When the sun rose on the final day of our 12-day hike in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and we still hadn’t seen the Porcupine Caribou herd, the reality that we might not see caribou at all was beginning to sink in for many of us, and the collective mood was sombre.

A team of photographers, artists and Indigenous leaders had been assembled by the International League of Conservation Photographers to document the herd’s epic migration — one of the longest and harshest of any land mammal.

For the bulk of the trip, as we hiked across tussocky tundra, baren shale mountainsides and frigid Arctic rivers in search of caribou, we took the opportunity to document the myriad other flora and fauna that make up this unique ecosystem, while reflecting on the unexpectedly cold temperatures that were foiling our plans.

An unusually cold spring and summer in the northern reaches of the Yukon and Northwest Territories meant the herd’s usual migration through the safety and comfort of Alaska’s coastal plain was disrupted and rendered unpredictable.

Slightly warmer temperatures are needed to spark the mass migration of this herd that begins their near-mystical journey — one of the longest and harshest of any land mammal — for the most prosaic of reasons: fleeing a seasonal plague of mosquitoes.

We were, rather perversely, praying for a swarm of distant pests.

By day 11 we reached the edge of the Hulahula river, where, in two days time, we were scheduled to be picked up by a bush pilot.

Spirits were low as we awaited the plane. Eleven days and neither hide nor hair of the caribou we had come to see.

Then, almost miraculously, as we finished breakfast on that last day, a group of paddlers sent word of the unimaginable: thousands of caribou sighted a mere 20 kilometres from our camp.

That brief satellite message would send us scrambling 19 hours straight over harsh terrain and through a dense fog — into which one member of our party would eventually disappear.

The Hulahula river flows north to the Beaufort Sea, from the Brooks range mountains in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

The waiting game

Each year, the Porcupine caribou herd embarks on one of the longest migrations on earth. From the northern reaches of the Yukon and Northwest Territories, they make their way to the relative safety of Alaska’s coastal plain where, by late May, they calve and nurse the next generation.

I was lucky to witness the herd’s migration in the Yukon in the summer of 2016. It was a revelation to see thousands of caribou stream by at close range over the course of a few days. What struck me most then was the realization that those six-week-old calves had already journeyed 200 kilometres or more in their short lives.

Since that time, the news has been both good and bad for the herd. The Porcupine is the only barren-ground caribou herd across the north that is not in steep decline.

However, while the caribou themselves know no border, the American political climate and details buried in a controversial tax bill have created a crisis for the herd and the Gwich’in people who span northern Canada and Alaska and have depended on them for tens of thousands of years.

The ‘1002 lands’ of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge align almost perfectly with the caribou’s traditional calving grounds and Trump’s ‘Tax Cuts and Jobs Act of 2017’ has suddenly opened up this slice of untouched Arctic wilderness to oil and gas developers, after a decades-long battle with the Gwich’in First Nations and members of the scientific and conservation communities.

Map showing overlap of 1002 area lands and the Porcupine caribou herd range. Illustration: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

I recently made my way to Fairbanks, Alaska, to join a team of photographers and artists with the International League of Conservation Photographers, as well as Jeffrey Peter, member of the Vuntut Gwich’in First Nation from Old Crow, Yukon.

“There’s a lot at stake here,” Peter said, adding his experience of becoming a father for the first time had altered his perspective on the caribou, making him take stock of the legacy he hopes to pass on to future generations.

“I’ve always been concerned about the issue, but now I’m at a point in my life where I’m able to clearly describe why the caribou are so important to Gwich’in, and help others understand that.”

For the Gwich’in, the fight to protect and prolong the life of this wild herd is no less than existential.

Jeffrey Peter surveys the landscape for signs of caribou and other wildlife in the Brooks Range mountains. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

‘Any more development in the refuge at all will wipe us out’

Bernadette Demientieff, the U.S. executive director of the Gwich’in Steering Committee, works on behalf of the collective of First Nations to raise awareness of the refuge with decision-makers in Washington, D.C.

“Any more development in the refuge at all will wipe us out,” Demientieff told me. “This is our health and our way of life that this administration is stomping all over.”

So far, according to Demientieff, the pleas of the Gwich’in have gone unaddressed in the halls of power.

“The refuge is now open for the first time in history, so they have ignored our concerns,” she said.

“They don’t seem to understand what we’re saying. For the Indigenous people in this country, oppression and genocide continue to this day. It’s 2018 and we’re still fighting for our human rights.”

Just two days earlier, the bi-annual Gwich’in Gathering wrapped up in Tsiigehtchic, N.W.T., where a declaration was signed reaffirming the Gwich’in commitment to protect the calving grounds.

“The first Gwich’in gathering in over 150 years was held in 1988, and that was when our elders and chiefs got together, because of drilling in the coastal plain,” explained Demientieff, “so now every two years, we come together and reaffirm our commitment. Our identity is not up for negotiation.”

Bernadette Demientieff, executive director of the Gwich’in Steering Committee in Fairbanks, Alaska. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Thin ice in caribou country

When our bush plane finally dropped us off at the Collins airstrip in the heart of the Brooks range mountains and then flew away, leaving us alone with our 70-pound backpacks and a startling silence, an adrenaline rush packed with both excitement and apprehension kicked in.

We were on our way, hiking over tundra and forging rivers.

As our journey stretched on, we used a satellite phone to connect with a research biologist from the Government of Yukon. We hoped some external insight could help us pinpoint the location of the herd.

The incoming news was bad: the herd’s usual post-calving aggregation in the foothills still hadn’t begun.

We needed temperatures on the coastal plain to warm up, prompting mosquitoes to drive the herd into the foothills and then the mountains in search of higher ground.

We had planned for months — done everything we could to give ourselves the best opportunity to see the herd on our planned 12-day journey — but the caribou still weren’t on the move up into the Brooks range mountains where we hoped to intercept them.

And so, we hiked, day after day.

Expedition members traverse open tundra north of the Collins airstrip in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, on day one of the trip. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

It was obvious, even in their absence, that this is caribou country: every patch of mud bore the tell-tale tracks of earlier caribou movement, and our group followed in millennia-old caribou trails weaving through tussocks and carved into shale-covered mountainsides.

When we finally received news on our last day that there were caribou nearby, our group was elated. We quickly mobilized for a day trek, taking just the barest of essentials.

A significant portion of the herd had been spotted heading toward us, 20 kilometres from our camp.

On terrain as rugged as this, we could expect that to make for a challenging six-hour hike. As we had to return to our same camp site at the Grassers airstrip beside the Hulahula, we were lucky to be able to pack light, but realized our day could end up being closer to a 40-kilometre round-trip saga — about the distance of a marathon.

After an extended river crossing, the team stopped to wring out wet socks and re-apply tape to blistered feet. Our group broke out the binoculars and took turns peering northward down the Hulahula valley, desperately scanning for any sign of caribou.

I mounted my longest lens and noticed hundreds of tiny brown ‘rocks’ that appeared to slowly crawl across the valley slope several kilometres away.

A feeling of jubilation washed over our group as the ever-growing spectre of failure evaporated: we were finally within sight of thousands of caribou, dotting the slopes of the valley across from us.

The herd was still over an hour’s hike away and we were also conscious of the fact that we had at least another six hours to go before getting back to camp.

Sitting atop a pingo, a type of ice-cored mountain unique to the Arctic, we consumed some of the very last calories of food packed for the trip, and planned our final push to bring us close enough to document the herd.

When our northernmost vantage point was finally reached, our view opened up upon what we estimated to be nearly 10,000 caribou.

Bulls pushed up slope toward rockier precipices, cows grazed and rested periodically, while calves sprinted about awkwardly, experimenting with their frisky legs beneath them.

Porcupine caribou cover the valley of the Hulahula river in the Brooks range mountains of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

A Porcupine caribou crosses a braided section of the Hulahula River. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Caribou move along the banks of the Hulahula River. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Lost in the fog

We had spent about two hours in the presence of the caribou and began to calculate how many hours of sleep we’d get after our long journey back.

We reluctantly packed up and headed out just as a light but steady rain began. A claustrophobic fog slowly settled over the valley.

What was already sure to be a challenging hike home became a cruel reminder that wild places like the refuge owe nobody safe passage.

The fog and rain grew heavier and our tiring team of 10 gradually began to spread out. With camp tantalizingly close, and believing navigation to be straightforward, one of our members forged ahead alone.

Just after 10 p.m. a few of us paused to scrape the bottom of our peanut butter jars and rehydrate in lieu of an actual dinner. Back on the trail, we came upon a creek that had risen to the point of raging thanks to several hours of rain.

It was immediately apparent that this obstacle would prove too much for a solo crossing — our minds turned to our friend who had pushed ahead of the group.

Had he attempted to pass and been swept down the river, it could be fatal. Searching for an alternate route, he could become lost in the unrelenting fog.

Back at camp, our fears were confirmed: our solo hiker had not arrived.

Forming a search party, pairs patrolled the edge of the river and adjacent valleys, where he may have ventured had he become disoriented.

One hour later, nothing. The night crept on. With the darkness and wet and fear settling into our bones, we hit hour two. Not a trace.

It wasn’t until after four in the morning that we’d finally reunite.

The lost team member was located back near that flooded creek, cold, wet and still searching in vain for a safe place to cross.

Rattled by this close call, our entire crew crashed hard just before 5 a.m. — just a scant few hours before our scheduled extraction flight.

We ultimately succeeded in our mission to see the caribou, but were also served a serious reminder of the harsh and unforgiving environment the caribou have to endure, even in the middle of summer.

Peering out over the sprawling grandeur of the refuge from the bush plane the next morning, I felt an exhausted mix of joy at having witnessed the caribou herd on their distant terrain and relief at our team having escaped that terrain intact.

Arctic fox remains atop a small pingo in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge serve as a reminder of the high stakes at play. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

The disturbance

For more than a decade Jeffrey Peter worked in Vuntut National park, tucked into northwest corner of the Yukon and separated from the wildlife refuge by no more than an imaginary international border.

Prior to this trip, he had never actually crossed over into the refuge. Now, having done so, he struggled to comprehend how the caribou can be so well protected on one side of the border, while their existence — and the existence of the Gwich’in nation across the north — is threatened by developments on the other.

“There are thousands of Canadian Gwich’in directly affected by this, and the herd spends a large part of the year in Canada,” he said. “If there is development in the calving grounds, we would see less and less caribou in Canada. They’re such an important part of the ecosystem and they have a big role to play on the Canadian side as well.”

Our group witnessed firsthand how something as minor as a few degrees temperature change, and something as small as a mosquito, can dictate when and where the herd will move.

And while our entire group took every precaution to not disturb the herd, we noticed how sensitive the caribou were to the presence of two-legged creatures, lurking with cameras in the shrubs a couple hundred metres away.

Having seen that, it seemed a stretch that oil and gas development in calving grounds would not have a significant effect on the herd.

Indeed, we have known for decades that human-caused disturbance on the landscape — roads, pipelines, drilling rigs and more — can have long-lasting impacts on caribou, even many kilometres away. It can cause individuals to lose weight, a devastating impact on a species that works endlessly to build fat reserves to survive the cold.

In just a few years in the late 1970s and through the 1980s, a surge of oil and gas activity near Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, redistributed the Western Arctic caribou herd on the landscape as they avoided roads and developments — even going to places where the food is less plentiful to avoid the disturbance — resulting in fewer calves.

The findings of scientists are in lockstep with the traditional knowledge and first-hand experience of the Gwich’in.

For Peter, the idea of brute industrial activity in the calving grounds is unthinkable.

“For all of human history, and predating that, it’s been unspoiled,” he said.

“To have this happen in our lifetime, and look back on it decades from now asking ‘how could we have let that happen?’ It just seems so irresponsible and short-sighted.”

Expedition members cross an alpine river in the Brooks Range mountains of the refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

‘We’re not going anywhere’

For the photographers on this particular trip, not seeing the caribou would have been a tremendous disappointment, but for Gwich’in the stakes are much higher.

For tens of thousands of years, Peter said, it’s been a matter of life and death whether they saw caribou.

“They had to really understand the movement of the herd and rely on traditional knowledge to allow them to survive,” he said.

“As Gwich’in, if there’s no more caribou, we lose our cultural identity, our connection to the land, to our ancestors. A lot of things get lost if the caribou don’t come back.”

The connection between the landscape, the caribou and the Gwichi’in spans multiple borders, ecoregions and hundreds of generations, and yet that seemingly robust relationship could be easily disrupted by subtle shifts in climate or a sudden re-arrangement of the political landscape.

With the Trump administration’s approval, seismic testing deploying 90,000-pound trucks with metal plates to shake the earth, could begin in the calving grounds as early as this winter.

The resolve of those determined to prevent this from happening has never been greater.  

“Our culture’s been here for thousands of years — we’re not going anywhere,” Peter said. “This is our homeland. We want to continue to be healthy, happy people. To do that, we need caribou.”

Demientieff draws strength from the solidarity she sees across the border, and has faith that the final chapter of the Porcupine caribou has not been written.

“Our relatives in Canada are standing with us. We’re not going to back down. We’re not going to step aside. We’re going to continue to stand strong, in unity and in prayers, just as our elders directed us to. This fight is not over — far from it.”

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In the remote north-eastern corner of Alaska, just under 20-million acres have been set aside as a federal protected area since 1960. The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge has recently come under threat, however, with President Donald Trump’s Department of the Interior proposing lifting restrictions on seismic exploration.

The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge coastal plain has been described as America’s Serengeti, and is the year-round or migratory home to numerous species that are uniquely adapted to the conditions found within this rare expanse of undeveloped wilderness along the Arctic Ocean.

Over tens of thousands of years, both the Porcupine Caribou herd and the Gwich’in people have come to depend on the integrity of that coastal plain for their survival.

“The Gwich'in call this area ‘Iizhik Gwats'an Gwandaii Goodlit,’ the Sacred Place Where Life Begins,” explained Vuntut Gwich’in Councillor Dana Tizya-Tramm via email.

“It is a keystone in the ecosystems of the Arctic, and the heart that beats outside of the Gwich'in chest.”

Oil and gas lobbyists have had the Refuge in their sights from the outset. For decades now, for every push to open up the wildlife refuge to oil and gas development, multiple generations of Gwich’in have stood up to protect the land and the herd that has sustained their way of life.

Disturbance to the landscape can upset a delicate balance between the wildlife that makes its home on the coastal plain.

Brooks Range mountains tower behind lush arctic tundra in Yukon's north slope region. Photo: Matt Jacques | DeSmog Canada

“In a miracle of phenology [the interaction of climate, habitat and plant/animal cycles], Porcupine caribou cows arrive at the coastal plain just as the first flush of spring growth provides a burst of nutrients to them, just as they all deliver their calves at once,” said Yukon Conservation Society energy analyst Sebastian Jones in an emailed response to questions from DeSmog Canada.

“In the first few critical days of a caribou calf’s life, predation is the main hazard. Until they have found their legs, they are easy prey to wolves and bears.”

To the west of the Arctic Refuge, high levels of industrial activity are already taking place, and to the south and east of the narrow coastal plain area where the caribou calving takes place, steep mountain ranges mean less nutrients and more predators.

“There is simply nowhere else suitable for the caribou to go,” said Jones.

Exploration Freeze Beginning to Thaw Under Trump

There have been numerous victories and setbacks in what has been a sustained effort over that time, but for many, any sense of relief or optimism brought about by President Obama’s 2016 move to freeze arctic oil and gas exploration in the Arctic has now vanished.

President Trump’s 2018 Budget includes instructions to the Senate Committee on Energy and Natural Resources to raise an additional $1B over ten years. Alaska Senator Lisa Murkowski — Chair of the Committee — has used the opportunity to champion a renewed push to open the coastal plain to oil and gas exploration. Earlier this month Murkowski introduced legislation that would give a green light to exploration in the Refuge. Republicans have now taken Murkowski’s bill and folded it into their tax reform bill.

“There is palpable concern among the quiet people of our community of 250 people,” said Tizya-Tramm.

“I've even had children as young as 8 years old ask why this is happening and if we can talk with the President, and what they can do. It is hard to see the sincere concern in our youth’s eyes. I encourage them and tell them that we will beat this, as we must.”

Jones said that since the current proposal is exploratory in nature, the true scope and scale of potential activity in the area remains to be seen.

“It depends on what they find. If the feverish dreams of the oil men come true, it will be another Prudhoe Bay — decades of drilling, all-season roads, pipelines, and oil spills.”

For the Gwich’in, Tizya-Tramm says the development would mirror the expected impact on the caribou herd.

“Our entire existence will dwindle with any presence in their calving grounds, period.”

#Trump Eyes #Arctic Wildlife Refuge for #Oil Drilling, Alarming Gwich’in https://t.co/YPUnR7fUHy #ANWR #Arctic #WildlifeConservation @MattJacques

— DeSmog Canada (@DeSmogCanada) November 22, 2017

‘Delicate like Fine China’

“People need to understand just how delicate this area is,” says Tizya-Tramm.  

“Traditionally we stayed out of the Coastal Plains altogether. Tundra is a very sensitive and even seismic testing will scar the land with permanent trails. These caribou have been seen to purposefully stay far away from a soup can laying on the ground. Caribou populations have fallen exponentially in Alberta and other regions where there is development.”

Arctic cottongrass, mosses, other plants and lichens vital to the Porcupine Caribou can take decades to recover from industrial damage, sometimes taking decades to return.

“The picture that arises here, and well known to our people, is that nature is a fine-tuned system. And up in one of the harshest regions in the world, it is especially delicate like fine china. We cannot limit the options of animals that exist in the narrow opportunities afforded to them, especially one of the healthiest remaining herd of caribou left,” explains Tizya-Tramm

Murkowski and supporters have pitched fossil fuel exploration in the area as a quick solution to the American budget deficit, presenting minimal impacts within the coastal plain calving grounds of the Porcupine Caribou.

Murkowski tweeted in November in defense of changes in oil and gas development since ANWR was established.

The size of development pads has decreased by nearly 80% since the 1970s. New technologies have expanded the subsurface reach of the newest rigs by 4,000% over the same period. Many exploration wells are now built using ice roads and ice pads—leaving no impact to the tundra.

— Sen. Lisa Murkowski (@lisamurkowski) November 15, 2017

“Many exploration wells are now built using ice roads and ice pads — leaving no impact to the tundra,” she wrote. 

Jones dismisses any notion of low-impact exploration or development in the area.

“This exploration is supposed to be restricted to winter on ice/snow roads and drill pads; here are multiple problems with this,” he says. “Drill rigs are massive and require multiple large loads, in turn requiring very robust roads. It is not a trivial exercise building ice roads on the tundra sufficient to deploy an oil rig. In recent years, consistent with global warming, it has become less common to have adequate snow to build winter roads, so it may not even be possible.”

Gwich’in Gearing Up for a Fight

While the momentum to open up the Arctic Refuge to development seems to be gaining, Gwich’in and supporters have been stepping up their activity as well.

The Yukon Branch of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society has launched a nationwide petition, lobbying Prime Minister Trudeau to speak up against development in the Arctic Refuge.

A delegation of Gwich’in and other Canadian officials, including Yukon MP Larry Bagnell travelled to Washington, DC earlier this month in the hopes of influencing senate votes on the issue. Upon returning, Bagnell spoke about the trip and raised the issue in the House of Commons.

For Tizya-Tramm and Gwich’in in both Canada and Alaska, the battle has been all-consuming.

“I have been working late into the night and weekends for over a month now simply trying to keep pace,” Tizta-Tramm said.

“This is a time to call upon all of our people and the strong partnerships we have forged over the years.”

The Gwich'in Steering Committee held emergency meetings in Fairbanks earlier in November that brought together tribal leadership, Elders, and community members.

“There we once again came together seeking guidance and unity. To be of one mind, one heart, so that we may speak with one voice.”

Image: Porcupine Caribou crossing the Blow River in north-western Yukon. Photo: Matt Jacques | DeSmog Canada

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In early September, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau announced more than $360 million in funding for roads to service mining operations in two remote regions of the Yukon.

There’s just one catch: most of those mines haven’t even been approved yet.  

Some worry the influx of investment — $247 million from the federal government and $112 million from the territory — handcuffs the region to mining development that hasn’t been demonstrated to serve the community’s long-term interests.

Don Reid, conservation zoologist for the Wildlife Conservation Society of Canada, said the timing of the announcement is problematic and calls the objectivity of the mine review process into question.

"By having invested in these existing roads, the Yukon territorial government would in the future be loathe to refuse ongoing development of…new mines that these infrastructure dollars were specifically earmarked to help,” Reid told DeSmog Canada.

“They have biased their supposed neutrality in having the final say on future environmental impact assessments."

The funding, secured under the New Building Canada Fund, will foster the Yukon Resource Gateway Project, something Trudeau promised will “help create good, middle class jobs, promote long-term economic prosperity, and support a strong, sustainable North.”

The Yukon Resources Gateway Project, described as providing upgrades to 650 kilometres of existing roads, bridges and culverts, is aimed at facilitating year-round access to the potential mines and other undeveloped mineral deposits.

“Modern infrastructure is key to developing and properly managing the incredible natural resources we have at our fingertips," Trudeau said.

The resources Trudeau is refering to include the proposed Selwyn-Chihong lead-zinc mine and Golden Predator's 3 Aces gold mine in the Nahanni range near the border with the Northwest Territories.

In the Dawson range south-east of Dawson City, they include the Goldcorp Coffee gold mine, the gold, copper, molybdenum and silver Casino mine and Copper North’s Carmacks Copper mine.

Proposed Mines Include World's Largest Tailings Dam

The projects are all in various stages of review with the Yukon Environmental and Socio-economic Assessment Board (YESAB). Goldcorp’s application for the Coffee gold mine in particular was suspended this past July, for failing to adequately consult with affected First Nations.

Local First Nations and conservation groups alike have doubts about the claimed benefits of road construction, and see significant threats to the local landscape and wildlife from development of both the roads and mines.

Of major concern to the Little Salmon Carmacks First Nation is the potential extension and upgrade of a road in the nation’s traditional territory, chief Russell Blackjack told DeSmog Canada.

“Our members have serious concerns with both the extension of the Freegold Road into un-roaded territory, and with the proposed Casino Mine the road might serve,” Blackjack said.

The Casino Mine, currently facing the territory’s most stringent level of review, would be the largest mine in the Yukon’s history and contribute more annual greenhouse gasses than all of the Yukon.

The 22-year project would also entail the construction of the world’s largest wet tailings dam — which, at 286m, would become the highest structure in Canada west of Toronto — using the same technology employed by the Mount Polley mine which suffered a massive dam failure in 2014.

The Casino Mining Corporation is required to submit the Environmental and Socio-economic Statement component of its project proposal to the Yukon assessment board by December 31, 2017.

“We may decide to oppose the project,” Blackjack said.

Freegold road. Photo: Matt Jacques for DeSmog Canada.

Freegold road. Photo: Matt Jacques for DeSmog Canada.

Roads Further Fragment Wildlife Habitat

Reid said increased road access in both the Dawson and Nahanni ranges is of particular concern for mountain caribou — both the Forty-mile and Nahanni herds — moose, wolverine and grizzly bear.

“These will be affected primarily because increased and improved access will result in increased hunting pressure and reduced use of some key habitats by these animals as they try to avoid the disturbances caused by the roads."

The Klaza caribou herd’s range sits squarely in the Dawson range, and seems positioned to experience a significant impact from any increase in human activity in the area as well.

Lewis Rifkind, Mining Analyst for the Yukon Conservation Society, said environmental impacts and habitat fragmentation are big concerns in both areas.

“Because once the roads go in, you can kiss a lot of [habitat] goodbye,” Rifkind said.

“The caribou don’t necessarily avoid the roads but they won’t linger because they can be easily predated. It’s a ‘wolf highway’ effect, where wolves and human hunters can see for miles and travel quickly.”

Blackjack said beyond caribou and moose concerns in his nation’s traditional territory, many of the region’s waterways are salmon bearing.

“There are a lot of creeks that they have to bridge across. Once they open the roadway there’s the potential of six mines opening up, and it will provide easy access to placer miners too. As it is, that place is just staked right out (for placer mining).”

Roads for Resources Developers, But Taxpayers Bear Cost

Beyond the potential impacts on wildlife, there is the lingering question of who ought to pay for the development and upkeep of the roads.

While federal investment in infrastructure is far from new to the north, Rifkind said the new funding announcement is different.

“This is not for Yukoners, these are resource roads,” he said. “While the proposed routes are not cast in stone, none of the roads lead to communities.”

“Taxpayers are basically funding to upgrade these roads for companies,” Rifkind said, noting one of the companies, Selwyn Chihong, is a Chinese State-Owned Enterprise.

In September Yukon premier Sandy Silver posed with a one million dollar gold bar recovered from the exploration phase of the 3 Aces project.

“If they’re so profitable that just at the exploration phase they can produce a million dollar gold bar, are taxpayer dollars required to upgrade a road that by and large only they are using?” Rifkind said.

Chris Rider, Executive Director of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society’s Yukon chapter, said the mining projects come at a time when the conservation of development-free, roadless spaces is of increasing importance.

“We’re talking about valuing a handful of mining projects over our wild spaces at a time when wilderness is disappearing at alarming rates around the world,” Rider told DeSmog Canada.  

The benefits from these projects to the territory are short-lived, especially given the current mining royalty regime, Rider said, adding communities are often left with scarred landscapes and non-public road infrastructure which the public is left to maintain.

“Imagine instead if we had taken those funds and dedicated them to an innovation fund to invest in sustainable entrepreneurship across the territory — twenty years down the road we would have been so much further ahead environmentally and economically.”

Even if both the roads and mines go ahead as planned, the socio-economic impacts on affected communities may not be what they were intended.

Chief Blackjack said the mines could lead to massive population growth.

“I don’t think we have the sustainable resources in the community to hold a big population boom like that,” he said.

There is no official timeline for consultation and review of the Yukon Resource Gateway Project, but Blackjack said that process should only proceed with both the Yukon government and First Nations negotiating.

“We have a letter from the Premier stating that the project components in First Nations traditional territory will not proceed in the absence of project agreements with those First Nations,” Blackjack said.

“So we take that as word from the Yukon government to uphold our end of negotiations in a trusting manner.”’

That Time Trudeau Announced $360 Million for Roads to #Yukon Mines That Haven't Been Approved Yet https://t.co/2rgb95zIa6 @YukonConservati

— DeSmog Canada (@DeSmogCanada) October 12, 2017

Image: Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and Yukon Premier Sandy Silver. Photo: Prime Minister's Photo Gallery

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The Yukon’s giant Faro Mine was once the world’s largest open-pit lead and zinc mine.

In operation from 1969 to 1998, when its last owner declared bankruptcy, the mine once generated more than 30 per cent of the Yukon’s economic activity.

Now, Faro Mine is considered the second-worst contaminated site in Canada.

After nearly 20 years of maintenance and remediation planning, more than $350 million has been spent via the Federal Contaminated Sites Action Plan but remediation isn’t expected to begin until 2022.

Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada has released a timeline and draft details on the remediation plan for the Faro Mine and is currently seeking public input.

Remediation activity is currently expected to cost $500 million over 10 to 15 years. The biggest cost of remediation will be covering 320 million tonnes of waste rock and 70 million tonnes of tailings. Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada says the waste would cover 26,179 football fields, one metre deep.

Without remediation, the Pelly and Yukon Rivers could be polluted with toxic metals.

The Narwhal (then DeSmog Canada) sent photographer Matt Jacques to Faro to see the mine’s toxic legacy first-hand.

Home to more than 2,000 residents at the peak of the mine’s operation, the current population sits at 348, leaving many buildings and entire residential blocks unoccupied.

The Faro Mine occupies more than 25 square kilometres, roughly 25 per cent larger in area than the city of Victoria, B.C. At one point, it was the world’s largest open-pit lead/zinc mine.

In addition to this primary mine, there are two smaller open-pit mines on site.

Mine operations left behind more than 320 million tonnes of waste rock and 70 million tonnes of tailings before the mine’s final closure in 1998.

Adjacent to the mine site, Rose Creek winds through a wetlands ecoystem that feeds the Pelly River.

The Faro Mine remediation consultation and planning process continues, with a plan to be finalized prior to the project being submitted to the Yukon Environmental and Socio-economic Assessment Board (YESAB) in 2018.

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Each winter in Canada’s far north, a series of ice roads take form, providing people and supply trucks temporary access to the region’s otherwise isolated towns. But rapid changes to Canada’s north means this spring marks the final melt of one of the north’s famed ice highways, the ‘Road to the Top of the World,’ stretching across 187 kilometres of frozen Mackenzie Delta and Arctic Ocean in the Northwest Territories, linking Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk.

“It’s taking longer for everything to freeze up, and the ice isn’t as thick,” Wally Schumann, the minister of infrastructure for the Northwest Territories, told the New York Times in April. The Northwest Territories is warming at four to five times the global rate.

Under construction right now is a new permanent $300-million all-weather road — but its long-term stability is also challenged by the unpredictable, warming landscape says Phil Marsh, professor and Canada Research Chair in Cold Regions Water Science at Wilfred Laurier University.

“This area is continuous permafrost with massive amounts of ground ice,” Marsh explained.

In the spring, melting water can carve sizeable channels through the ground ice, “which can rapidly drain a lake in less than twenty four hours.”

That’s not great for highways. Canadians might recall the incredible story of a small upland lake “falling off a cliff” in the Northwest Territories, causing a slow hillside collapse and the displacement of millions of cubic metres of mud and debris.

Once a “Road to Resources,” New Highway Highlights Struggling North

Ice roads have long played a key role in connecting remote northern communities, bringing workers from small towns to remote jobs at mines, including the north’s dramatic diamond mines.

Northwest Territories regional director and former Inuvik Mayor Peter Clarkson estimates that the ice road to Tuktoyaktuk has been in formal operation since 1974.

During that time, it has provided a seasonal yet vital link for ‘Tuk,’ temporarily alleviating astronomical grocery and supply prices and providing social and cultural connection between the two communities.

The ice road has also simplified the transport of the diesel fuel needed to power the hamlet’s generators, which is otherwise shipped via barge or flown in by plane during the remainder of the year.

Canada’s north is already experiencing effects of climate change that are outpacing those in the rest of the country.

Yet despite general concerns about the reliability of winter ice roads in the Northwest Territories climate adaptation strategy, instability of the Inuvik-Tuk ice road itself was not the sole driver in building the permanent Inuvik-Tuk Highway. Indeed, data on the ice road from 1983-2015 itself reveal that the road has remained open a fairly steady average of just over four months each winter.

“The ice road season has not really shrank dramatically,” explained Clarkson. “You don’t need forty below to make good ice. Minus fifteen and no snow will do it.”

Ironically, much of the original economic case for the all-weather road was placed on the potential for supporting additional fossil fuel development along the Mackenzie Delta and Beaufort Sea.

Former Prime Minister Stephen Harper promised the new permanent highway would become Canada’s “road to resources.”

But a late 2016 arctic drilling ban by both U.S. and Canadian governments has put a halt to those prospects. While the new U.S. administration may attempt to reverse course on that front, it’s uncertain if the highway will deliver the economic salvation once promised.

Recently the Inuvialuit Regional Corporation applied for federal funding to explore gas deposits along the new highway corridor. Oil and gas plays in the Northwest Territories, far from any pipelines or roads, have often been considered uneconomic. The new highway could change that.

While Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has expressed to northerners that he wants to see other doors of economic opportunity opening, it remains to be seen what form those opportunities will take.

For the moment, Tuktoyaktuk Mayor Dennis Nasogaluak feels the bulk of the anticipated economic boom from the opening of the highway has now been stifled.

“It’s really difficult for us and we’re really stumped about what we’re going to do,” he told DeSmog Canada.

“Tourism might be two or three months a year, but it’s nothing to replace industry.”

“We are really struggling with the long-term outlook for our community. A few people are able to up and leave and follow the jobs, but the majority of us here can’t do that.”

The Inuvi-Tuktoyaktuk ice road, meandering through Arctic tundra. Photo: Matt Jacques

Highway Construction in Husky Watershed Causes Concern for Inuvialuit

The nature of the new all-weather highway and its interaction with the local ecosystem have also raised some questions.

Biologist Danny Swainson was working as Fisheries Resource Specialist for the Fisheries Joint Management Committee during the first years of construction on the highway, beginning in 2014.

“There was very little done to establish a baseline on the fisheries in the region before construction began” Swainson told DeSmog Canada.

“Going in, we knew almost nothing about how the entire system operates and how important these streams may be for certain species,” he said. “That’s the responsibility of the developer, and the work that was done wasn’t up to par.”

Over the course of construction, Swainson said he’s noticed sediment, erosion and fish passage issues.

“All of this is happening in the Husky Lakes watershed, which is an invaluable resource for the Inuvialuit,” he said.

“Roads and fisheries in general don’t get along very well, so the importance of a strong local management plan for Husky Lakes and the surrounding streams is necessary. That’s going to be crucial to protecting that fishery going forward.”

There are also concerns that the road itself may play a feedback role in accelerating the warming and melting of the surrounding landscape.

“One of the unknowns would be the dust from the road, especially in the winter time. If it’s a lot, it would affect the timing of snowmelt, and the underlying permafrost,” Marsh said.

Famous Canadian Ice Road Melts for the Last Time https://t.co/Uxl8olLFzv #cdnpoli #arctic #icemelt #climatechange pic.twitter.com/9i5lfQb6uw

— DeSmog Canada (@DeSmogCanada) May 17, 2017

Tuktoyaktuk Struggles to Bring About Renewable Energy Transition

For many communities in the north, making a transition to renewable energy generation has been a logical part of adapting to this changing environment.

However in Tuktoyaktuk, attempts to significantly reduce their reliance on diesel have fallen short so far.

Nasogaluak explained, “the community had a proposal for a wind farm a few years back, but they couldn’t get a good purchasing agreement with the territorial power corporation to put power back into the grid. So that was lost.”

But dealing with adversity and adapting has been a long-standing part of the community’s history.

“As the river silted up going back five, six seven hundred years ago, the beluga no longer went as far up the river, so our community gradually moved north to where we are now” Nasogaluak said.

“Our people have experienced so much change, we are very adaptable. But when it comes to infrastructure it’s hard for us to deal with because we have limited capacity to help our people move.”

“We’ve come to a modern way of living now and it costs a lot more money to move a house from one place to another. We’re running into those climate issues where we have to adapt and move. If we’re building new infrastructure, it’s being built further inland now.”

The potential impacts and opportunities presented by the new all-weather highway are challenging to predict when the very foundation of communities like Inuvik and Tuktoyaktuk are threatened by melting permafrost and the effects of climate change, which disproportionately impact the north.

“We’re adapting by pulling our infrastructure inland, but we need to mitigate some areas that we have to protect. We have a cemetery that we need to ensure doesn’t erode any further into the Beaufort” said Nasogaluak.

Tuktoyaktuk cemetery. Photo: Matt Jacques

As the Inuvik-Tuk ice road melts for the final time, the importance of ongoing research to inform future infrastructure investment and community decision-making could not be more clear.

“Even if society stabilizes the climate at 1.5 or 2 degrees Celsius in the coming decades, the Inuvik area will be much warmer than this,” Marsh said.

“At 4 to 6 degrees Celsius or more, it will be thousands of years before conditions return to current or pre-industrial levels.”

“As a result, the permafrost will continue to thaw and the massive buried ice continue to melt,” Marsh said. “This will have serious, but poorly understood, consequences for at least a few hundred years.”

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Across Canada’s north, diesel has long been the primary mode of providing year-round electricity to remote communities — but with the advent of small-scale renewables, that’s about to change.

Northern communities were already making strides toward a renewable energy future, but with $400 million committed in this year’s federal budget to establish an 11-year Arctic Energy Fund, energy security in the north has moved firmly into the spotlight.

“This level of support shows positive commitment from the Canadian government on ending fossil fuel dependency in Indigenous communities and transitioning these communities to clean energy systems,” said Dave Lovekin, a senior advisor at the Pembina Institute.

Burning diesel not only pollutes the atmosphere, but getting it into remote communities is often inefficient in and of itself: it’s delivered by truck, barge or, sometimes when the weather doesn’t cooperate, by plane.

There are more than 170 remote indigenous communities in Canada still relying almost completely upon diesel for their electricity needs.

But, for some, at least, that’s beginning to change. Take the community of Old Crow (Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation), above the Arctic circle in the Yukon.

Despite its northern latitude, and near total darkness between December and February, a 2014 Government of Yukon pilot study demonstrated that solar represents a major untapped renewable resource for the community.

Many homes in Old Crow, north of the Arctic Circle, still rely on diesel, but that's changing. Photo: Matt Jacques.

Now Old Crow has a number of small-scale solar panel installations, including an 11.8 kilowatt array at the Arctic Research Centre — but its sights are set higher. Plans for a 330 kilowatt solar plant are well underway. A 2016 feasibility study estimated that this large-scale installation could offset 17 per cent of the community's total diesel use, or up to 98,000 litres of fuel each year.

“Anything that affects our community, we want to have control over. That’s our goal with this project is to have ownership over the facility,” said William Josie, director of Natural Resources for the Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation. “We burn a lot of fuel up here per capita and we’re trying to reduce that.”

Josie said his community is excited to build further solar capacity.

“This has been in the works for a long time, and it’s just the right thing to do,” he said. “It’s the first solar project of this size in the Yukon with community ownership.”

The Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation has a self-governing final agreement in place with the Government of Canada, the Government of the Yukon and the Council of Yukon First Nations. So too does the Kluane (Burwash Landing/Destruction Bay) First Nation in the southwestern Yukon, which is taking another approach to delivering a similar level of renewable energy capacity.

A major $2.4 million wind power generation project is set to be installed in 2018. Three refurbished 95 kilowatt turbines will deliver just under 300 kilowatts of total power and are estimated to offset 21 per cent of the community’s total diesel use.

“One of the big things for the community is to be self-reliant and self-sufficient. Diesel is neither of those two,” explains Colin Asseltine, general manager of the Kluane Community Development Corporation. “We’re looking at what we can possibly do to reduce our carbon footprint and move off-grid.”

The wind project will expand on the earlier successes in the community. Since 1998, Burwash Landing has used biomass for district heating, and began selling solar power back into the grid not long after installing a 48 kilowatt array in 2003. Along the way, they have been collecting the data required to inform the next steps and increase the impact of the community’s investment in renewable energy.

Meet the First Nation Above the Arctic Circle That Just Went #Solar #yukon #arctic #cleanenergy #cdnpoli https://t.co/B9Um6R7yJq

— DeSmog Canada (@DeSmogCanada) March 28, 2017

A geothermal test well provides promise for increased food security.

“Connecting that to our greenhouse projects will really help with the possibility of growing year-round, and having a positive effect on food sustainability at the same time. Both renewable energy and food security go hand in hand, so we’re working on those together,” Asseltine said.

While these two communities have shown that renewable energy solutions are indeed feasible for remote northern environments, hurdles remain.

“Our biggest challenge right now is just to secure capital costs” Josie said. “We’re looking for $2 million to $2.5 million, depending on the final engineering and design.”

Lovekin, from the Pembina Institute, underscores this point, explaining that “the challenges on the technology side are nowhere near the challenges on the financial and community capacity side.”

Up until now, federal and provincial or territorial funds have focused on financing initial development costs.

“The first focus on funding capital expenditure is good, but governments simply putting in money to get systems built has been shown to not be a sustainable strategy to support these communities to fully develop their projects,” Lovekin said. “The more challenging part is the ongoing operations and maintenance and ability for communities to maintain the systems. Systems will break, nobody's there to fix them, and there's little funding for that.”

And once systems are operational, their long-term economic viability largely rests on the value of the Power Purchasing Agreement (PPA) that is offered by the local utility operators.

“In order for that whole model to be successful, you need a better and more fair PPA price than what has typically been offered in the north. Typically the PPA will simply offer the avoided cost of diesel fuel, so whatever it costs to get a litre of diesel up to the community via winter road or barge,” Lovekin adds.

Renewable energy systems typically have lower operating and management costs, and Pembina and others are working to ensure PPA prices reflect true cost savings.

“The federal carbon tax coming into play will also make diesel systems even more costly, so there’s opportunity to look at a PPA price for renewable systems that will not pay the carbon tax, as well as other externalized costs such as diesel fuel spills, financial bailouts when winter roads deteriorate and fuel needs to be flown up. So addressing all of that in what gets offered via a fair and equitable PPA would be ideal,” Lovekin said.

On the community capacity side of the equation, initiatives such as the 20/20 Catalysts Program and the Indigenous Clean Energy Network are providing essential training, and mentorship for indigenous communities making the transition to renewable energy.

Nonetheless, Lovekin feels there is a critical need for “more training, skill development and job establishment to support the community getting involved in their own transition. There need to be barriers removed to have more capacity built and leadership come from within the community.”

That’s where the new federal funding could be a game-changer.

“The real test will be in the types of policies and programs that are developed and how they are designed to support energy autonomy and create economic development within and for Indigenous communities,” Lovekin said.  

Image: Solar panels in Old Crow, Yukon. Photo: Matt Jacques

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As snowcover recedes from the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska each spring, thousands of Porcupine Caribou arrive to graze on new plant growth and calve the next generation of this herd that is the ecological and cultural backbone of the region.

Following ancient trails through the Brooks, Ogilvie and Richardson mountain ranges on both sides of the Alaska/Yukon border, the herd’s migratory path to this sanctuary is one of the longest of any land mammal.

Yet with a new President in power that promises to open hydrocarbon development in the Arctic, this iconic herd’s migratory way of life could be threatened.

The North’s great barren-ground caribou herds, a sub-species grouping to which the Porcupine belong, were recently listed as ‘threatened’ by the Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada.

A combination of habitat loss, industrial development and climate change have provided a formidable challenge for the notoriously sensitive creatures.

While the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has confirmed 2016 as the warmest year on record for our planet, making it the third year in a row to re-write the record books, the arctic as a whole is warming twice as fast as the rest of the globe.

Dramatic changes are already evident across the north, with warming permafrost and earlier lake melts signaling not just a change in weather for places like the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, but an existential threat to a way of life that has existed for millennia.

Moving even faster than global or regional warming trends, a political step-change in Washington has also sent shockwaves that seem to bode ill for the environment.

Under the patriotic banner of energy security, Donald Trump campaigned on the promise of expanding domestic fossil fuel development.

We haven’t had to wonder long whether president Trump’s “America First Energy Plan” was just empty rhetoric.

Trump’s nominees to lead the Department of the Interior (Ryan Zinke), Department of Energy (Rick Perry) and the Environmental Protection Agency (Scott Pruitt) in particular served as early signals of a clear intention to de-regulate industry and expedite, or outright remove, environmental assessment and protection requirements tied to resource development.

Within days of taking office, the president has now signed executive orders advancing both Keystone XL and the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL), while simultaneously placing an expenditure and communications freeze on the EPA.

It may now be only a matter of time before renewed attention turns to the estimated 7.7 billion barrels of ‘technically recoverable’ crude oil laying under the arctic permafrost in a coastal plain area of the wildlife refuge known as the 1002 area.

Map of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge with the 1002 in orange. Source: United States Geological Survey

“The Alaskan congressional delegation has asked that the 1002 lands be opened to development. This would impact the Porcupine Caribou herd,” Yukon Conservation Society energy analyst Sebastian Jones told DeSmog Canada. This 1002 sub-area of the ANWR also happens to be the favoured calving grounds of the Porcupine Caribou herd, particularly when snowmelt occurs earlier.

“Calving grounds for these caribou herd are very, very important,” says Dr. Justina Ray, President and Senior Scientist of the Wildlife Conservation Society of Canada and Co-Chair of the Committee on the Status Endangered Wildlife in Canada, Terrestrial Mammal Species Subcommittee.

“This is the most vulnerable time of year for this animal. They come to these places habitually year after year, and drop their calves at a time that coincides with new plant growth, so it’s perfectly matched.”

“Those first six weeks of life for calves are critical,” Ray continues. “If you have disturbance in this area, whether it’s noise from exploration or infrastructure, that could increase mortality directly or indirectly because the nutrition of the females is disturbed or they don’t even calve.”

Thanks in part to one of former President Obama’s final acts of conservation — banning oil and gas drilling in the Arctic — Trump can’t single-handedly overturn the protections currently in place for the refuge.

For this, an act of congress plus two-thirds majority vote in the Senate would be required, something Jones feels Trump won’t be able to achieve, “unless something really weird happens.”

A mother caribou from the Porcupine Caribou Herd with her young calf. Photo: Peter Mather, used with permission.

He also feels carbon emission reductions of other nations “will start to reduce demand, likely before oil could flow.”

While the impacts of potential development in the 1002 area remain hypothetical for now, Trump’s denialist view of climate change may pose a more imminent threat.

“A Trump presidency looks to be much more climate reckless,” Jones says. “Caribou are among the species most vulnerable to climate change. If tundra disappears, times will get very tough for barren ground herds like the [Porcupine], and it appears we are already seeing climate effects across the north on caribou habitat.”

What makes the potential fallout from a Trump presidency on the Porcupine Caribou particularly critical, is the impact any dramatic drop in the herd would have for the Gwich’in people of Alaska and Yukon who have relied on caribou for their subsistence for over 20,000 years.

It is the resolve and relentless efforts of the Gwich’in and others that give Jones reason for hope about the potential consequences of a Trump presidency.

“Trump and his acolytes will motivate the conservation community and users of the Porcupine Caribou herd,” Jones says. “This has proven to be a formidable coalition that has defended far more focused and competent regimes.”

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