive away. 

That includes on tiny Mission Island, just off the city’s coast, where many go to experience extreme close-ups with the area’s wildlife.  There, storybook moments with whitetail deer are almost guaranteed — and spur questions about social and environmental responsibility in human-wildlife interactions.

Every weekend, and plenty of weekdays, bucks, fawns and does eagerly approach the vehicles idling on the island’s dirt roads, not far from an industrial hub of businesses. The animals know a human hand with a food offering will emerge from every lowered window. Feeding the deer is a longstanding ritual on the woodland-laden landmass, with little indication that a municipal bylaw prohibiting the act has existed for almost 11 years. 

“You just roll your window down and they come right up to you … we use lettuce, carrots, but it all depends on what we have at home,” says a woman in her 70s, who visits the island several times a week to feed the deer with her sister and cousin. “It’s like a treat for them.”

Today’s treat appears to be a box of cookies from the nearby dollar store. The group doesn’t want to share their names out of fear of getting fined, but say they see no harm in what they’re doing.

There aren’t just seniors here, but residents of all ages, some with families and friends — everyone with their own justification for breaking the rules. For Sara, a worker in the field of trauma and addiction, it’s a peaceful outdoor oasis for her clients and an activity that helps her stay grounded. For David, a father of two, it’s an opportunity for his boys to interact with the animals in a different way than when they go hunting. 

This excursion, they all say, should be celebrated as something quintessentially Thunder Bay. 

Noting that feeding wildlife is prohibited at national parks, McLaren says that the city is sending the wrong message by “turning a blind eye” to the deer banquet in its own backyard. It’s the city’s job to explain why the practice is a problem, he believes: without that information, residents are likely to feed wildlife in other areas, increasing the probability of problems emerging both on and off the island. 

Those problems are many, McLaren says. When deer share bait piles or eat from the same food source, the risk of infectious diseases is increased, both among wildlife and between them and us. COVID-19 originated as a zoonotic disease, McLaren points out. Right now, he’s particularly worried about chronic wasting disease, an incurable, fatal neurological illness. It hasn’t shown up in humans yet, but the potential that it could is one reason unnecessary contact between humans and cervids such as deer, elk and moose should be avoided. 

There’s also the concern that the deer will grow too dependent on being fed — especially if locals offer them food that doesn’t resemble their natural diet. Like humans, deer that eat too many sugary snacks can get diabetes.

Being fed is particularly problematic in the winter, when the animals’ digestion and metabolism slows down: eating inappropriate food can make it harder for them to process natural food, McLaren says, causing them to burn essential fat faster and, potentially, leading to starvation. 

“We wish to avoid that, and that’s part of a social caring capacity,” he says. “Life is not all about pets, if we want to call these deers ‘pets.’” 

As is clear to anyone who visits Mission Island, the animals are not shy about approaching cars. McLaren points to the risk of vehicle collisions, especially if some of the deer move off the island, where drivers that aren’t expecting them are less cautious. Again, the laxness around the situation causes him to worry people may try to feed populations in busier urban areas. 

In 2012, Thunder Bay city council passed a bylaw prohibiting the feeding of deer, seagulls or geese, initially to prevent collisions. In its current form, the law says that those found intentionally feeding these animals could receive a fine up to $5,000. 

The catch is that in order for the city to look into a wildlife feeding case, someone needs to report it. For the past four years, Doug Vincent has been Thunder Bay’s licensing and enforcement manager and he has yet to receive a complaint.  When it comes to bylaw infractions, Vincent says he’s more worried about residents feeding squirrels, or putting out food that attracts skunks and rats. 

“If I were going to Mission Marsh with my grandkids and the deer walked up to the car, would I feed them? I don’t know,” he says. “You don’t want them getting hit by a car on the road, but maybe you get out of the car and you walk down the trail and you drop some corn for them and the kids can see it. I’m not sure if I really see the harm in that.” 

He notes that city data show that deer-vehicle collisions have gone down: the average number of deer killed by a vehicle in Thunder Bay each year for the past five years is just over 50, while the average between 2009 and 2014 was 120, with a pretty steady decline in between. He and McLaren both doubt drivers are being more cautious, and think the likely cause is that deer populations are decreasing due to cold winters and heavy predation by wolves.

“If people are going to get some enjoyment out of feeding deer on Mission Island, it’s probably helping the deer survive by giving them some additional sustenance,” Vincent said in reference to lower population numbers, contradicting McLaren’s comments on the risks to deer of being fed. But it could be time to review the bylaw’s necessity and impact, he adds.

“Do you want to help them or do you want to leave them alone and they either survive or don’t survive? That’s a more philosophical decision for the people of Thunder Bay.”

Without any increase in bylaw enforcement, local residents will be left to make their own decisions about feeding local deer. Which means that, for the foreseeable future, bringing breakfast, lunch and dinner to the deer on Mission Island will remain a ritual in Thunder Bay.

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.

Those who choose a life in commercial fishing on the Great Lakes are granted a front row seat to the natural world. Familiar joys include the sight of a fiery sunrise cresting the freshwater horizon, and the still water at the tail end of a day, when the coastline is vacant and the world feels like a place of your own. 

Less comfortable aspects include winds and waves that roll a stomach, or when the summer sun roasts fishing crews in their steel boats. Kendall Dewey isn’t bothered when the strong stench of fish fills the air, but one reality the Lake Ontario fisherman hasn’t been able to overcome is the shrinking of an industry that has been at the heart of his life for decades. 

“It’s sad to think about the future,” says Dewey, who lives in Prince Edward County, Ont., a 20-minute drive from where he fishes along the Bay of Quinte. “I’m hoping there’s enough of a remnant that [the industry] won’t completely disappear.” But Dewey’s children are in their thirties and have chosen to pursue other career paths — the fourth generation fisherman says his family’s legacy in fishing will end with him.  

Dewey, 69, once owned and operated not just fisheries, but a processing and retail facility, too. Over the past five years, he has downsized and rationed off his business, unable to find one willing successor. He blames the industry’s shrinkage on detrimental government policy, such as restrictive quotas, as well as waterfront development in Prince Edward County, an increasingly popular area for beach-going tourists. Both policy-makers and the general public, he says, have a poor understanding of commercial fisheries in the Great Lakes. 

Researcher Hannah Harrison says that, contrary to popular assumption, commercial fisheries are not draining biodiversity in Lake Ontario. “There are very few commercial fishermen on Lake Ontario, and it’s a very large lake,” says Harrison, science director of the Coastal Routes Project and a postdoctoral scholar at the University of Guelph. 

She studies the human element of Great Lakes commercial fisheries and says Dewey’s experience is not unique. The aging industry is facing many challenges, including that Ontarians are largely detached from the fisheries, which suffer from political pressure from the sport fishing industry to restrain commercial fishermen, and a declining interest in the work.

“Commercial fisheries in the Great Lakes have fished species to extinction in the past — blue pickerel, for example,” Harrison says. But the industry is much smaller now, and modern management tools for assessing fish stock are, in her words, “pretty awesome.” 

“The amount of fish that Lake Ontario fishermen are taking out today is very small, particularly when compared with the sport anglers as a whole,” she says, referencing the provincial government’s  2019 Annual Report of the Lake Ontario Management Unit. The paper, which documents the lake’s fisheries and health metrics, indicates the overall status of pickerel (also known as walleye) is “good,” whitefish and rainbow trout populations as “stable,” and brown trout at its highest stock numbers since the 1990s.

Harrison questions why food fisheries on the Great Lakes aren’t provided the same legitimacy as agriculture in Ontario.

“This is good fish … you know where it came from, you can be sure about the labour practices behind that fish, you can be sure the species is actually what’s on the label and it had a relatively small carbon footprint to get to you,” she says. “In this age of the ‘locavore’ … this is that food resource.” 

Studies have highlighted the important role local inland fisheries have within a community: a 2016 paper in the journal Environmental Reviews pointed out social, economic and environmental benefits including increased food security and local job creation, as well as lower fossil fuel usage and reliance than the livestock industry. Last February, research in the journal Fish and Fisheries also outlined a need to consider small-scale fisheries when building more resilient agri-food systems. 

In Toronto, Kristin Donovan co-owns Hooked, a small chain of sustainable fish shops where she sells a collection of white perch, yellow perch, pickerel, white bass, catfish and white fish from Lake Erie. She says that when fish is sourced locally, it minimizes hiccups or delays that might occur when product is trucked or flown from locations across Canada or around the world. 

“Freshness is huge. We get a call in the morning reporting what the boat has and then it’s processed and gets to us the next day,” she says. “We’ve seen weather systems affect what we do hugely and so it’s a comfort knowing your fish is only coming from three and half hours away.” 

Lake Erie fisherman Tim Martin knows that his business has helped strengthen local food systems. He and his four family members harvest and process their own fish, then sell it at their retail location in Port Burwell, Ont. During the pandemic, when global supply chains buckled and grocery store shelves were wiped clean, the family was able to stay in business. They experienced a heavy rush of local customers, most of whom, Martin says, have become loyal regulars.

“People have told us how grateful they are to have us,” he says. “They still tell us.” 

Yet in Port Burwell, where the Martins have operated for more than 30 years, they are the only permanent commercial fishing business that remains. Deteriorating infrastructure on the waterfront and a high cost of entry into the fishery fails to support any aspiring newcomers.

Here are three families still working in the Great Lakes commercial fishing industry in Ontario, trying to provide their communities with a fresh local food source.

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.