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.

If SpaceX realizes its ambition to launch a million satellites into Earth’s orbit, the light pollution they cause will overwhelm the night sky. Photo: Jeanine Holowatuik / Northern Escape Photography

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.

Satellites are so bright because they reflect sunlight back at Earth to avoid overheating. The bigger they are, the more they reflect.

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.

“There is a limit to how many [satellites] we can safely have in orbit, and I think we’ve crossed that limit,” said astronomer Sam Lawler, seen here with a collection of space junk. Photo: Supplied by Sam Lawler

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.

There is no formal system for reporting space junk that falls to Canada, and the international treaties that govern orbiting satellites date to the Apollo era, when private companies launching satellites were unheard of. Photo: Jeanine Holowatuik / Northern Escape Photography

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.

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.

Though she grew up in Saskatchewan, Santana Dreaver stood out when The Narwhal began looking for a B.C.-based Indigenous Journalism Fellow. For one thing, Santana had spent time at CBC learning the fundamentals of journalism through its Indigenous Pathways program, accruing bylines and skills. But she also had a passion for journalism and a clear vision of the kinds of stories she wanted to tell: centring youth, grappling with ecological disasters and industry impacts, and rooted in sovereignty and traditional practices.

Here at The Narwhal, Santana will be spending 2026 learning about in-depth feature writing and reporting, and telling stories from across the province. You’ll see her byline on IndigiNews as well, which is a partner in this fellowship, and she’ll be receiving training and mentorship from the Indigenous Journalists Association. Santana has already racked up a few bylines at The Narwhal — covering B.C.’s critical minerals push and the women leading natural disaster response across Canada — but we’re thrilled to formally introduce her to you. You’ll be seeing a lot of her in the year ahead!

What inspired you to go into journalism? 

There were a few moments growing up that inspired me to be a journalist. I must have been five or six when my photograph and interview made the local newspaper — a group of us from the Kinistin Saulteaux Nation went to the Tisdale, Sask., airport to go on mini-airplane rides. My grandma was the school receptionist and had the newspaper clipping hung up in the staff room. I remember feeling pride seeing it there. 

When I was eleven, I competed in the Saskatchewan First Nation winter games, hosted in Saskatoon that year. I won two gold medals in badminton, in under-12 singles and doubles — my first big competition in the sport. Between matches a news crew came to the courts and my coach told me to go and interview. Being on TV for playing a sport I loved made an impact on me. 

Lastly, I grew up around storytelling my entire childhood. Stories are how culture is passed down from generation to generation. As a Gen Z Saulteaux and Plains Cree person, journalism always felt like a modern way for me to tell stories and practise that aspect of my culture.

Santana Dreaver’s previous experience has included stints at CBC, B.C.’s Ministry of Emergency Management and Climate Readiness and former prime minister Justin Trudeau’s youth council.

You grew up in northern Saskatchewan on Kinistin Saulteaux Nation, and you’re a member of Mistawasis Nêhiyawak. Now that you’re in B.C., what’s something you miss about the Prairies? 

Without stating the obvious that I miss my family, what I often find myself missing is open and quiet spaces. The Lower Mainland can sometimes feel congested for someone who grew up in rural and northern Saskatchewan. 

I miss my connection with the sky — thunderstorms, the bright sunlight nearly everyday, star constellations, moon cycles and the Northern Lights are harder to see with the light and air pollution here. 

Something I never expected to miss is being around bison. My community has had bison since I was a child, housed in the fields behind our house, and my appreciation for these relatives only grew the more I learned about salmon in Coast Salish lands, reflecting on my own values and culture throughout the years. 

You served on former prime minister Justin Trudeau’s youth council — what was that experience like? 

Advising the former prime minister Justin Trudeau and his cabinet for 2.5 years was a rewarding and challenging experience. In my personal life, I was branded as a Liberal when the position was non-partisan, and on the council I can say confidently I was one of the most vocal members to speak about issues affecting Indigenous people in Canada and overseas.

I felt immense pressure to use my access in government to push forward Indigenous Rights, and found myself wanting to quit from time to time. All of that said, I learned how to say the hard things when it mattered and my confidence grew realizing how much knowledge I carried forward to roundtables and consultations. 

Two highlights were attending an online safety symposium, surrounded by journalists and hosted by the Right Honourable Mary Simon, Canada’s first Indigenous Governor General, at Rideau Hall in Ottawa, where I ended up at dinner with people from TikTok Canada. The second was being invited to the Prime Minister’s Office for an invitation-only meeting following ongoing efforts to advocate for Palestine with fellow council member Ganiyat Sadiq.

Santana grew up in northern Saskatchewan on Kinistin Saulteaux Nation. She’s now living in B.C., but misses the bison herd that lives behind her house.

You have a lot of experience in emergency preparedness work, including as an advisor to the Ministry of Emergency Management and Climate Readiness, and a board member for Preparing Our Home, which is focused on emergency readiness for Indigenous youth. What drew you to that work? 

Just before the pandemic I attended Preparing Our Home in Osoyoos, B.C., as a youth participant. I was supposed to fly to New York City after the gathering to attend a conference at the United Nations when the city declared a state of emergency, cancelling what would have been my first time at the U.N. 

While the cancellation was disappointing, I felt grateful to be in Canada during the outbreak of COVID, and it made everything I learned at Preparing Our Home stick with me as one participant spoke about pandemic protocols in her Northern Ontario community.

After moving to B.C. by myself in 2021, disaster after disaster happened in the province. I lived on my own and had no emergency contact at the time, so educating myself about the lands I had moved to and how to prepare for its potential dangers became critical when I realized no one else was going to do it for me. 

What are your favourite stories to report?

My favourite stories to report on are emergency management stories, anything related to the land and Indigenous Rights, governance and policy. As for my favourite story thus far, it changes often, but one that stays top of mind is an Okanagan salmon restoration story that I wrote for CBC. 

I could feel how happy everyone involved was, and it stayed the top story on the CBC B.C. website for a few days. I don’t want to associate ratings with a personal favourite story, but that shows it was a special moment in the province for a lot of people, including myself. 

You spent a year at CBC in the Indigenous Pathways program, but before that, you worked for Sacred Earth, an Indigenous women-led organization focused on climate justice and energy transitions. What did you learn in that role about the challenges of tackling fossil fuel dependency?

Working for Sacred Earth, I learned that governments in Canada subsidize oil and gas companies, not leaving much incentive for corporations to transition to cleaner energy methods. General misinformation about clean energy, and oil and gas being the status quo for a century in the country is also a barrier in tackling fossil fuel dependency. The start-up and maintenance costs of transitioning is also a barrier, especially in rural and remote communities. 

“I hope as a journalist I can be a witness to what local nations are doing and comfortable sharing,” Santana says of her hopes for her time at The Narwhal.

You’re spending all of 2026 at The Narwhal. What’s one story you hope to tell before you leave? 

During my time with The Narwhal I hope to tell stories that matter to B.C. First Nations people. I am always thinking about the land I reside on, how British Columbia obtained it and how I, as a guest, can be back in a way that feels good to me, which I hope to do with my reporting. Early on after moving here I learned about the concept of witnessing in Salish culture, and I hope as a journalist I can be a witness to what local nations are doing and comfortable sharing.

The Narwhal’s 2026 Indigenous Journalism Fellowship is possible with support from the Sitka Foundation. As per The Narwhal’s editorial independence policy, no foundation or outside organization has editorial input into our stories.

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.

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.

Take the quiz

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

The 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.”

A guide to Carney’s pipeline deal — and the climate policies it weakens

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.

Guardians steward and protect Indigenous territories, including coastal waters, bolstering environmental protections while also creating jobs. Photo: Jimmy Thomson / The Narwhal

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. 

Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks are a major tourist attraction, supported voluntarily by contributions from dozens of businesses in Tofino, B.C., and just one example of how First Nations-led conservation creates economic value in B.C. Photo: Stephanie Wood / The Narwhal

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.

‘Extremely offensive’: B.C. premier’s plans to change Indigenous Rights law met with frustration

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. 

British Columbia’s multimillion-dollar mining problem

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. 

Functional ecosystems are part of a functional economy; for coastal communities, an oil spill would be ecologically, culturally and economically catastrophic. Photo: Melissa Renwick / The Narwhal

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? 

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.

“Our team of investigative journalists dives deep to tell stories about the natural world in Canada you can’t find anywhere else.”

That’s how we at The Narwhal introduce ourselves, right at the top of our “about us” page. 

It means, in part, that we peel back the curtains in halls of power — revealing how politicians, corporations and institutions make big decisions impacting natural resources and landscapes. It also means, just as significantly, that we send journalists to the hard-to-reach places where some of the most important stories are unfolding, and would otherwise go untold. 

We take this commitment seriously, and won’t compromise on the stunning photography, immersive storytelling and in-depth reporting it takes to bring them to life. For example: 

The Blackfoot Confederacy is working toward having buffalo across the Canada-U.S. border once again — and revitalizing traditional hunts. Photo: Gavin John / The Narwhal

Reporter Jimmy Thomson and photojournalist Gavin John travelled across Montana and southern Alberta for three days to tell the story of the Blackfoot Confederacy’s effort to restore free-roaming herds of buffalo on the prairie. It’s this kind of unique, gorgeous storytelling that The Narwhal does so well. This year it won the top prize for the best feature story at the cross-border Indigenous Media Awards, as well as the silver in the same category at Canada’s Digital Publishing Awards.

At the National Magazine Awards, photojournalist Amber Bracken’s compelling portraits of Fort Chipewyan residents in a fight for life downstream of Alberta’s oilsands took silver for the best photo essay and photojournalism. 

This kind of journalism is expensive and time consuming, and it’s the first thing that most newsrooms pull back as purse strings tighten. But as they lean out, we lean in. Our non-profit, reader-supported model requires that we make good on our promises.

Every year, nearly 10,000 people step up to support The Narwhal, each of them casting a vote that says: these stories are worth telling. Will you join them? Every dollar you give today will be matched — donate now to make twice the difference.

Near Cambridge Bay, Nvt., researchers are pumping sea water onto the sea ice in an effort to thicken it, and delay its melt. Photo: Gavin John / The Narwhal

This year, we sent Gavin and freelance reporter Chloe Williams to Cambridge Bay, an Inuit community of about 2,000 people in Nunavut. They spent five days with people on the frontlines of the warming Arctic — and returned with an incredible story about an audacious pitch to bring back the disappearing sea ice and a way of life that depends on it.

Photojournalist Paige Taylor White made four trips to Joffre Lakes Provincial Park, north of Whistler, B.C., between April and September. She documented what the famous park looks like when it’s bustling with tourists — and also during a temporary closure, when the land was given a moment to rest and members of the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations had a chance to reconnect. Reporter Steph Kwetásel’wet Wood joined Paige on two of those trips; they were the only journalists invited into the park to witness the reconnection period.

On Blackfoot territory in Alberta, journalist (and Kainai Nation member) Joy SpearChief-Morris reported on the first-ever Indigenous fire guardians program in Canada and Kainai Nation’s effort to restore the landscape in the traditional way, by embracing fire.

Your support means we can invest in more stories like these in the year ahead. We’re two-thirds of the way to our new goal of raising $300,000 this month to keep going. Help us cross the finish line? A donation today makes twice the impact — and qualifies for a 2025 charitable tax receipt.

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

The Narwhal’s news coverage, analysis and feature storytelling have earned four nominations for the 2025 Jack Webster Awards, which honour the best of British Columbia journalism. 

An on-the-ground feature by northwest B.C. reporter Matt Simmons about Gitanyow’s efforts to restore traditional fire practices is a finalist for environment reporting. He’s nominated with photographer and frequent collaborator Marty Clemens, along with Narwhal contributors Sarah Cox, Lindsay Sample and Michelle Cyca. 

The healing power of fire

In the category for best news reporting, B.C. politics and environment reporter Shannon Waters is a finalist for her explainer tackling the provincial and federal flip-flopping over carbon pricing.

What on earth just happened with B.C.’s carbon tax?

Steph Kwetásel’wet Wood is among the nominees for excellence in feature reporting for her story about Namu, the ancient Heiltsuk village at the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest, where an abandoned cannery is leaching contaminants into the protected waters.

The Great Bear Rainforest is protected. So why is an abandoned industrial site leaching heavy metals?

Lastly, Michelle Cyca, bureau chief for conservation and fellowships, is a finalist for commentator of the year for her columns analyzing the province’s responses to Indigenous Rights and environmental issues. 

First Nations are closing B.C. parks. Should you be mad?

“It’s great to see these stories recognized among the best in the province,” B.C. bureau chief Lindsay Sample said. “Making sense of environmental and climate issues can be overwhelming, particularly with back-to-back provincial and federal elections upending political priorities. We know British Columbians need in-depth, critical coverage to understand what’s happening in our province, particularly in regions where important stories would otherwise go unreported.” 

In June, Waters’ reporting on carbon pricing took home the Canadian Association of Journalists’ award in the category of daily excellence.

The Narwhal wins Canadian Association of Journalists award for B.C. carbon tax reporting

We’re grateful to The Narwhal’s 7,100 members, whose contributions make it possible for our reporters to tell beautiful, in-depth and original stories about B.C.’s irreplaceable lands and waters.

Other outlets nominated alongside The Narwhal include The Globe and Mail, The Canadian Press, the Vancouver Sun/Province, CBC Vancouver, Knowable Magazine and Smithsonian Magazine. 

The winners of the Jack Webster Awards will be announced at a gala in Vancouver on Monday, Nov. 3. 

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.

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.

‘Why didn’t they stop this fire?’ Métis community reeling after planned protected area goes up in flames

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.

A Saskatchewan Métis community wants to save its land. Dealing with government? ‘Like talking to a wall’

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.

When it was proposed in 2019, Sakitawak was a canopy of wetlands and boreal forest. Now, residents and workers say that nearly all of it has been lost to wildfire. Photo: Jeremy Williams / River Voices Productions

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.)

The future of conservation in Canada depends on Indigenous protected areas. So what are they?

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. 

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.

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 Yellowknife Dene Drummers opened the event with a prayer song. Photo: Supplied by Angela Gzowski / Indigenous Leadership Initiative

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.

$375M Indigenous-led conservation deal just signed in the Northwest Territories

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.”

Ɂek’wahtı̨dǝ́ means “highest honest leader” in the Dene kǝdǝ́ language, and refers to the elected leader of the Délı̨nę Got’ı̨nę Government. The community speaks the Délı̨nę gotʼı̨nę dialect of Dene kǝdǝ́, one of several in the Northwest Territories.

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.”

“It’s not just about the hectares, it’s really about the people,” Dahti Tsetso, CEO of NWT: Our Land for the Future Trust, told The Narwhal in November. Prior to the signing on Monday, she and Danny Yakeleya, Chair of the Our Land for the Future, shared stories with Julie Dabrusin, Minister of Environment and Climate Change Canada. Photo: Supplied by Angela Gzowski / Indigenous Leadership Initiative

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.

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.

When Savannah Ridley and I first crossed paths — thanks to Shared Bylines, which pairs industry mentors with student journalists who are Black, Indigenous or people of colour — I thought, wow, she is going places. She was already a CJF-CBC Indigenous journalism fellow (a joint project of the national broadcaster and the Canadian Journalism Foundation). There, she was learning the ropes at CBC Montreal while also writing a complex, moving feature story about Sixties Scoop survivors impacted by Indigenous identity fraud — all while completing her studies in the journalism program at Toronto Metropolitan University and working as a fitness instructor in Toronto. 

It was, to be honest, a little intimidating as a mentor to be paired up with someone who was already so accomplished. I felt like I was getting the better end of the bargain, particularly when Savannah accepted an assignment to fly up to Timmins, Ont., and report on the concerns of Indigenous folks in Treaty 9 as Doug Ford’s Bill 5 loomed. And when we opened applications this spring for our Indigenous editorial fellowship, a new role aimed at developing capacity in the Canadian journalism industry for editing Indigenous stories with care and attention, we were thrilled when Savannah applied. Among a pool of exceptional, brilliant candidates, she stood out with her passion for the industry and for reporting Indigenous stories. She might even renew your faith in media — or at least your hope for its future. Get to know her (and her perfect dog, Chuck) below:

Tell us a bit about yourself! Where are you from?

It’s kinda hard to explain exactly where I’m from. I was born in Hamilton, but I’ve lived all over the place, from my dad’s hometown of Thunder Bay, Ont., to Calgary. The biggest chunk of my life and my formative years were spent as a Calgarian, so I’m basically an Albertan/Ontarian hybrid. 

What drew you to journalism?

My grandma, Edna Gooder! She worked as a nurse for the majority of her life, but a workplace injury prompted a career change. With tenacity and bravery, she went back to school to study journalism in her 50s. 

Shortly after graduation, she started working as a staff reporter and photojournalist for Turtle Island News. When I was around seven years old, my grandma brought me along to an Indigenous convention she was covering in Calgary. My grandma was a Sixties Scoop survivor so we didn’t really grow up immersed in our Seneca culture. The extent of Indigeneity revealed to me until that point was my grandma’s beaded corn keychain and our family’s annual trip to the rez to register with the nation. Needless to say, the visual buffet of flamboyant hues and feathers of the regalia and the circadian thunder of the drums hit me like a truck. This is who we are? This is who I could be? And my grandma is putting them in the newspaper?! The whole experience blew my little mind. Of course, I didn’t really know what journalism was at that time, but I knew that I wanted to do something in the same world as my grandmother. 

A couple years later, my grandma would break her right femur stepping out of bed. It turns out the consistent knee pain she’d had my whole life, thought to be “arthritis” but that her family doctor refused to confirm with a test, was actually kidney cancer that had eaten so much bone matter that simply getting out of bed turned the thickest bone in the human body into a rotten twig. 

Just five weeks after that horrific morning, she passed away. Someone dropped the ball at every stage of her care, expediting her death. 

At that age, I didn’t know about racism in the healthcare system and how it affects so many Indigenous people like my grandma. All I knew was the people who were supposed to help her did the exact opposite and that made me unspeakably angry. 

As I’ve grown up, that anger has not subsided, it’s just refined. I knew I wanted to do what my grandma did, but her passing showed me the kind of work that I’m meant to do. Despite my grandma being a journalist herself, no publication contacted by my family wanted to tell the story of how she was failed by a system that was supposed to protect her. 

I want to tell those stories. 

You’re in journalism school at Toronto Metropolitan University — what’s your favourite class or learning so far?

I’ve learned from so many fantastic instructors, including Sonya Fatah, Craig Silverman, Shari Okeke, Adam Nayman, Jill Dempsey and Gavin Adamson. But my absolute favourite classes have been literary journalism and arts and culture writing, both taught by the remarkable Carly Lewis. 

Carly’s classes were the birthplace for my love of a perfectly placed five-dollar word. Carly introduced me to the poetic possibilities of factual reporting and thus my writing style is completely her fault. She’s a life-changing instructor — without her, I truly would not be where I am now. 

Who or what inspires you as a storyteller? 

Creative writing has always been a huge interest of mine since before I could even read or write. My parents have stories of my chubby little hands wrecking havoc on our family desktop, just filling pages and pages of a Word doc with gibberish. 

As I’ve grown up, many people have nurtured my love for writing in various forms along the way: in middle school it was poetry (I was incredibly dramatic and needed somewhere to put it), in high school it was personal essays (so, so argumentative) and now literary journalism (a healthy blend of the two). Those people are constantly in the back of my mind whenever I write. I bring along the wisdom of all of the teachers and mentors I’ve had in my life, and pour them into all of my work. 

My grandma showed me what was possible, and I’ve been lucky that others have shown me how to do it. I want to be that mentor or teacher to someone else one day. 

What kinds of stories do you hope to tell in your career? 

Above all, I want whatever I’m covering to have a positive, tangible impact for the people and communities affected. Sixty years from now (wistfully believing I can ever retire in whatever ring of technofeudalist hell we live in), I hope to look back on my work and know that I’ve done good things for people’s material circumstances. 

You have a perfect dog, Charlie (a.k.a. Chuck). If he was a journalist, what would his beat be? 

Hmmmm … Chuck would either be like a self-care, health and wellness, lifestyle reporter or the complete opposite doing like break-neck-speed hard news. He’s the most unchill chiller I’ve ever met. One minute he’ll be on his back in my arms letting me file his nails with an emery board and the next minute he’s upset that my neighbours have the nerve to garden in their own backyard. 

Savannah’s dog, Charlie, goes by many nicknames — Chuck, Chucko, Charles, Mr. Sir — but when in doubt you can simply refer to him as a perfect boy. Photo: Supplied by Charlie

Last year, you were a CJF-CBC Indigenous Journalism Fellow. What was the best part of working at the CBC? 

The first few days of my fellowship, every day on my walk up to the Radio-Canada building, I’d cry. I’d think of my grandma and I literally just couldn’t help it. I could feel her presence every morning on that walk up and it was a real benchmark moment of “I’m doing what I’m meant to.”

Being in a CBC building, you can’t help but feel like a teeny tiny little minnow in an ocean of great blue whales. It was a huge privilege to pick the brains of the CBC Indigenous team and to push myself to meet the standard of the national broadcaster. At the time, the only published byline I had was in my school’s paper (not that the Eyeopener doesn’t have rigid fact-checking and editorial standards, but you know what I mean), so it was super nerve-wracking to make that jump, but those nerves made my CBC bylines taste that much sweeter. I earned those. 

Working at the CBC in Montreal also gave me the ultimate goal “quality of life” wise. I was able to walk to work with my meal-prepped lunch in tow, I lived right by the waterfront so Chuck and I got to stroll along the boardwalk every night, and the Crème St-Denis’ from La Beignerie were a measly 40-minute walk uphill from my apartment and yes it was worth it every weekend. 

This industry is famously tough, as every aspiring (and current!) journalist hears constantly. What keeps you going? 

I feel like there will always be space for journalists who truly care about the work they are doing. I’m constantly reminded that this industry is not something that you can actually mentally check out of at the end of the day. Your work is part of a broader mission to educate people, lifting up forgotten or ignored stories and calling out when the structures and institutions that are meant to serve us are not doing their jobs. Harm is always being done. There’s always a story to tell. It’s hard work, often mentally gruelling, but knowing all that sweat is in service of the community makes it worth it. I’m used to dogging it out in retail with folks cussing me out for not having their size and I did all that in service of the wallets of shareholders that I’ll never meet. So, I’ll take the spiritual strain of journalism any day — it’s infinitely more fulfilling. 

As a fitness instructor, what’s on your pump-up playlist? 

Boring answer, but it really does depend. I oscillate between stuff I use for coaching — divorced-dad rock, hyper-femme pop and rap and a mix of Latin and Afro house, all with high beats per minute — and the complete opposite with “manipulator music” both the masc and femme varieties. 

Savannah has something positive to say about the Canada goose, which is the kind of unexpected and diverse perspective we love to see here at The Narwhal.

To borrow a question from The Moose Questionnaire: think of three iconic Canadian animals and choose one each to kiss, marry and kill.

Controversial, but I’d marry the Canada goose. I think they’re sick — like they don’t care about a single thing. They’re just waddling around with their buddies or their babies or both and they’re eating grass and you can stop your two-tonne killing machine and wait for them to cross the street. I don’t care — argue with the wall. 

I’d kiss nature’s blue-collar divas, the beaver. They’re so uptight and they work so hard. They deserve a little smooch on their fuzzy little foreheads. 

I’m cheating but I have to agree with Senator Paula Simons — I would absolutely delight in destroying the mosquito. Not only am I allergic to them, but they’re just the ••••ing worst. I think the spiders would forgive me. There’s more than enough flies for them. 

What do you hope to take away from your time at The Narwhal? 

Everything! I’m usually on the reporting end. This is my first time in a position on the editorial side so, really, everything is new to me. I think The Narwhal is one of the few publications that truly puts the work in to make sure they’re meeting Indigenous Peoples where they are and representing culture, language, history, etc. respectfully and accurately. That is not an easy thing to commit to in every single story, let alone with long-form pieces, but The Narwhal does and I’m incredibly lucky to be mentored by this team. My main goal is to absorb as much knowledge as possible so I can take what I’ve learned from this experience and apply it in all of my work — reporting, editorial or otherwise. I also hope to make a good impression so they hire me for realsies one day!

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.

Get the inside scoop on The Narwhal’s environment and climate reporting by signing up for our free newsletter.

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. 

Joffre Lakes Park has seen its number of annual visitors increase by 222 per cent since 2010. Temporary closures by the Lil’wat and N’Quatqua First Nations began in 2023, but not everyone in B.C. is supportive.

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, parks were created in part by driving out First Nations residents. After Banff National Park was created, its original inhabitants were only welcome during Banff Indian Days as a tourist attraction. Photo: Chris Lund / Library and Archives Canada

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. 

Botanical Beach, in Juan de Fuca Park near Port Renfrew, B.C., was closed for 24 hours to allow members of the Pacheedaht First Nation to harvest marine resources and reconnect with their territory. The temporary closure, along with others in Joffre Lakes Park, has prompted an outcry among some British Columbians. Photo: Don Denton / Canadian Press

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.

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.

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.  

‘North of North’ star Anna Lambe believes (most) people can change

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.

A member of Georgian Bay Anishinaabek Youth helping to build a wiigwaas jiimaan (birchbark canoe). Photo: Supplied by Georgian Bay Anishinaabek Youth

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.

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.