Summary

• The 2026 wildfire season in Canada, which has been particularly severe in Ontario, has prompted significant interest on social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok.
• Many of these posts contain misinformation, including AI-generated maps with incorrect details on the locations or severity of fires across Canada, or conspiracy theories linking wildfires to lasers, 15-minute city initiatives or eco-terrorism.
• Many posts focus on mismanagement and place blame on Canadian governments, which complicates valid critiques of wildfire response and funding with destabilizing misinformation.

Ontario is grappling with one of the worst wildfire seasons in recorded history, which has put thousands of people, especially those in the province’s north, at risk. Last month, two Indigenous communities — Namaygoosisagagun First Nation and Whitewater Lake First Nation — were burned to the ground. The scale of the crisis has made headlines around the world, and prompted a blaze of posts on social media.

But many of those posts contain misinformation, both AI-generated and hand-crafted: maps that purport to show Ontario wildfires labelled with communities that don’t exist; false information about air quality and evacuation alerts; captions with conspiracy theories about 15-minute cities and arson. 

Look closely and you might see clues about what’s real and what isn’t. One viral AI-generated graphic purports to show the location of Ontario wildfires, but directs people to a non-existent Ontario government website. Another, claiming 10,000 people in Alberta were under evacuation orders as of July 16 (not true), includes a map where Jasper National Park appears to cover most of the province. One map puts Ontario on the West Coast, Quebec over the southern United States and Alberta up around Alaska — and includes a province called “Onjebio,” where the wildfire situation looks pretty bad. 

But just as often, it’s hard to tell fact from fiction. And it’s getting harder: in May, Statistics Canada reported 43 per cent of Canadians find it more difficult to distinguish between facts and misinformation online, compared to three years ago. Those with less trust in news media reported even more difficulty. 

Each year, it seems, the onset of wildfire season in Canada is accompanied by the onset of wildfire misinformation season on social media. As AI-generated content becomes more ubiquitous — and often tougher to spot — across social media, it presents new challenges to Canadians looking for trustworthy information about unfolding crises across the country. Wildfires are getting worse because of climate change. But what’s driving the escalation of misinformation?

2023 marked a shift in online wildfire misinformation

Gwen Roley, a digital verification journalist covering Canada for the international outlet Agence France-Presse, recently reported on some of the AI-generated maps spreading across social media platforms. “The labels on it were really wonky, and the symbols for the wildfires didn’t make sense,” she says. Roley has covered wildfire misinformation extensively, and there are certain trends that pop each year — “eco-terrorists, directed energy weapons,” also known as lasers — but this year’s maps struck her as a new trend. 

Roley has been debunking wildfire misinformation since 2023 — a “really superlative year, as we all remember,” she says. In addition to being the worst year for wildfires in Canada so far, there were also devastating fires in Hawaii. “These were almost like never-before-seen events, very scary events, where people are looking for explanations,” she says. In some parts of Canada, wildfires are familiar, even if the scale of recent years is not. But when wildfires rage in New Brunswick or the Northwest Territories or Hawaii, they may prompt more fear — and more speculation — than usual. When something that feels extraordinary happens, people are inclined to look for extraordinary explanations: even back in 1954, residents of Bellingham, Wash., became convinced hydrogen bomb tests or space rays were responsible for a sudden rash of damage to car windshields. 

Climate change denial, likewise, is not a new phenomenon. Chris Russill is an associate professor in the school of journalism and communication at Carleton University, where he’s also an academic director of Re.Climate, a centre focused on public engagement and climate communication. He says denial or skepticism of climate science dates back decades. 

But he agrees 2023 was an inflection point for wildfire misinformation online. Some of that was because of what was happening in the real world, such as the impact of Canadian fires on American air quality. 

But many were linked to shifts happening on major social media platforms: “Elon Musk had just bought Twitter,” he recalls. The Canadian government had passed the Online News Act, an attempt to make foreign social platforms pay to share news. Instead, Russill remembers, “Meta was refusing to negotiate with journalists around the News Act and stripped out Canadian journalism [from its platforms Facebook and Instagram].” It was also the first wildfire season since the widespread adoption of generative artificial intelligence; within two months of its release in November 2022, ChatGPT had more than 100 million monthly active users.

That chain of events is definitely still reverberating today: though Canadian news has been banned by Meta since 2023, a majority of Canadian users still don’t know that, according to a June 2026 report by the Media Ecosystem Observatory at McGill University. Of 1,518 Canadians surveyed for the report, only one in four Instagram users knew that news outlets in Canada could not publish on Meta platforms. Many people believe they’re seeing news on Facebook and Instagram when what they’re seeing is misinformation and conspiracy theories. And users searching Google for wildfire updates are shown AI-generated summaries, which launched in Canada in October 2024, and may contain inaccuracies. (Over the August long weekend, a Narwhal editor looking for air quality information at a lake in the B.C. Interior was shown a summary that incorrectly stated the lake was closed — information pulled from social media posts about two different places that were closed.)

Russill also attributes the 2023 sea change to the post-pandemic atmosphere of suspicion. “There was a more adversarial, conspiratorial way that climate was being dragged into other culture-war type issues that were becoming more and more salient through the [COVID-19] period,” he says.

This year, once again, Canadian wildfire smoke is impacting the United States, triggering posts from President Donald Trump on his Truth Social platform and AI-generated graphics that distort the impact of smoke on Americans.

Who benefits from wildfire misinformation on social media? 

As much as they complain about it, Russill says American politicians are also finding an opportunity in the effects of wildfire smoke on air quality. 

“The U.S. politicians, MAGA politicians, definitely have an interest in leveraging narratives — misinformation, conspiracies, false and misleading content — around wildfires to pursue a narrative they have about Canada as a bad neighbour, and leveraging that for trade and security,” he says. In a post on July 17, Trump threatened that the “cost of this pollution must of necessity be added to the TARIFFS Canada is currently paying.”

Researchers call this “participatory disinformation,” in which political leaders and influencers seed disinformation across platforms, and it’s then amplified and reproduced by ordinary users, in this case shaping online narratives about extreme weather events. (Disinformation is distinguished from misinformation by the intentions of the person sharing it. While people may unintentionally share misinformation, disinformation is false information shared on purpose.)

The McGill report on Canadian news notes, “When journalism loses visibility on social media, it is not replaced by nothing — it is replaced by content that serves a different function.” Conspiracy theories and images that distort the reality of wildfires get engagement, and a real crisis presents a fertile opportunity for content generation. 

Ad revenue from Google and other ad exchanges is another motivating factor, the Media Ecosystem Observatory also reported in June: the push behind a coordinated, international network of Facebook accounts pushing “news slop” — AI-fabricated stories — onto Canadian users. 

It’s easy for everyday users to get caught up in spreading untruths, too. Across social media, engagement is currency, which may provide an incentive to use the most dramatic or striking images without checking — or caring — about accuracy. “You can find a real map that you can very easily take a screenshot of that is using real data,” Roley says. But the real maps aren’t as dramatic as the AI-generated ones, “where it looks like all of Ontario has been burnt to a crisp, or one of the videos I saw where it looks like the wildfires are visible from space.” And lingering on those images — even if we’re skeptical of them — rewards the algorithm. 

As Russill points out, it’s “faster, easier and cheaper than ever before to generate fake and misleading content with AI.” It’s also easy to see what does well with your audience, and react accordingly, he says. “Like, let’s make the smoke bigger. Let’s put a fleeing polar bear in there. Who knows, right?” Some people may be diehard believers in climate conspiracies, and others might be deliberately seeding disinformation, but some are almost certainly agnostic to the culture wars; they just want the engagement. 

Whether users want to gain followers or further a political agenda, Russill says, they have “almost nothing to lose.” While AI posts may be flagged and removed on some platforms, it’s easy to replace them. “In these moments like wildfire evacuations and emergencies, this surges forward because it’s a real high engagement opportunity,” he says. 

This happened in 2025, he adds, prompting the BC Wildfire Service to warn of AI-generated images circulating on social media. And it’s happening this year, too.

From climate change denial to ‘mismanagement’: the narrative online has shifted

Misinformation typically downplays or denies the role of climate change in worsening wildfires, and displaces it onto other, implausible explanations. A few years ago, it was space lasers and 15-minute cities.

But no part of the world’s media ecosystem is free of Trump’s influence, including reporting on wildfires. After the 2025 wildfires in Los Angeles, which killed 31 people, the president blamed mismanagement of California forests. (Experts attributed the disaster to climate change, prolonged drought and southern California’s high winds, which spread the fire rapidly.)

“So the impacts people were seeing were a result of government mismanagement, not climate, not other types of things,” Russill says. The same argument is now being directed at Canada; in July, a Michigan senator posted on X, “Unless you want to become the 51st state, learn to manage your forests.” Such a task would be impossible in Canada, which has 369 million hectares of forest — covering more than a third of its landmass — 260 million of which is boreal forest in the sparsely populated north. Much of these forests have never been “managed,” but are experiencing more severe and frequent wildfires because the planet is getting hotter, a crisis that cannot be solved with rakes.

In part, this is a problem of our own making. In 2023, Alberta Premier Danielle Smith dodged a question about climate change and wildfire by pivoting to arsonists. And she’s not the only Canadian leader minimizing the severity of the climate crisis, while pushing more fossil fuel investments. “As politicians everywhere have gotten more quiet about climate, it becomes more difficult for people to understand why these [wildfire] situations are becoming much more unmanageable,” Russill says. 

The question of government responsibility is legitimate, he adds. There are valid criticisms of the Ontario government’s response to recent wildfires, or its habitual underfunding of emergency wildfire response. But in a news ecosystem rife with disinformation, it can be hard to balance valid criticism with simply undermining Canadian authorities. “It’s being leveraged as a frame in which to challenge and create distrust of authorities during these moments of crises in a more substantive way,” he says. 

Wildfire misinformation can bring real-world risk to Canadian firefighters — and everyone else

AI-generated images are annoying and possibly being weaponized to destabilize democracy. What researchers don’t know yet is if they are also putting individual lives at risk. 

“One of the things I would be curious to know is how it’s impacting people’s understanding of wildfires,” Roley says. “Like, is someone fleeing from their home because they saw this AI-generated map? I have no idea.” 

Wildfire agencies are now also spending precious time and resources combatting misinformation or pushing back on AI-generated images — especially when it targets them. Russill says that degrades trust that is already wearing thin. “In B.C., you know, BC Wildfire is not trusted by every rural community that experiences wildfire, so they already have that issue to deal with.” The effect of untruths and conspiracy theories on public trust is just one of the mental health stresses faced by frontline firefighters. 

Russill adds people might also be overly reliant on AI overviews to check for news on evacuation orders, park access or campfire guidelines. “But I think more likely it’s inducing a sort of widespread cynicism or distrust or confidence in people.” 

Online misinformation is a problem without a simple solution. Providing facts is important, but there is a depressingly robust body of research suggesting they’re not enough to change peoples’ minds or strongly-held beliefs.

“Certainly around moments of crisis like this, [providing fact checks] can introduce friction into the ways people are engaging with content,” Russill says. “Maybe they share a little less. Maybe they reset and ground-truth on something that’s happening, as opposed to letting their feelings start to overwhelm them.” 

Wildfires are still at their worst during hot, dry seasons; misinformation can burn all year long. At least for now, you can still limit your exposure to one of those risks by closing an app.

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.

On an hour-long drive from Vancouver to the heart of B.C.’s Fraser Valley, I contemplate the most professional way to ask if I can pet this cat I’m about to meet. There’s journalistic value to being able to describe its fur, I imagine arguing, as I drive past bucolic fields and cheerless industrial parks. In the end, I don’t need to ask at all. “Do you want to feed him?” Mike Hopcraft says, holding out a dish of raw chunks of beef and a pair of long metal tweezers, as the cat glowers beside me. 

My commitment to gonzo cat journalism is wavering at the sight of my subject, who isn’t a typical pet. He’s a serval: a wild cat native to Africa who is, improbably, lounging on a grey couch in the nondescript warehouse that houses an animal rescue centre in Abbotsford. His name, even more improbably, is Gary. He growls and hisses impatiently as I tentatively extend a cube of meat before lunging across my lap to reach it. While Gary eats, I stroke him gently; his tawny fur, streaked and spotted with black, is as plush as I imagined. 

In the wild, servals are sinuous, slender and long-legged, like deadly feline supermodels with huge, pointed ears. At a sprint, they can reach speeds of 80 kilometres per hour. They leap two metres to snatch birds out of the air, and pounce on rodents or snakes with deadly accuracy; an individual serval is more likely to catch its prey than a pride of lions hunting together. An adult serval weighs up to 40 pounds, roughly the same size as a coyote or a six-year-old child. If Gary were to sit on my lap like a regular cat, I would have to look up at him — a terrifying prospect, now that I’ve seen him demolish a beef cube. For some people, I can imagine, this is the appeal. “It’s basically the biggest cat you can get that looks like a cheetah, without being a f*cking cheetah,” Hopcraft says. 

Gary, however, does not look like a cheetah, or his wild cousins in Africa. He is pear-shaped and shamboling, his gait hindered by degenerative disc disease, a common affliction among servals in captivity. He also suffers from feline hyperesthesia syndrome, which causes cats extreme sensitivity to touch around their back and tail and can lead to self-mutilation. Shortly after Hopcraft rescued him in January 2025, Gary chewed his tail off while confined. Hopcraft has avoided caging him since, and lets him roam free, like the world’s biggest barn cat.

He now takes Prozac, stuffed surreptitiously into one of his daily beef cubes, for anxiety. He was declawed as a kitten — a brutal, previously common elective surgery, outlawed in B.C. in 2018, in which the claw and last bone of each toe is amputated — which means if he escaped, as pet servals often do, he would be helpless. 

Gary spent the first nine years of his life on Vancouver Island, until his owners divorced and surrendered him; Hopcraft, who runs an exotic animal rescue called Wild Education, took him in him after some hesitation. “I’ve worked with servals in the past on film sets and they’re crazy,” Hopcraft says. But it became clear that nobody else wanted him, so Hopcraft couldn’t say no. “In the end, we took him in, and he’s been doing amazing.”

When he’s not on the couch, he wanders among the aquariums and enclosures in the back of the rescue centre, full of Hopcraft’s other rescues: ferrets and chinchillas, tortoises and iguanas, scorpions and tarantulas, an inquisitive blue-and-gold macaw. There are hundreds of animals here, but only one of them is now illegal to buy or sell in B.C.: Gary. 

In May, the province amended its Controlled Alien Species Regulation to prohibit the “breeding, transport and future ownership” of non-domestic, non-native cat species, a category that includes servals, caracals, ocelots and a number of other species. (Large exotic cats, like tigers and lions, have been illegal to possess in B.C. since 2010.) Hopcraft and other exotic cat lovers can keep their pets, provided they apply for a permit by May 2027. Doing so requires signing away their rights to visitors. These cats can only interact with members of their households; in other words, my visit with Gary will soon be prohibited by provincial law. Violating the law could mean a fine of up to $250,000, a two-year prison sentence or both.

A deadly history of exotic cats in B.C. 

It’s impossible to say how many non-native wild cats are kept as pets in this province, because their breeding and ownership has always been unregulated. By email, the B.C. government admitted they “do not have this information.” But among the uncountable exotic cats, servals — which are often crossed with domestic cats to produce a hybrid species called a savannah — seem to be the most popular species. 

It’s equally hard to pinpoint when they entered the Canadian pet trade, but by the early 2000s there were ads in B.C. newspapers offering serval cubs for sale. But pet servals were in North America before that; the Long Island Ocelot Club, an association of exotic cat owners and enthusiasts, was founded in 1956. In 1986, the club issued an exciting announcement in their newsletter: a female Siamese cat and male serval had fathered a kitten in Pennsylvania. 

The new hybrid was called a savannah, the first of the eponymous breed, and soon took off in popularity. (Intriguingly, 1986 was also the year Savannah took off as a popular name for baby girls, according to the U.S. Social Security Administration.) Savannahs are categorized by how recently descended they are from servals: a filial 1, or F1, has a serval parent, while an F2 is bred from an F1 savannah and another domestic cat. (The same genetic terminology is applied in botany; peppermint, for instance, is an F1 descendant of spearmint and watermint.) Under the updated legislation, savannah cats remain legal — provided they’re at least four generations away from a serval. The trouble is, many people want a lot of serval in the mix. This is evident on breeder websites, in which prices descend along with generations: a savannah breeder in Quebec tells me first-generation savannah cats are priced between $15,000 and $22,000, while one in Kelowna, B.C., gives a range of $18,000 to $30,000. 

Much of the time, these servals and near-serval hybrids fly under the radar — except when they escape, which they’re pretty good at. Just last month, a pet serval was spotted under a porch in Vancouver, prompting a call to police. Sara Dubois, the senior director of animal welfare science and standards at the BC SPCA, tells me she knows of at least four other pet servals currently on the loose in B.C.: two reported on Vancouver Island and another two in the Lower Mainland. 

Restricting all exotic wild cats — those that are neither domesticated nor native to Canada — has been a long time coming, Dubois says. In May 2007, one of three pet tigers kept on a rural property near 100 Mile House, B.C., by a man named Kim Carlton, reached through the bars of its cage and clawed the leg of Carlton’s fiancée, Tanya Dumstrey-Soos; she bled to death in front of her teenage son. The incident prompted the B.C. ministers of environment and agriculture to meet with the SPCA to “prevent similar tragedies,” though at the time they declined to comment on any outright bans. Still, the province developed the controlled species regulation in 2009, restricting ownership of certain exotic animals. By the time this new law came into force, Carlton had procured two new lion cubs to replace his tigers. “I still cry every day because I miss [Tanya],” he told The Province, but “life has to go on.” 

After the incident, the SPCA asked for all exotic species to be listed in the regulation, but the government was just focused on “public safety,” Dubois says. Animals like tigers, monkeys and cobras were banned, but one could — and can still — procure a kangaroo or a zebra. And until recently, smaller exotic cats like servals — basically anything bigger than a tabby, but smaller than a cheetah — were unregulated.

But more than a decade later in July 2019, 10 adult servals and three kittens were seized from a breeder in Little Fort, B.C., about an hour north of Kamloops, after numerous complaints of sick and injured animals being sold. The investigation revealed “horrific” conditions, attracting enough attention to push the issue forward, but Dubois says there wasn’t sufficient support from the government until the 2024 election of Randene Neill as MLA for Powell River-Sunshine Coast. A former journalist, she had covered BC SPCA stories and was now the minister of water, land and resource stewardship. According to Dubois, Neill supported updating the regulation. (The minister and her staff declined to speak with The Narwhal for this story, but provided written answers to questions, as is typical when we reach out for an interview.) 

The challenge with changing cat laws

A basic challenge for the updated legislation, which allows existing owners to keep their exotic pets as long as they register them by next May, is that no one knows how many of those exotic pets there are, or even how many breeders. “Unless you have neighbours reporting that there’s something suspicious happening, we might never know,” Dubois says. And of course, not everyone wants to be a snitch. One resident of Sooke, B.C. — a hotbed of serval breeding and ownership based on the number of escaped animals reported in recent years — messaged me on Facebook to say a serval had been killing pets in her neighbourhood, but asked that I not mention her name in this article. “I don’t want my neighbours to hate me,” she wrote.

For owners like Hopcraft, the new laws are “a disaster.” He will have to submit an application detailing evidence of a secure enclosure where Gary will be kept, as well as a public safety plan in the event of escape. He also needs to demonstrate Gary’s welfare is taken into account, describing his diet, comfort, veterinary care and “freedom to express behaviours that promote well-being.” Gary, who currently has free rein in his warehouse, will have to be confined to a ministry-approved enclosure and will no longer be able to socialize with anyone outside of Hopcraft’s immediate family, including his staff. 

Hopcraft worries about Gary’s quality of life. In its announcement, the ministry wrote exotic cats “can pose risks to public safety, pets and wildlife,” though Hopcraft is skeptical of this justification. “When is the last time you heard of a serval attacking someone?” he asks. “Never, because they’re not that kind of animal.” 

The Narwhal asked the B.C. government if they had identified any known attacks on humans by servals. It did not directly answer the question; instead, it wrote public safety was “one of several factors considered” when updating the legislation. The tendency of escaped servals to kill other pets, however, is well-documented. 

For the BC SPCA, Dubois says, the priority is animal welfare. “But you know, that argument hasn’t been enough for the government to be concerned as well. They need to see some other reasons why this might be important for their policy agenda.” (By email, the government told The Narwhal, “The amendments reflect a precautionary and proportionate approach that accounts for the full range of potential risks to people, animals and ecosystems, while recognizing that existing animals can continue to be safely and humanely cared for under permit.”) 

The only thing more challenging than keeping a serval might be giving one up. Zoos won’t take exotic cats from the province’s unregulated pet trade, Dubois says, because there’s no way to determine the animal’s lineage, which means they can’t be used for breeding. The BC SPCA won’t take them either because “they’re not safe to have in our facilities,” Dubois says. Last year, during the forest fires on Vancouver Island, one owner reached out to ask if the BC SPCA could shelter his two servals. “We said, sorry, but no. Our enclosures are not set up, our staff are not trained. This is something you have to think about as an owner.” 

But people are probably not thinking about natural disasters or rehoming plans when they get a serval. They’re probably thinking: how cute! “It doesn’t help that social media is just exploding with these,” Dubois says; one Instagram account, Chloe the Serval, has more than 817,000 followers. “People do not know what they are getting into with these exotic cats.”

“Servals should not be available for pets,” Hopcraft says. “But when they put blanket laws in place, they screw over the rescues as well. The animals suffer in the end — because there is nowhere for them to go. There is nowhere for a serval in B.C. to go.” 

There is, in fact, nowhere at all in Canada for an unwanted serval to go. To surrender a pet serval, owners must look south of the border.

The reality of purchasing a wild animal 

The first exotic cat in Ian Ford’s life arrived in 1996, from a classified ad in an Oregon newspaper that caught his mother Cheryl’s eye: a “hybrid bobcat kitten.” It soon became apparent that BoBo was pure bobcat and not well-suited to living in a house. For one thing, he couldn’t be litter box-trained. (Neither can servals, according to everyone interviewed for this story, most of whom brought it up without being asked.) Cheryl was advised to euthanize BoBo or release him into the woods, but instead she transformed their eight-acre property in the Portland, Oregon, suburbs into a registered nonprofit cat sanctuary. 

Soon, Ford says, more cats arrived: a Canadian lynx. Two servals. A mountain lion. In 2010, their first tigers. “It just kind of snowballed from there.” Today, Ford is the administration director of WildCat Ridge Sanctuary, an 80-acre property an hour south of Portland. It’s home to around 85 exotic cats — or, as Ford calls them, residents. “We consider ourselves a retirement home,” he says. “They’re here to live out their life in as much comfort and dignity as possible.” 

It might also be fair to call it a palliative care ward. “The premise of everything we’re doing is to make it so that these animals — who didn’t need to be born, and certainly didn’t need to be born in captivity, who will essentially be in prison their entire lives — will at least have grass,” he says.  

WildCat Ridge is a no-contact facility — even the staff don’t get to pet the cats — and closed to the public. But from his couch, Ford can hear lions calling to one another while he plays video games. They have cats of all sizes: caracals, which look a bit like cougars with huge tufted ears, and Asian leopard cats, which are housecat-sized and deceptively adorable, and tigers, which everyone can already picture. And servals. Lots of servals.

“We have probably 30 servals,” Ford says, and six or seven have come from Canada. Each week, the sanctuary fields calls from more people who have exotic cats or hybrid offspring. Often, Ford says, they don’t even know what they really have on their hands, thanks to an unregulated market and unscrupulous breeders. 

Many animals arrive with injuries or disabilities. Often they’re declawed or missing teeth; one cat arrived with a pierced ear, Ford recalls, because its owners “thought it was cool.” Then there’s metabolic bone disease, where the animal’s skeleton weakens and decays because of a poor diet, leading to broken bones, arthritis and chronic pain. It’s primarily caused by nutritional deficiencies, as animals that should be catching and eating whole prey are given ground beef and dry cat food instead. Six of the servals at WildCat Ridge, Ford says, suffer from metabolic bone disease.

I think about Gary, lumbering painfully around his warehouse; his former owners, Hopcraft told me, used to feed him hot dogs. (In addition to beef cubes, Gary is now fed whole rats native to Africa, which Hopcraft breeds himself.)

The neglect and suffering Ford witnesses among his feline residents has made him jaded, he says, but he tries to have compassion for the owners who call him pleading for help. 

“I try to remember the human side of it too — people have just exhausted every possible thing. And, just like my mom, despite the fact that they made a horrible decision at first, they are trying to do the right thing.” 

A guardian angel for regretful exotic cat owners

Kelly Brook Allen is one of the people who tried to do the right thing. Fifteen years ago, she received a serval kitten from a breeder in Coquitlam, B.C., in exchange for designing a website. She named him Tigger. But in 2012, he escaped her Langley home during a storm; despite a blitz of attention from news outlets and social media, as well as the services of a professional pet tracker, he was never recaptured. Allen was devastated. The breeder, in sympathy, gave her a new serval: a five-week-old female named Duma, the Swahili word for cheetah. Allen put a tracking collar on her. If she knew then what she knows now, she says, she would have never taken either cat.

To supply Duma with a healthy diet, Allen purchased rodents in bulk from a supplier in Ontario, shipping them by air to B.C. every six weeks, and a neighbour next door raised rabbits to supplement Duma’s diet. “It cost $1,100 a month to feed her properly,” she says. Duma was beloved — but wild. “She almost killed my Jack Russell [terrier] twice — she had him by the neck.”

Breeders, she says, don’t give buyers enough information about how to care for their new pets. “People, like me, get them — and then you realize, you can’t house train them,” she says. “Anything F4 and above, they piss anywhere. They poop anywhere. They don’t bury their crap anywhere. And if they get out, they’ll be gone.” 

After the servals in Little Fort were seized, Allen began planning for Duma’s future. “I had her for 10 years, I was committed to her, I wanted to keep her,” she says. “But they were really pushing for a ban in B.C., so I started looking for sanctuaries.” She found WildCat Ridge, and obtained a permit to transport Duma across the border. But it was the summer of 2021 — the border was still closed to non-essential travel due to COVID-19, and much of the province was on fire. Allen was evacuated, and Duma spent three weeks in the back of a horse trailer. “Finally, I phoned down to the border and said, ‘Listen, my husband has a commercial licence. Can he drive this cat down to Oregon, and come back without getting a fine?’ And they said, ‘Absolutely.’ ”

For two years, Allen was unable to visit Duma. Then she got a call about a doctor on Vancouver Island with an F1 savannah who had prompted complaints from the neighbours. Allen called him, picked up the cat, had her spayed and drove her down to WildCat Ridge. Finally, she got to see Duma, who approached the edge of her enclosure and gazed at Allen for a long moment. Then she was gone. 

Allen has transported other servals and savannahs to WildCat Ridge, becoming a kind of guardian angel for regretful owners trying to finally do the right thing. She’s glad to see the updated legislation, but she doesn’t think enforcing it will be easy for anyone. 

“It’s going to be really tough for people to surrender their pets,” she says. “And how are they going to find half of them? They don’t know where they are.” 

Behind the walls of an exotic cat breeding den: ‘It was horrendous’

Carla Edge has more experience with servals than most people. Formerly a special provincial constable with the BC SPCA — tasked with enforcing laws around pet ownership and animal cruelty — Edge was responsible for the North Thompson and Cariboo regions. “I covered over 50,000 square kilometres on my own,” she says, a region that included Little Fort. “It was a huge area.” She knew of caracal owners in the province, but servals were the exotic cat species she became most familiar with. “Maybe they’re less aggressive than others, but they can cause a lot of damage,” she says. 

In her role, Edge could execute search warrants in cases of reported animal cruelty and had received reports from veterinarians of breeders in Little Fort who were selling servals with “serious metabolic disease.” That breeder, Edge adds, would put kittens in her bag to sneak them over the border for buyers in the United States. 

When Edge searched the Little Fort property, she and her fellow officers found 13 cats in total in a home and two RVs, confined to small spaces with the windows blacked out. The rooms, Edge says, reeked of urine and were caked with old, dried feces.

“It was very dark in the rooms as well. The trailers had windows that had been painted black, but over time that paint had worn off and you could see inside … the level of feces and ammonia, rotting food — it was horrendous … absolutely horrible.” 

The cats were removed, and transferred to sanctuaries in the United States, but the course of action was complicated by the lack of regulation. “Servals always fell in a grey zone,” Edge says, neither listed as controlled alien species nor domestic enough to treat as regular pets. Neither zoos nor the SPCA wanted to deal with them, and no single body took responsibility for them. 

Now the government is taking responsibility for exotic cats. “There is going to be a ton of pushback from serval owners,” Edge says. “It’s going to be a tough go.” Everyone thinks their pet is special, and many of them love their pets enough to break the rules. 

“I know of animal owners on the island, in Abbotsford — they are all over,” she says. And those owners are secretive, she adds. In 2023, Edge says, she and Allen were both contacted by someone looking for help rehoming two cats. “I was under the impression that these were the only two servals she had,” Edge says. “Turns out, she still has a couple more.” 

Edge has since left the BC SPCA to become a social worker, but she has spent most of her life in law enforcement. “And there isn’t another enforcement agency out there that has to cover the amount of legislation a [conservation officer] does,” she says. “So yeah, adding this to their plate — they’re going to have to make the determination of where the priorities come.” (By email, the Ministry of Water, Land and Resource Stewardship said, “Officers receive special training to handle the variety of reptiles and exotic animals that fall under [the controlled alien species regulation].”)

Finding the animals is one challenge. But the province’s plan relies, in part, on conservation officers being able to identify the difference between a now-restricted serval and a legal savannah hybrid. In 2022, a large cat was spotted in a residential Vancouver neighbourhood, and the province’s conservation officer service was dispatched. Later, they posted triumphantly on Twitter: “It wasn’t a cougar, cheetah or 200 pound jaguar. It was a savannah cat!” But many experts disagreed with their assessment — including Dubois, who told CBC Vancouver it was likely a serval. 

Edge is happy the legislation has come in but isn’t sure how it’s going to be enforced. “What’s going to happen to these animals? Should they be removed from those owners now? That I’m very curious about.” Edge has sent many servals to sanctuaries in the United States, including WildCat Ridge Sanctuary in Oregon — but she knows that most of those sanctuaries are full. There are too many of these exotic cats, and nowhere for them to go. 

A confession

Why all this interest in exotic cats? From the government, from the millions of Instagram users following serval accounts, from this particular journalist writing thousands of words about obscure pets and unruly legislation? There’s a simple answer: I have one of my own.

Well, sort of: I have a savannah cat, a fact I disclosed to everyone interviewed in this story, partly for transparency and partly to see if they’d ask for a photo. (“He is stunning,” Allen texted, gratifyingly.)

Like many owners of exotic cats, I obtained Azzy through unofficial channels. While visiting my sister in 2018, I met her new foster pet: a sinuous silver cat with huge ears, surrendered by his previous owners for being too challenging. Each night he slept on the guest bed with me, and in the morning I would wake up to find his paw in my outstretched hand. It felt like he was already mine; logic didn’t really enter into the decision. At the end of the week, I took him on a five-hour flight home, a harrowing experience I am still trying to forget. I have no access to his veterinary records, and I don’t know his pedigree. “By the look of his nose, he could be F4 or higher,” Allen texted, which is a chilling thought; any higher than F4, and Azzy too would fall under the same regulations as Gary. But then again, how could I know for sure? 

Azzy, like Gary, seems ill-suited to domesticity in some ways. He’s around 12 years old now — I’ll never know his exact age — but as a younger cat, he would literally bounce off the walls. Though he weighs 11 pounds, a typical size for an ordinary house cat, his long legs enable him to scale a refrigerator in a single leap. Like Gary, he takes Prozac for anxiety, which seems to calm him down. He still sleeps in bed with me each night and spends much of the workday intruding on my Zoom calls. I love him as best I can. But should I own him? Should anyone?

“A lot of people think, why put all this time and effort into it?” says Dubois, of the BC SPCA’s seven-year campaign to restrict ownership of exotic cats. Some see it as government overreach; others think owning an exotic cat is no big deal. “But it sends a message: we should not be breeding wild animals with domestic animals, we should keep our communities safe by having appropriate animals, and we should regulate breeding in general.” After the controlled alien species regulation was first introduced, people worried big cat owners would go underground too, she says, but that didn’t happen. A decade from now, she’s optimistic fewer exotic cats will be in B.C., living lives they were never meant for. 

Admittedly, it’s a regional solution to a broader problem: two breeders contacted by The Narwhal declined to be interviewed but said they were moving their cats to Ontario and Quebec where there aren’t the same restrictions. Gradually, the loopholes are closing, but not fast enough to prevent more Canadians from bringing an exotic cat home. There is still a market for them. And for tortoises, and tarantulas, and chameleons — all the hundreds of other rescues under Hopcraft’s care, still legal to breed and sell. 

When I peered into Hopcraft’s enclosures, at a drowsy chameleon or a skittish hedgehog, I found myself thinking about the day I took my first child home from the hospital. I could not believe that the nurses and doctors were content to let us take her home when we so clearly had no idea what we were doing. And yet, the logic of pet ownership has always been the same: the desire alone — to be responsible for another helpless living thing — is enough to claim it as a right. 

Laws are necessary, as we recognize animal neglect and cruelty as intolerable. But they are not exhaustive, and they can’t correct for our human failings: our impulses and desires, our short-sightedness, our greed. When desire outpaces reason, and owners find themselves in over their heads, it becomes everyone’s problem. Solving the riddle of human nature is beyond the reach of any law.

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.

Summary

• Temperatures in Vancouver could climb as high as 29 C this weekend, the first heat wave of the year.
• Water restrictions are in effect, only three of the city’s five outdoor pools are open and outdoor water sampling at many popular beaches has been suspended due to strikes.
• This summer is projected to be one of the hottest on record, raising questions about the readiness of Vancouver to protect its citizens from extreme heat.

This weekend, Vancouverites will swelter under the first heat wave of the year, with a sunny forecast of up to 29 C on Saturday and Sunday. (Listen up, the rest of Canada: it’s not a dry heat!) It’s ideal weather for swimming outdoors or taking your kids to a wading pool — or it would be, if that were an option.

Only three of the city’s five outdoor pools — Second Beach, Hillcrest and New Brighton — will be open. The city’s 11 wading pools, meanwhile, are suspended all summer due to Stage 3 water restrictions across the city, which are expected to last until October. Perhaps you think this is no big deal — after all, the Pacific is right there. But those looking to cool down in the ocean will be taking their chances, as water quality tests at many of the city’s most popular beaches have been suspended due to job action, and those that have been tested lately are showing higher-than-expected E. coli counts. 

It’s a bleak start to the summer, which is expected to be one of the hottest on record, according to Environment Canada.

Complaints about Vancouver’s lack of outdoor pools aren’t new: a decade ago, the Vancouver Sun pointed out the city has fewer pools than any other major city in Canada. (On their city websites, Montreal lists 62; Toronto has 58.) We’re on par with Saskatoon — which operates far more wading pools and splash pads, despite being a much smaller city. But most people frame this as a recreation problem, not a public health issue. 

A recent study in the Journal of Environmental Economics and Management found in New York City, more people visit outdoor pools on hot days. No surprise. But the association was strongest in low-income neighbourhoods where many residents have few other options for cooling down. What’s more, the authors found, public pool availability during extreme summer temperatures can reduce heat-related emergency calls by 15 to 29 per cent. 

Five years ago, a heat dome caused 619 deaths in B.C., the deadliest weather event in Canadian history. June 2021 was a wake-up call about the risks posed by climate change, and the urgent need for cities to adapt to extreme heat events. But looking for a place to get wet in Vancouver reveals an alarming reality: we’re not ready for the summer ahead — and we’re definitely not prepared for the future. 

How to cope with heat

Outdoor water recreation is not the only way to cope with heat waves, but it is an important one, especially for people who don’t live in spaces that can be easily cooled. The BC Coroners Service reported 98 per cent of deaths during the 2021 heat dome happened indoors, and most of those who died lacked air conditioning or fans. 

A 2023 report from the federal government noted that B.C. has the fewest number of households with air conditioning — just 32 per cent, compared to 61 per cent nationally. Among low-income households, that figure drops to 17 per cent. Until just a few days ago, landlords could still prohibit renters from installing portable air conditioners without penalty.

“The number of people vulnerable to an extreme heat event is expected to grow as census predictions show a steadily rising elderly population and an increasing share of one-person households,” the report noted. 

But earlier this year, the City of Vancouver discontinued its four-year-old cool kit program, which distributed water bottles, spray bottles, cooling gel packs and other useful things for those that needed them. Instead, the city has seemingly replaced this program with a list of tips for cooling down in the heat. Among the places they advise going to are the still-closed swimming and wading pools. 

As temperatures have risen in recent decades, Vancouver has lost pools: since 1993, four outdoor swimming pools have been decommissioned while adding just one, at Hillcrest Aquatic Centre. Kitsilano Pool, the city’s most popular outdoor pool, is nearing the end of its life and had its season shortened the last two summers due to repairs.

And last October, the city passed a budget cutting $120 million from various departments to spare homeowners a property tax increase. The Vancouver Park Board noted this would mean a $15 million cut to parks. It’s a cut that doesn’t bode well for the ability to improve water amenities in the summer.

Tightened budgets mean we also can’t extend pool operating hours or seasons, which also speak to an antiquated definition of summer that has yet to catch up with our new reality. Wading pools weren’t set to open for another few weeks — even before water restrictions put them on hold altogether. Three of the city’s five outdoor pools close on Labour Day. But high temperatures often persist well beyond that; last September was the hottest on record in Vancouver history. 

A representative for the city told The Narwhal that spray parks — which operate on demand — are more aligned with the city’s water conservation goals than wading pools, which must be filled and drained each day to comply with public health guidelines. A representative from the city told The Narwhal that one new spray park is being designed, while the renewal of another is scheduled to begin this fall. In addition, they wrote “funding is being sought for one or two new spray parks” in the forthcoming capital plan. Increases in spending on wading pools and spray parks since 2019, the city wrote, “reflects a shift toward more extensive repairs and renewals driven by the age and condition of existing infrastructure, as well as available funding.”

Of course, there are Vancouver’s many beaches. They’re free, numerous and open all year — but not always safe to enjoy. Last July, eight beaches were deemed unsafe due to E. coli levels. Even when they are open, they’re not accessible for everyone — like young children, those with mobility issues or anyone else who lives too far to drop by on a hot day — and a climate-resilient city should have cooling infrastructure in every neighbourhood, rather than expecting all its citizens to trek to the beach. 

Pools and outdoor water infrastructure aren’t things that are nice to have. They’re climate adaptations, even if “thermal respite,” or relief from extreme temperatures, is mentioned last among the reasons for pool use in Vancouver’s 2019 aquatic strategy. 

As in 2021, those most at risk from extreme heat this summer are the city’s most vulnerable: low-income and unhoused citizens, as well as the youngest and oldest among us. If only there were more places for them to escape the heat.

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.

Summary

• In early May, BC Parks announced Pipi7íyekw/Joffre Lakes Park will be restricted to members of the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations from June 20-27 and Sept. 8-30. 
• Líl̓wat Nation has since released its own statement with different closure dates, saying the trust with the province has been broken. 
• Since 2018, the two First Nations have been working with BC Parks on visitor management and the temporary closures — called reconnection periods — have been implemented since 2023. However, negotiations broke down last year over a dispute over the 2025 closure length.

Once again, one of B.C.’s most popular parks is implementing temporary closures this summer — and no one is happy about it.

Since 2023, Pipi7íyekw/Joffre Lakes Park has closed for brief reconnection periods, when entry is restricted to members of Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua First Nations, whose unceded territories encompass the park. During these periods, members can harvest traditional medicines, participate in cultural events and ceremonies and enjoy a part of their territory that is often too crowded with visitors for them to access at all, trampled and strewn with trash by the end of peak season. Since 2018, the two nations have worked with BC Parks on a joint strategy for managing visitors.

Last year, things went off the rails. Backlash over the temporary closures spiked as politicians — including BC Conservative leadership candidate Caroline Elliott and OneBC leader Dallas Brodie — used the closures to argue Indigenous Rights had gone too far. On X, Brodie claimed that park access across the province may someday be “dependent upon your racial status.”

Then came a dispute over the length of the final 2025 reconnection period. The nations planned for two months, from late August to the end of October, but BC Parks went with about half that time, between the Labour Day weekend and Oct. 3. The decision sparked protests from members and supporters of the two nations and allies. 

Which brings us to May 7, when BC Parks announced the closure dates for this year: one week in June, which includes National Indigenous Peoples’ Day on June 21, and from Sept. 8 until the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation on Sept. 30. Neither nation was part of the announcement. They have not met with BC Parks as a working group since last fall’s dispute, according to the Ministry of Environment and Parks, which said it “has been working to try and re-engage” the nations ever since.

On May 27, almost three weeks after the BC Parks announcement, Líl̓wat Nation released a statement calling on the B.C. government to implement its desired reconnection period for the fall, spanning Aug. 23 to Oct. 5. That’s roughly three weeks longer than the province’s stated closure, and the nation made it clear the unilateral announcement by the province “has further undermined an already fractured relationship.”

In an emailed statement, Líl̓wat Nation said this year’s letter has also been signed by N’Quatqua First Nation, “reflecting continued alignment between the two nations on the importance of the closure periods and the broader management concerns at Pipi7íyekw/Joffre Lakes.” 

The planned reconnection period has once again unleashed “an unspeakable amount of online racism,” Green MLA Jeremy Valeriote said in the legislature on May 19. Valeriote, whose West Vancouver-Sea to Sky riding includes Pipi7íyekw, added the ministry’s lack of consultation with the First Nations, as well as the public disagreement over closure dates, may fuel the growing misinformation and mistrust surrounding Indigenous Rights in B.C. 

During question period, he asked Minister of Environment and Parks Tamara Davidson: “How is this collaboration? It seems that the government is either blaming the nations or waving the problem away instead of doing the actual work to alleviate the confusion in the minister’s estimation. Have the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations become collateral damage in the toxic reconciliation dialogue we’re experiencing?”

Major spike in visitors at Pipi7íyekw/Joffre Lakes

Just three provincial parks in B.C. require visitors to reserve a free day-use pass in advance during busy months — Pipi7íyekw/Joffre Lakes, Garibaldi Park and Golden Ears Park, all located within driving distance of Vancouver. Though there are more than a thousand parks in the province, these three and a handful of others become magnets for visitors. 

According to BC Parks, provincial parks on the south coast have seen a 52 per cent increase in visitor traffic since 2010 — and in Pipi7íyekw/Joffre Lakes, visits increased by 222 per cent between 2010 and 2019. 

“The overtourism leading up to the day-pass system was pretty significant. … I don’t think people fully appreciate what it’s like to have 200,000 people tramping through a relatively small park,” Valeriote told The Narwhal.

The stampede put a strain on the park, which can be accessed only through a single out-and-back route: trails were packed, cars spilled out of the parking lot, trash cans overflowed. Temporary closures were implemented to ensure rights-holding First Nations could access their territory, as well as give the land itself an opportunity to rest.

The nations’ proposed 2025 closure dates reflected “the time required for our communities to reconnect with the land, conduct ceremonies, gather food and medicines, and allow Pipi7íyekw the rest it needs to heal,” according to an August statement. “The province’s refusal to honour these dates undermines both reconciliation and the health of the land and people.”

History is repeating itself in 2026, with another disagreement over dates. 

In a statement sent to The Narwhal on May 27, the Ministry of Environment and Parks said it’s aware of the discrepancy between its 2026 dates and those given by Líl̓wat Nation. “The province reached out to the Líl̓wat Nation and N’Quatqua First Nations starting in February, reiterating a desire to identify long-term solutions that provide predictability and support the needs of all park users,” it said. According to the statement, the length of the 2026 closure dates align with “a commitment the province made in 2023 for 30 days of closures” — though in 2024 and 2025, the park was closed for nearly twice as many days. 

Parks Minister Davidson declined an interview with The Narwhal, but said by email the government values its relationship with both nations and hopes “to return to the table to collaborate on long-term solutions that provide predictability and support the needs of all park users.”

When asked if the province has a plan in place for protests or blockades that might arise over the disputed closure dates — as they did in 2025 — Minister of Indigenous Relations and Reconciliation Spencer Chandra Herbert did not answer directly, but said the province supported peaceful protest but not blockades.

Green MLA concerned about the politicization of parks closures

Valeriote told The Narwhal he worries the ministry’s unilateral communications, contradicted by Líl̓wat, will exacerbate growing tensions in B.C. over Indigenous Rights and reconciliation. 

The claim that the closures are race-based — rather than rights-based — has been deployed frequently.

“I won’t mince words: the Conservatives and OneBC are using this as a political wedge issue,” Valeriote said. “It’s fully opportunistic. They’re talking about … ‘We no longer have access to our public land.’ It’s pure fear mongering, and it’s irresponsible,” he said. “But in our political system, they’re taking advantage of an opportunity. That’s unfortunately how this political system works.”

Valeriote alluded to the recent tension over the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act, or DRIPA, which spiked in the wake of a court decision affirming that Cowichan Nation holds Aboriginal Title over a former village site in Richmond, B.C., which is now privately owned land. Despite Cowichan asserting repeatedly that they do not intend to seek claim to private land, the ruling has sparked panic among some property owners, with politicians rushing to reassure them — or amplify their fears. 

“They’re using [parks] to argue that Indigenous people are getting too good of a deal, and we should all be scared and, you know, private land ownership is playing into that.”

Misinformation is circulating, and not only about the closure dates, but who exactly is being kept out. B.C. politics reporter Rob Shaw posted on X that the BC Parks closure is “to allow First Nations to practice cultural and conservation traditions.” In fact, while there are 203 First Nations in B.C. — and residents of the province who are members of other First Nations across the country — only Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua members can access the parks during those periods.

Do B.C. and the First Nations see the park the same way?

In her emailed statement, Davidson emphasized balancing “predictable access” and visitor experience with reconciliation. “As one of BC Parks’ busiest destinations, welcoming thousands of visitors each year, we have a responsibility to carefully manage visitation in [the] park so people can have the most enjoyable experience.” When asked in the legislature on May 28 if trust had been broken with the First Nations, Davidson said, “I think we’d have to go back to Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua to ask them. But for our part, we’re working together and we’re trying to build that relationship back up again.” (In their August 2025 statement, the nations wrote, “We have lost trust in working with BC Parks.”)

But Líl̓wat’s statement makes it clear the First Nation sees the park differently, writing that reconnection periods are required “so our people can harvest, hold ceremony, teach our children on the land and carry out our stewardship responsibilities in Pipi7íyekw.”

In other words, a park is not just for enjoyment; it’s also a responsibility and a relationship. And that responsibility requires acknowledging that predictability is an increasingly unrealistic goal as climate change wreaks havoc on the planet, including Canadian parks. In recent years, parks across the country have closed after being damaged and destroyed by storms and floods. Many parks — including Jasper in Alberta, and Nopiming in Manitoba — have closed after being scorched by wildfire.

There is no certainty when it comes to our future access or enjoyment of nature. And the likelihood that parks will be around for anyone to enjoy is diminished when stewardship is treated as less important than on-demand access. The province knows this — despite the repeated emphasis on widespread access, only 500 daily passes are available, often booked up within moments of reservations opening.

“We see [a park] as a kind of piece of infrastructure, like a building, that’s supposed to be able to handle constant traffic and constant stress,” Valeriote told The Narwhal. “And I appreciate the Indigenous way of looking at it: it’s cyclical, and it’s a cultural asset that isn’t just about monetizing or utilizing 365 days a year. Sometimes it does need time to rest and reset,” he said. “I think the small amount of solitude that the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations can get in that cultural place is worth inconveniencing locals or tourists for a relatively few days a year.” 

Líl̓wat has asked the ministry to respond by Tuesday, June 2, and urged it to align the closure dates with those identified by the First Nation. 

“Reconciliation must be matched by action,” Líl̓wat Nation’s Chief Dean Nelson said in the statement. “If the province is serious about building a relationship based on mutual respect, it must start by respecting our reconnection periods.”

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.

Summary

• Around 10,000 Starlink satellites represent more than two-thirds of all satellites in low orbit, and SpaceX has ambitions to launch a million more — raising serious environmental and safety concerns.
• Usually satellites burn up on re-entry, leaving heavy metals and plastics in the atmosphere, but sometimes they leave debris on the ground. Canadians who live near the 50th parallel are under the densest band of satellites.
• Currently, Canada has no reporting system for space debris and no ability to limit the number of satellites launched into orbit. Existing space laws do not apply to private companies such as SpaceX and space is not covered by any environmental regulations.

Billions of people watched in awe as the Artemis II mission took an astronaut crew that included Canadian Jeremy Hansen around the moon and back. It was an awe-inspiring moment for space exploration — but not all the news from space is good for Earth. 

There are thousands of satellites in low orbit, which means 2,000 kilometres or less above the earth. Many were sent there by Elon Musk-owned SpaceX, which launched its first Starlink satellite in 2019 and has come to dominate the sky, representing more than two-thirds of all satellites in orbit. Wherever you are in Canada, when you look up at the increasingly bright night sky, you are seeing more satellites and fewer stars. 

Starlink is an internet provider used by rural farmers, northern First Nations and airplane passengers criss-crossing Canadian skies. Each of its satellites has a lifespan of roughly five years, after which they re-enter Earth’s atmosphere at a rate of one or two satellites per day. 

At this point, they become what’s known as space junk — burning up entirely or, occasionally, scattering debris. But those occasions will become more common if SpaceX fulfills its ambitions to launch a lot more satellites in the years to come, coinciding with the explosion in data centres and artificial intelligence. That would mean more light pollution in the night sky and more space junk falling back to Earth.

Samantha Lawler is a professor of astronomy with the University of Regina and goat farmer — and she is concerned about space junk. She spoke with us from her farm in Saskatchewan (where she did not use Starlink to connect to Zoom) about why we should be concerned about the growing number of satellites over Canada — including the potential for satellite collisions that could make low orbit unusable for everyone, a scenario called Kessler syndrome. 

“We’re right on the edge of that already,” she said, adding that someone needs to take on the engineering challenge of providing rural internet and other services with fewer satellites. “There is a limit to how many we can safely have in orbit, and I think we’ve crossed that limit.”

SpaceX didn’t respond to The Narwhal’s questions about the environmental or safety impacts of their plan, and the Canadian Space Agency didn’t respond when asked if and when an official reporting system might be created. But Lawler had a lot more to say about the current lack of regulations protecting us from their impacts in the sky — or here on Earth.

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

What’s your work all about? 

I study orbital dynamics in the Kuiper belt — so, looking at small icy rocks in the outer solar system and measuring their orbits. I started my position at the University of Regina and moved to a farm with access to dark skies in 2019, right when the first Starlink satellites launched, so I could watch the change in my night sky that I suddenly had access to and see the change in my research data, too. Increasingly, there were more and more satellite streaks in my data.

So, I had this unique perspective of seeing that wow, this was pretty bad, and it’s going to get a lot worse.

In 2021, you published an article that said one out of every 15 points of light in the night sky would soon be a satellite, not a star. At the time, what were the environmental and scientific concerns about that figure?

So, at the time, that one in 15 represented 65,000 satellites — which, when we wrote that paper, I thought was ridiculous. Like, there’s no way we’ll ever get to that. But here we are at around 15,000 with no signs of slowing down. So we might get there, and now there are proposals for millions of satellites. But at the time, I think very few astronomers — and almost no one outside the astronomy community — had any idea how bad this was. 

There was a small group of astronomers that noticed, “Hey, this is very bad for astronomy. But have you thought about how many of these are going to be burning up, and how many are going to be launched, and how much danger there is in orbit?” I think that’s starting to change now — I’m glad that more people are aware of the issues, but they continue to get worse.

So, in the vein of things getting worse, in January SpaceX requested the authority of the U.S. Federal Communications Commission to launch ‘a constellation of a million satellites’ to serve as an orbital data centre. How much worse would a million satellites be?

It’s so bad in every possible way. There’s no way we can get to a million satellites — there will be collisions in space and we’ll be in full Kessler syndrome before we get there. But if somehow, they managed not to crash, they have five-year lifetimes. That would be one re-entry every three minutes. And those satellites would have to be bigger than Starlink satellites because of the complexity of a data centre versus an internet provider, right? In some of the articles we were writing quickly, we were estimating two tonnes per satellite, but it sounds like from various things SpaceX has released that they’ll actually be much bigger than that. 

So these are as big as the International Space Station in terms of reflecting area, which means the simulations I ran were actually an underestimate of how bright they would be. So — everything is bad and actually it’s worse than the assumptions I made initially. Really, really bad.

Just to linger on that for a minute — all satellites that go up eventually have to come down, and they usually burn up on re-entry. What happens when they don’t?

So everything that’s in low Earth orbit, which is most of the satellites — including all of the 10,000-plus Starlink satellites — at the end of their life, they get burned up in Earth’s atmosphere, because it’s convenient. And so far, it looks like Starlink is actually doing a pretty good job of burning up. There was one piece of a Starlink satellite that was found in a farm in Saskatchewan a couple of years ago, but they seem to be doing a pretty good job. 

What that means, though, is that all the mass of the satellites — the solar panels, plastic, metal, batteries — it’s all getting melted and deposited in the upper atmosphere. So, that’s not a good thing. There was a period of time, about six months, where Starlink burned up 500 satellites. That’s around three per day. In that time period, they exceeded the natural infall rate from meteorites by at least twice as much — so, adding at least twice as much aluminium as what naturally comes into the atmosphere every day for six months.

So what does that do? We don’t actually know. There are a few preliminary studies showing this aluminum can become alumina, which can cause ozone depletion and change temperatures in the upper atmosphere, but we don’t know the full effects. And because space is not legally considered an environment, all satellites launched from the U.S. are categorically excluded from any kind of environmental regulations.

If they get to their steady state of having 42,000 Starlink satellites alone — that’s only one of many mega-constellations they have planned — that’s something like one satellite being burned up every hour in the atmosphere. These are satellites half the size of a Ford F-150 pickup truck. They’re not small. That’s a lot of metal being added to the upper atmosphere, and we don’t know the full effects of it.

Why is this changing so rapidly? In 2019, Starlink launched its first satellite — seven years later,  we are looking at the possibility of mega-constellations that will blot out the stars?

SpaceX does all the launching — all the other mega-constellation companies [such as One Web and Amazon’s LEO] are using SpaceX to get to orbit. It has the infrastructure to do all the launches, they have a lot of U.S. government funding to do those launches, so they’re doing them very, very quickly. It’s very impressive engineering, it just ignores so many of the larger effects.

We’re in different provinces, but you and I — and most Canadians — live close to the 50th parallel. You’ve mentioned people on our latitude are particularly affected by satellites. For Canadians who aren’t experts looking for data in the sky, what will they be seeing?

I know in my sky, there’s a line where I can always see a Starlink satellite in motion. Just always. So, people might notice that. We are also the highest-risk for satellites that aren’t burning up completely, because they’re right over our heads. These are all uncontrolled re-entries, so they just re-enter somewhere along their orbit, and we’re under the densest part. I think that was demonstrated by the piece that was found in Saskatchewan. 

That was in 2024, when a farmer found a piece of SpaceX debris on his farm?

Actually, there are two separate things: one was a big debris fall in Ituna, Sask., which was part of the SpaceX Dragon truck. It’s part of the capsule that brings astronauts up to the space station. When it doesn’t burn up completely, it falls — so that was a bunch of very large pieces discovered across many farms. I know of six pieces from that, but there are probably more that people haven’t reported because there is no way to report them. There’s no official reporting system. 

The second incident was a smaller piece from a Starlink satellite, about the size of a laptop, discovered near Hodgeville, Sask.

With the Ituna debris, it was reported to the Canadian government, and there was some kind of interaction between the Canadian and U.S. governments. In Ituna, SpaceX contacted the farmers directly and came to pick up the pieces. With Hodgeville, the farmer got in touch with SpaceX, and they had him FedEx [the debris] back. So no one in the Canadian government knew about it, which is bad.

The Ituna debris fall was spectacular because the pieces were so large and there were so many. But the Starlink debris is much scarier to me, because there are 10,000 of these over our heads, and if they’re not burning up completely, then that’s a lot of pieces that are hitting the ground. Here in Saskatchewan — I look out my window and it’s just bare fields. It’s the easiest place to find the pieces. But how many pieces are we not finding? These pieces look like something that fell off a car; if you found one in the city, you wouldn’t think it was space junk. 

Every time there’s a re-entry, they just roll the dice, like, “It’ll probably burn up.” But we don’t actually know, there’s no data released on that, and the only way we find out if they aren’t burning up completely is if we find pieces on the ground.

You’ve said there’s no reporting system in Canada — do you think that will change?

I’ve been in touch with the Canadian Space Agency and they say they are working on a plan. But I don’t know. Aaron Boley at the Outer Space Institute has set up an email address — spacejunk@outerspaceinstitute.ca — but it’s not official. We’re astronomers, we’re not supposed to be collecting this, but no one else is. 

After I heard a Starlink piece had fallen in Saskatchewan, I got in touch with the farmer by going on the Evan Bray radio show — like, the lunchtime farmer call-in show, where I go to talk about astronomy all the time — and asking who found it. Saskatchewan is a giant small town, so I actually got in touch with the guy by doing that. 

And he mentioned that his neighbour has some space junk too, and sent me a photo of this big piece of, like, corrugated metal. I was like, “Come on, that’s not space junk — it’s a piece of tractor or something.” But then he sent me a letter that this guy got from the Canadian government back in 1980, saying, “Thank you for sending us this piece of a Soviet rocket.” So, Saskatchewan has been the debris detector for decades.

So maybe 1980 was the time for the Canadian government to start thinking about a space debris plan! But what kind of power does it have?

Everything that goes into orbit is covered by the Outer Space Treaty and the Liability Convention, which are these Apollo-era treaties, written at a time when only the U.S. and the Soviet Union were launching stuff into orbit. They’re really not written for private companies. It’s just not set up for our current situation, where most of the satellites are owned by private corporations — by one private corporation, mostly.

Senator Paula Simons has launched a Senate inquiry into space junk falling on Canada, which is awesome. So there is starting to be some interest. But nothing has really happened substantively.

What feels possible in terms of Canada’s leverage here? It’s hard to imagine the U.S. being receptive to Canada saying, “Hey, slow down the satellite launches until we have a legislative and accountability framework in place.”

It’s hard, because Canada could say, “SpaceX, you are causing our taxpayer-funded astronomy research to suffer, so you need to pay a fine.” But then SpaceX could turn around and say, “Okay, the Canadian market isn’t that big, we just won’t broadcast to you.”

A lot of Canadians are benefitting from Starlink right now — which I don’t think is a good idea, but rural internet is terrible. And then Canada would get all of the downsides and none of the upsides.

Is it fair to say SpaceX has a kind of monopoly on space now?

SpaceX controls orbit, totally. They have two-thirds of all satellites in low orbit and if you want to go into space, you effectively have to ask them for permission. During the Artemis launch, they had all these blackout periods where there were Starlink satellites they had to avoid. By their own admission, Starlink does a collision avoidance manoeuvre every two minutes. 

I wrote a paper with a bunch of other people that’s being reviewed, but in June, when we wrote it, it predicted that it would take five-and-a-half days for a catastrophic collision [between satellites] to happen if there were no avoidance manoeuvres. It’s since dropped to three days. So if SpaceX gets hacked, or there’s a bad software update, or a giant solar storm, the time we have to avoid a giant collision in orbit is getting shorter and shorter. That’s a bad situation. 

Why does SpaceX even need 42,000 satellites to provide internet, if OneWeb is doing it with 800? They’ve never been asked to justify the number.

Hmm, all this sounds really bad. Is there anything Canadians can or should be doing?

We need alternatives on the ground to these internet provider mega-constellations. We need better rural internet. So something Canadians can do very easily is write to all levels of government about getting better internet to rural and remote communities, especially First Nations. I mean, no wonder everyone is using Starlink — I live 10 kilometres from the nearest town and I can connect to power lines and phone lines and natural gas lines but I can’t connect to broadband internet. 

That’s something we can all advocate for — because if people have good internet options based in Canada, then they don’t need to rely on an American billionaire-owned company.

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Who is your lovebird?

It’s the season for lovebirds — but which bird? Here at The Narwhal, we spend a lot of time writing and reporting on birds from coast to coast to coast. They’re ecologically critical, dazzlingly diverse, often imperiled by human activity and climate change — but also, let’s not forget, very romantic. Has a partner ever built you a home in a chimney? Or regurgitated food to save you all that tiresome chewing? Have they ever locked their talons to yours and executed a “death spiral” at high altitude to prove their undying affection?

If not, perhaps it’s time to look beyond the human dating pool for your ideal bird bae. Luckily, we’ve got a lot of strong contenders right here in Canada, from our iconic goose to the snowy owl, from monogamous to poly, there’s got to be one — or a few — out there for you. As you may have heard, boyfriends are embarrassing — but birds? They’re timeless.

Take our Valentine’s Day quiz to find the nest-mate of your dreams.

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The latest power struggle over the future of the Canadian economy — a hypothetical new pipeline from Alberta to the B.C. coast — has devolved into a rote debate: are First Nations blocking economic progress?

Coastal First Nations — an alliance of nine First Nations along the north coast of B.C. — have reiterated their strong support for the oil tanker ban the federal government put in place in 2019. It prohibits tankers carrying more than 12,500 metric tons of oil from travelling through their waters but is threatened by the pipeline proposed by Alberta Premier Danielle Smith and endorsed nominally by Prime Minister Mark Carney. B.C. Premier David Eby has pointed out the project has “no proponent, no route, no money.”

Such a pipeline would offer “unprecedented opportunities for Indigenous ownership, partnership, economic benefits, as well as substantial economic benefits for the people of British Columbia,” Carney has said, suggesting that the right incentives might change Indigenous opponents’ tune. But Marilyn Slett, elected chief of Heiltsuk Nation and president of Coastal First Nations, told APTN in a recent interview that it “isn’t about money in this situation.”

“It’s about the responsibility of looking after our territories and nurturing the sustainable economies that we currently have here.” 

It’s easy to file this away as more evidence of a familiar narrative: that First Nations are opposed to the economic progress that Canada needs to grow. In 2026, that narrative includes Canada’s need to protect itself from increasingly unpredictable threats (we all know from who) and attain true security and sovereignty as a nation. 

This is a tired line of argument. The Canadian economy does not depend on an imaginary pipeline, nor on just its oil and gas, logging and mining companies (many of which don’t mean much for Canadian sovereignty, as they are foreign-owned). They are pieces of the economic puzzle, but far from the only ones; mining and oil and gas make up around seven per cent of the national GDP. 

The marine ecosystems Coastal First Nations are fighting to protect are also part of the economy, and it’s time we started considering their values too.

Undermining legitimate territorial interests is a lazy argument against conservation

Let me get another tired trope out of the way: the attempt to weaken conservation and protection arguments by challenging who is Indigenous enough to have them. Conservative Leader Pierre Poilievre and others have painted Coastal First Nations as an “anti-pipeline group” that “doesn’t speak for” Indigenous communities. This is demonstrably untrue — its members are chief and council members of represented First Nations along the north coast. 

While it’s true there are dozens of First Nations with territorial interests along the full coast of B.C., the members of Coastal First Nations are speaking for what happens in their specific marine territories. We’ve seen this kind of argument before, as when Coastal GasLink proclaimed its agreements with 20 First Nations as sufficient proof of Indigenous support — even though none of those nations had territory that intersected with the pipeline. 

But what a First Nation along the southern coast or elsewhere in the province might hypothetically think about the oil tanker ban matters less than those whose territories are actually impacted — though groups that represent far more B.C. First Nations, including the Union of B.C. Indian Chiefs and the B.C. Assembly of First Nations, have also called to uphold the tanker ban. 

On to what matters: shortsighted discussions of the economy in Canada that begin and end with the resource sector. 

Part of the animosity towards First Nations’ opposition to resource projects is the belief that consultation and consent slows down projects and adds to their costs. But breaching or ignoring Indigenous Rights generally results in expensive lawsuits for Canadian governments — time and again, courts across the country have affirmed that territorial rights exist, and awarded Indigenous communities sizable settlements when they are breached. And nothing slows down a project like a long court battle. 

That doesn’t mean projects aren’t still proposed, started and completed without consent, but politicians are beginning to understand that working with First Nations (rather than losing to them repeatedly in court) has economic advantages. In B.C. Eby has championed deals in Nisga’a Nation for the Ksi Lisims LNG project and Tahltan Nation for mining — even as he vows to revise the province’s landmark Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act.

What Eby hasn’t mentioned lately is one of B.C.’s most economically beneficial agreements to date: the Great Bear Rainforest, a protected area created in partnership between Coastal First Nations, Nanwakolas Council and the province, which has generated $1.77 billion in economic activity for B.C. since its inception in 2008, according to a November 2025 report. According to 2025 figures, for every dollar of direct investment, the protected area has generated $5.61 in revenue in sectors like eco-tourism, fisheries and manufacturing. 

So why do we hear so much about resource industries — and so little about the other facets of our economy, particularly those that protect our environments rather than degrade them? One reason could be the enormous sums spent by the oil and gas industry on lobbying politicians and advertising to the public — often with misleading claims that downplay the incontrovertible links between fossil fuels and the climate crisis. (And Canada just made it easier for them to greenwash their activities.)

Upholding First Nations rights within their own territories is worth doing for its own sake. But we should also remember a functional economy requires a functional environment. 

Floods, wildfires, droughts and heat waves cause preventable deaths and hundreds of millions in damages, hospital visits, evacuation costs and soaring insurance premiums. These events are not random; they are caused by climate change and the destruction of our landscapes. To protect and restore these ecosystems requires, in part, respecting and upholding the rights of the First Nations who look after them. 

In B.C. alone, Indigenous tourism generates more than $1.1 billion in economic activity each year, driven by Canadians and international visitors who value time in nature and want to experience the lands and waters stewarded by First Nations. Every year, over 1.2 million people visit Tofino, B.C., in Tla-o-qui-aht territory, many to explore the shaded old-growth forest trails and shorelines of the Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks. In Tofino, 127 businesses have signed on to voluntarily share revenue with the Tribal Parks stewards to support activities like Guardians programs and trail maintenance, in recognition of the economic value of a flourishing, protected ecosystem. 

Each decision made by governments, industry and individuals is shaping the future of the Canadian economy every day. It’s worth remembering we all have a stake in it. First Nations rejecting oil tankers in their waters are not hindering the national economy, but arguing for a different balance of priorities. There’s more than one way to build an economy.

We overvalue resource projects and underestimate their costs

Despite this, Canada’s vision for economic development seems narrow in scope; a selection of energy and natural resource projects. These tend to be pitched as windfall scenarios, but the economic benefits often fall far short of what’s promised. A 2024 study in the journal Facets, which analyzed the 27 mines in B.C. granted permits since 1997, found that 13 never began operating at all. Only 12 per cent of promised jobs ever materialized, and less than a quarter of predicted ore was actually mined. 

Eby announced on Jan. 21 the continuation of mining activities at Mount Milligan near Fort St. James, trumpeting the 574 “good, family-supporting jobs” that will be extended until the mine closes in 2035. But mining jobs, even “good” ones, end eventually, and all Canadians are often left to bear clean-up costs — which can range into the billions for mines like B.C.’s Elk Valley coal mine.

Meanwhile, the Great Bear Rainforest has been supporting 373 full-time jobs for 17 years, with no end in sight, while also protecting the environment.

Which sounds like the better economic bargain? Environment aside, a catastrophic spill prompted by lifting the oil tanker ban could threaten those jobs and destroy a profitable, sustainable piece of our economy. Is it really worth the risk? 

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Recent wildfires in northern Saskatchewan have wiped out 90 per cent of a proposed Indigenous Protected and Conserved Area, according to residents and workers. The damage includes areas of both cultural and ecological significance for the Métis community, including caribou habitat and harvesting areas. 

Île-à-la-Crosse is one of the oldest communities in Western Canada, interim Mayor Vince Ahenakew says, founded 250 years ago next year. Over generations, the Métis community developed deep relationships with the boreal forest, passing down the traditions of hunting and trapping. 

In 2019, the community received federal funding to explore the possibility of creating an Indigenous Protected and Conserved Area in the N-14 Fur Block, a 22,000 square kilometre region of their territory — around four times the size of Prince Edward Island. They called it Sakitawak, after the Cree name for Île-à-la-Crosse, which means “the place where the river flows out.” But in 2022, federal funding lapsed, and in the summer of 2023, wildfire devoured half of the proposed protected area. Now, Ahenakew tells The Narwhal, another devastating wildfire season has burned nearly everything that was left.

Today, the Métis Nation-Saskatchewan issued a state of emergency in what’s known as Northern Region III, which encompasses Île-à-la-Crosse. 

“We are witnessing the destruction of traplines, harvesting areas, traditional medicines and critical habitats — the very foundations of our way of life. These are not just environmental losses; they are direct threats to our section 35 rights under the Constitution. This is not only an environmental crisis — it is a constitutional and cultural emergency,” Brennan Merasty, minister of self-determination and self-government for Métis Nation-Saskatchewan, said in a statement.

Key areas in proposed conservation area have been lost to wildfires

After more than a year without federal funding, Sakitawak received three years of funding in 2023 through the Indigenous-led area-based conservation fund, which was awarded to the Metis Nation-Saskatchewan.

Official estimates for the area burned this summer are not yet available from the province, but Ahenakew estimates only around ten per cent of the proposed protected area — home to a number of vulnerable species, including endangered piping plovers and threatened woodland caribou — has escaped the fires. 

A key area covered by the Sakitawak Indigenous protected area is Kazan Lake, home to bird species including American white pelicans, double-crested cormorants, ospreys and great blue herons; it burnt in the 2023 fires, Joanne, program director for Sakitawak, told The Narwhal by email.

Ahenakew worries about the hunters and trappers in his community. “That’ll be a big impact,” he says. “The youth want to try trapping, but there might not be enough for them.” 

As for the woodland caribou, he says, “Most of their habitat in the Pine River region is gone.” According to Kent, Pine River is another key area covered by the protected area. It’s not only a calving ground for the caribou, but also the only source for a traditional medicinal plant, which has been lost to fire. “It was the last remaining old-growth forest that the [proposed protected area] had left,” Kent wrote to The Narwhal by email. “It will take 70 years for the forest to regrow and for some animals and plants to return.” Meanwhile, the fires are still burning.

2025 wildfire season worse than average in Saskatchewan

According to the Government of Saskatchewan, as of July 22 there were 50 active wildfires burning across the province, and 384 this year so far — well above the annual average of 260. Eleven communities are currently under evacuation orders, including Île-à-la-Crosse.

Wildfire is a natural phenomenon, and Ahenakew remembers the forests of Sakitawak burning 20 years ago. But hotter, drier conditions are changing wildfire behaviour, causing fires to recur in the same areas more frequently. Lori Daniels, a professor of forest ecology at the University of British Columbia, told The Narwhal in 2023 that in some regions, forest landscapes are not regenerating — instead, they’re turning into shrub lands or tundra.

When it was proposed as a protected area, Sakitawak was estimated to store around 839 million tonnes of carbon, and Canada’s 552 million hectares of boreal forest is a critical carbon sink for the planet. But Daniels told The Narwhal in 2023 that wildfires have changed the equation, saying, “In truth, our forests have been a net emitter of carbon because of insects and pathogens and wildfire for the last decade and a half, or two decades now.” 

Sakitawak receives federal support, but wildfires impede activities

While three other proposed Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas in Saskatchewan have received federal support through the same fund, none have yet been recognized by the province. Provincial buy-in is key for advancing Indigenous-led conservation initiatives, but support from provincial governments varies across Canada. (The provincial Ministry of Environment declined to answer a question from The Narwhal regarding whether it plans to recognize Indigenous-led conservation efforts in the province.)

Kent says there are currently five full-time staff and three summer students who work as Guardians. Collecting baseline data on the land, water and air is an important part of their work, but has been disrupted by the wildfires. One air quality station has lost to the fires; another seems likely to burn too.

Harvesting has also been impacted. Métis families, including Kent’s, harvest medicines, berries, wild rice, fish, ducks and more from their lands; many rely on these sources to feed their families and earn an income. “With the fires, this will affect people’s ability to harvest this fall,” Kent wrote. “The effects are absolutely devastating for the community.”

Ahenakew feels the response time from the Saskatchewan Public Safety Agency, which oversees wildfire response, has been too slow. Two years ago, Île-à-la-Cross community members told The Narwhal they believed Saskatchewan has a “let it burn” policy, and only deploys resources to fight fires within 10 kilometres of a human settlement. (The province has repeatedly denied that such a policy exists.) Ahenakew points out that the fires that are threatening the community this year began as small blazes. 

“Fires that popped up these last couple months, they could have jumped on them — not only here but also in Manitoba — they could have jumped on them right away and put them out, but they seemed to wait too long,” he says. “At least they could have made an effort.” (The Saskatchewan Public Safety Agency did not respond to questions from The Narwhal by publication time.) 

After the 2023 fires, he says the community asked the province to reconsider its wildfire response, but they haven’t heard anything yet. 

“Common sense tells you if it’s this dry, same as two or three years ago, it’s gonna happen again,” he says. 

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Federal, territorial and Indigenous leaders gathered in Yellowknife this morning to launch a landmark Indigenous-led conservation agreement that will protect nearly 380,000 square kilometres of land and water.

Following a prayer song by the Yellowknife Dene Drummers, Chief Ernest Betsina of the Yellowknives Dene First Nation opened the event, saying, “This document we signed today has been a long time in the making. It reflects years of collaboration and commitment from Indigenous leaders across the North. It reflects our shared understanding that Indigenous people have always been the stewards of the land. And it’s time for that responsibility to be recognized and supported.”

The agreement, known as NWT: Our Land for the Future, is a partnership between the federal government, territorial government and 21 Indigenous governments across the Northwest Territories. It covers existing protected areas, which will share in the long-term funding, and around 200,000 square kilometres of new protected and conserved areas — forming a region roughly twice the size of Florida. 

In addition to the $300 million in federal funding, the agreement also includes $75 million from philanthropic partners. In the next several months, the NWT: Our Land for the Future Trust will begin to distribute funds to Indigenous governments in the territory, to support activities such as conservation and stewardship, protected and conserved areas, Guardian programs, ecotourism and more. 

Echoing statements from several chiefs, territorial Minister of Environment and Climate Change Jay MacDonald said, “This agreement represents a generational investment. It will provide opportunities to support Indigenous-led stewardship, while offering real, meaningful and new opportunities to Northerners, particularly in the small communities. We are seeing a shift toward a conservation economy that puts people, community and cultural values at the centre of decision-making.”

Minister of Environment and Climate Change Canada Julie Dabrusin echoed that sentiment. “This isn’t just a conservation announcement — it’s really a global milestone. Our Land for the Future is one of the largest Indigenous-led conservation efforts in the world. The areas that it is going to help to conserve is almost seven times the size of Nova Scotia,” she said, adding that represents more than two per cent of Canada’s land-mass.

Last November, the landmark agreement was signed in Behchokǫ̀, NWT, by leaders of Indigenous governments and organizations from across the territory at a celebration that also involved jigging, drum dancing and a fire-feeding ceremony, drawing community members of all ages. 

“This partnership is about investing in our people and taking care of our land,” Danny Gaudet, Ɂek’wahtı̨dǝ́ of the Délı̨nę Got’ınę Government, said in a statement. “It’s about generating jobs that strengthen our cultures and create economic opportunities across the North. We have so much work to do to care for the land, guided by our Elders, our youth, our Guardians. The funds released today will help us honour that responsibility.”

Dahti Tsetso, the deputy director of the Indigenous Leadership Initiative and CEO of NWT: Our Land for the Future Trust, told The Narwhal in November the funds “have so much transformative potential.” In addition to generating hundreds of jobs each year, they can also support cultural and land-based programming, and create opportunities and positive examples for youth. This morning, she celebrated the “incredible milestone that so many people … put in an incredible amount of effort to get to this day.”

The framework for the NWT: Our Land for the Future agreement was hatched on Wall Street. Called the project finance for permanence (PFP) model, it requires partners from private and public sectors to release money upfront in order to fund the comprehensive activities of a long-term project, laying the groundwork for stability and success.

As Dehcho First Nations Grand Chief Herb Norwegian put it in November, “We are going to create something totally beautiful, something totally unique.”

Updated July 21, 2025, at 2:11 p.m. PT: This article was updated to correct a typo in the spelling of territorial Minister of Environment and Climate Change Jay MacDonald‘s name.

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Even if you’ve never visited Joffre Lakes, about an hour north of Whistler, B.C., you have probably seen its famous turquoise waters on social media. In 2019, BC Parks reported nearly 200,000 annual visitors, an increase of 222 per cent since 2010 (incidentally, the year Instagram was released). 

The surge of daytrippers and campers has been accompanied by an increase in impacts: vegetation trampled, garbage left behind, congested roads and trails. 

In April, BC Parks and the Lil’wat and N’quatqua First Nations announced Joffre Lakes Park, or Pipi7íyekw in the Lil’wat language, would be closed from April 25 to May 16. Other temporary closures have since been announced — two weeks in June, and two full months beginning on August 22 — to allow members of the First Nations “to reconnect to their land and culture, while also providing time for the land to rest from human impacts,” according to a May 16 release by Lil’wat. These temporary closures, which the nation calls “reconnection periods,” began in 2023.

The closures, along with another in Vancouver Island’s Juan de Fuca Park by the Pacheedaht First Nation, have sparked a backlash among some British Columbians. 

A headline in the National Post reads, “Non-Indigenous visitors being turned away from public parks.” On X, a North Vancouver resident called the closures “a concerning precedent” and described the previous closures as a “unilateral” decision that “the nations had no legal authority” to enact. 

This is inaccurate — as evidenced by BC Parks’ statements, the closures are not unilateral — but this distorted framing has been further exaggerated by Dallas Brodie, an MLA who was recently ejected from the Conservative BC caucus for mocking residential school survivors. On X, Brodie shared the post and added, “There are over 1,000 provincial parks in B.C. And the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act (DRIPA) could make access to every one of them dependent upon your racial status.” 

In a video posted to X, Brodie calls DRIPA “the most racist and radical law in B.C. history,” which is quite the claim when one considers the Indian Act, the historic Chinese Exclusion Act and B.C.’s notorious history of racist land covenants. Encouraging British Columbians to oppose it, Brodie claimed DRIPA is “the reason parks are being closed to the non-Indigenous public.” 

Like a trash can on a popular park trail, these statements are overflowing with rank misinformation. DRIPA, which was passed into provincial law almost six years ago, is a framework that requires the province to bring B.C. laws into alignment with the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples — including the recognition of title, and ensuring nations can benefit from their lands and natural resources. By engaging with First Nations, BC Parks is upholding this provincial responsibility.

But these temporary closures are not based on racial status or Indigeneity; rather, they are specific to the First Nations whose unceded territory was seized to create a park. I’m Indigenous, but I can’t visit Joffre Lakes during the closures, because I’m not a member of Lil’wat or N’quatqua. And while these recent park closures do have something to do with Indigenous Rights in B.C., there is a lot more to them — and good reason for everyone in B.C., including non-Indigenous park enthusiasts, to get on board. 

Why close the parks? 

Across B.C., provincial parks are buckling under the strain of public enthusiasm. There were 20.8 million parks visitors across the province from 2013 to 2014; a decade later, that figure had grown by nearly 30 per cent to just over 27 million. Not all parks can absorb these swelling numbers of visitors; like Joffre, many are impacted by crowding, congestion and environmental damage. 

BC Parks, a division within the provincial Ministry of Environment and Parks, is responsible for outdoor recreation and managing natural spaces. While ensuring residents and visitors of B.C. can hike, camp, boat and fish, it is also responsible for protecting more than 14 million hectares of land — almost 15 per cent of the province. That requires balancing the desires of present visitors with the interests of future generations — which is to say, making sure we don’t Instagram our prettiest lakes into ecological collapse. 

In 2020, B.C. introduced day passes at many of the most popular parks during the peak seasons, including Joffre Lakes, which required visitors to reserve a free pass in advance of their trip. An online feedback survey found 60 per cent of respondents still felt the trails were too crowded.

The majority of respondents agreed that too many people negatively impact park ecosystems, as well as the experience of visiting a park. As any driver stuck in traffic will tell you, it’s all these other cars who are the problem! 

But there is an additional consideration. B.C. has more than 200 First Nations, who have ancient relationships and rights to their territories. Ensuring that the members of these nations can engage in their constitutionally protected rights to hunt, fish and harvest is a duty of the Crown — a duty that extends to BC Parks. 

When parks are so popular that the only way to uphold this right is to temporarily close them, that suggests the closure is in everyone’s interest. Parks are attractions, true, but they’re not like arcades or theme parks. They are fragile, dynamic and alive. These spaces need a break if we want to enjoy them in the future, too. 

How did parks become ‘public land,’ anyway? The answer won’t surprise you! 

Okay, some might argue: close the parks temporarily. But why do First Nations get to shut other people out? Isn’t that racist? 

It’s actually hard to separate racism from public parks, but that has nothing to do with these recent closures. Canada’s majestic national and provincial parks inspire many people to proclaim proudly about “our public spaces” and “our land” — but thousands of years before Canada even existed, these lands had other caretakers. Many parks that have been selected and preserved for their stunning views or natural wonders were also recognized as special by First Nations, who were exiled from these spaces in order to purify them for a non-Indigenous public. Banff, Canada’s first national park, dates back to 1885; the oldest provincial park in B.C. was established in 1911. But for thousands of years before that, Indigenous Peoples were living in these places — not just dropping in for an annual hike or long weekend camping trip. 

As Kwantlen journalist Robert Jago writes in The Walrus, these parks and others across Canada were created by forcing the Indigenous residents out. Jago quotes George Stewart, who supervised the creation of Banff and served as its first superintendent, who said of Indigenous people, “Their destruction of the game and depredations among the ornamental trees make their too frequent visits to the park a matter of great concern.” Mounted police were stationed to keep Indigenous people out; by the 20th century, they were only welcome during Banff Indian Days for the entertainment of tourists.

Across Canada, homes, traplines and camps were destroyed to create an image of untouched wilderness for settlers to enjoy. Pacheedaht once had a village above Botanical Beach; their 24-hour closure is a brief reconnection with a place that sustained them for generations, before it became a tourist destination.

From Pacific Rim on Vancouver Island to the red beaches of Prince Edward Island, we’ve been encouraged to think that these spaces exist for the pleasure and pride of Canadians. In his throne speech on May 27, King Charles said “nature is core to Canada’s identity” and asserted the government would protect it through “the creation of new national parks, national urban parks, marine protected areas and other conservation initiatives.” 

But the national mythology that was built alongside Canada’s most famous parks has historically viewed Indigenous people as pests, interlopers who spoiled the serenity of a leafy grove or pristine beach by actually engaging with the land and water. It’s easy to forget these spectacular places aren’t just Instagram backgrounds; they have other histories and meanings, too. 

How much are you really paying for, and what do you deserve in return? 

There are presently 1,050 provincial parks, ecological reserves, recreation areas, conservancies and recreation areas in B.C., encompassing around 15 per cent of the province. The B.C. budget for 2025 to 2026 estimates nearly $95 billion in spending, with just over $101 million for conservation and recreation. That includes everything from ecosystem restoration and wildfire prevention to maintaining trails and park facilities. Let’s pretend for a minute that the burden is distributed equally: you could say each of the 4.3 million people in B.C. who filed taxes in 2023 is contributing around $23.49 of the parks budget, or about two cents per park.

But of course, not all funding for parks comes from taxes. The Parks Enhancement Fund generates revenue through donations, camping permits, day passes and other user fees. In 2024, BC Parks brought in $29,612,454 from 27,017,596 visitors. The B.C. Parks license plate program — for nature lovers who find bumper stickers declassé — netted more than $11 million in revenue between April 2023 and March 2024. So, it’s possible the average British Columbian is contributing even less than a couple cents per park. (The Ministry of Environment and Parks could not provide answers to The Narwhal’s questions about parks funding by publication time.)

Shrunken down to the scale of a few pennies, I think many British Columbians have their priorities all wrong. Parks are not commodities, though if they were, it’s clear that all of us derive a lot more value from them than we pay for. But it’s a perilously myopic perspective to imagine the value of a wondrous natural space is derived mainly from being able to access it on demand. First Nations worldviews emphasize both rights and responsibilities; the places that sustain us are also ours to care for. 

Across Canada, parks preserve fragile slivers of once-vast and interconnected ecosystems: ecologists say less than three per cent of high productivity old-growth forests remain in B.C.; 99 per cent of tall-grass prairies and 65 per cent of Atlantic coastal marshes have also disappeared. But even these protected areas are endangered by human activity, which has increased to unsustainable levels in many places. B.C. isn’t the only province trying to balance the desires of visitors with the needs of the land and the rights of Indigenous Peoples, but in partnership with First Nations, they have arrived at a promising potential solution. 

Brodie’s warning that any of B.C.’s thousand-plus parks could also restrict visitor access in the future should be seen as a warning, but not the way she intends. We are threatening the survival of the places we love so much, one hike and selfie at a time. It’s long past time we stop thinking about what we deserve from the Earth, and start thinking about what it deserves from us. These temporary returns to a slower pace and a renewed relationship between First Nations and their homelands can begin to show everyone what that might look like.

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Through a tumultuous few months in Canadian politics, one person could always be counted on for calm: the Right Honourable Mary Simon, Governor General of Canada. That’s the job, after all — the Governor General serves as the diplomatic head of state, above the political jockeying and heated campaigning. Simon, whose mother is Inuk, is a long-time champion for Indigenous Rights and became the first Indigenous person to serve as Governor General when she was appointed in 2021. She lives on the unceded territory of the Algonquin Anishinaabeg Nation in Rideau Hall, the Governor General’s residence in Ottawa. She was born in Kangiqsualujjuaq, a village at the eastern edge of Nunavik, Que., not far from the Torngat Mountains, where she grew up making kayaks and picking berries. Here, she tells us what an Arctic fox has in common with a diplomat and why Indigenous knowledge is key to successful climate initiatives. 

What’s the most awe-inspiring natural sight you’ve witnessed between the Pacific, Atlantic, 49th parallel and Hudson Bay, i.e. Canada? 

I’ve been truly fortunate to explore every corner of this country. From the rugged beauty of my home in Nunavik in the Arctic, to the towering mountains of British Columbia and the Yukon and the coastal charm of the Atlantic provinces. In every region, I find a deep connection to nature, a shared spirit of resilience and diverse communities whose warmth and heritage enrich our collective experience. 

What’s the most awe-inspiring natural sight you’ve witnessed outside of Canada? 

As an Indigenous person who calls the Arctic her home, Arctic landscapes across the circumpolar region often leave me awe-struck. I have been fortunate to visit Iceland to work with Arctic partners on circumpolar issues. I am struck by the beauty of Iceland’s landscape and the resiliency of its people. Surrounded by massive mountains and vast landscapes, you cannot help but feel humbled by nature’s power. 

Think of three iconic Canadian animals. Choose one each to kiss, marry and kill. water

Kiss: The Arctic fox is famous for its endurance and long-distance migratory treks, which reminds me of my years as a diplomat and advocate for circumpolar affairs. An Arctic fox is included in my coat of arms for this reason. 

Marry: The caribou hold a special place for the Inuit as they have been very important for our survival for millennia. Caribou provide clothing, tools and warmth, as well as food rich in vitamins and nutrients. 

Kill: Arctic char is an important food for Inuit. It can be eaten raw, frozen, dried, smoked, aged or cooked and tastes delicious. My favourite way to eat it is cooked with rice and corn.  

Tell us about a time you changed your mind about something, environmental or otherwise.

Through my life and work in the North, I gained a deeper understanding of how climate change affects vulnerable communities and the alarming rate at which this is happening. When I heard stories from Indigenous leaders and community members about how climate change is disrupting traditional ways of life, I began to see it in a new light.

Climate change has taken on greater urgency in my lifetime. A warming Arctic has diverse and far-reaching consequences for all people, for Indigenous traditions and for our planet. The increase in wildfires has led to housing precarity, while new shipping routes are affecting global security. A warming planet affects farming, which can increase food insecurity. As climate change disproportionately affects people who are already facing challenges, such as remote communities, it’s so important for us to find solutions.

By involving Indigenous knowledge keepers in consultation processes, climate initiatives are more likely to be effective and long lasting. Communities can also take the lead, which will help ensure their success. 

Researchers at Yale University, the France-based Women’s Forum for the Economy and Society and other institutions have found women tend to be more concerned about climate change than men. Why do you think that is? 

In many traditional cultures, women have long been stewards of the environment, safeguarding the health of the land, water and wildlife. As a mother and a grandmother, I can see how women’s concern for climate change can stem from a deep sense of responsibility for the future of our children, families and communities. But I have always been more focused on working together, on uniting not dividing. Building inclusive coalitions is essential to effecting lasting change. 

What’s one way you interact with the natural world on a daily basis?

I try to appreciate and connect with the land around me, whether it’s through a quiet walk in nature, paying attention to the changing seasons or simply spending time outdoors. I love to go kayaking, as Inuit have done for thousands of years. When I was young, I was taught the traditional method for making kayaks, using skins and needles made of bone. In the late summer and early fall, I love to go berry picking. It brings back treasured memories of my mother and grandmother, which have stuck with me all my life. This connection helps ground me and reminds me of the importance of protecting our environment for future generations.

Who, in your life, has had the greatest impact on your connection to nature?

Indigenous approaches to the land are rooted to our connection between the land and the people. Growing up, my father, mother and grandmother played pivotal roles in shaping my connection to nature. They taught me the traditional Inuit ways of hunting, fishing, sewing Inuit clothing, cooking and travelling by dog sled. They demonstrated how ancient wisdom still matters. Through them, I learned the importance of respecting the land and its resources. 

Indigenous people recognize that the health of the land is the health of the people. Speaking Inuktitut at home and in my community reinforced the critical connection of language to identity, culture and to the land. I still speak Inuktitut whenever I can as it keeps me connected to my culture. Knowledge is embedded in language and is lost when language is lost.  

Whose relationship with the natural world would you most like to have an impact on?

I would most like to have an impact on the relationship young people have with the natural world. Youth will inherit the challenges and responsibilities of preserving our environment. Thankfully, many young people already understand the importance of sustainability and how essential it is to preserve a deep connection to nature. We need to include young people in important discussions, to give them a seat at the table. By nurturing a sense of respect, wonder and responsibility toward the environment, we can empower young people to become stewards of the earth and advocates for positive change.

Want more Moose? Check out how other artists, athletes, politicians and notable people have answered The Narwhal’s Moose Questionnaire.

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