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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.”

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? 

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: 

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

“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.

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.

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. 

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 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.

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. 

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. 

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!

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