Summary

• The All-season Resorts Act was passed in late 2024 and the related policies released in late 2025.
• The act gives the tourism minister, who has been mandated to grow tourism revenue to $25 billion by 2035, the authority to designate land for resort development.
• Critics say the new system removes guardrails and increases risks to the environment.

In Alberta, there are growing concerns about new legislation that seeks to fast-track and expand tourism in the Rocky Mountains — which critics say comes with a huge environmental cost.

In late 2025, the Alberta government released new details about how its controversial All-season Resorts Act will play out. At the same time, it announced the first all-season resort areas, all of which are in the Rocky Mountains.

These areas are chunks of land with a new status allowing developers to apply to build year-round recreation destinations through a fast-tracked process.

The Alberta government says all-season resorts are a “key component” for the Tourism Ministry to reach its goal of growing tourism revenues to $25 billion by 2035. It says the new processes increase investor confidence and offer “tailored support to the resort development industry.”  

Critics say the rules mean developers can circumvent and undermine environmental laws.Here’s what you need to know.

1. The All-season Resorts Act gives the tourism minister decision-making power on some large-scale recreation projects

In Alberta, the All-season Resorts Act, passed in late 2024, makes it easier to build large-scale, year-round tourism projects on Crown land by moving approvals for these projects into the Ministry of Tourism and Sport. 

Previously, developments that raised environmental concerns would be regulated through multiple laws. They would also be reviewed by an arm of the Alberta government called the Natural Resources Conservation Board. 

The board typically reviews whether projects that require environmental impact assessments under the Environmental Protection and Enhancement Act are in the public interest, like the Three Sisters development in Canmore; or some mining, quarry or dam projects. 

Under the all-season resorts umbrella, the Ministry of Tourism and Sport gets the final say on projects, which critics say lacks the same standards of environmental review.  

It’s a system University of Calgary law professor Shaun Fluker describes as a “fiefdom of the minister.”

“There are no guardrails,” he said.

2. The Tourism Ministry has a 150-day window for approving new resort proposals

The first step toward a new resort proposal being fast-tracked through the All-season Resorts Act is a land-use change. 

Land is selected by the government to be designated as a new kind of public lands zone called an “all-season resorts area.” Before that designation, the ministry is meant to do Indigenous consultation and public engagement on the land-use changes.  

After land is designated, a developer can submit something called an “expression of interest” to signal they want to apply to develop a resort within that area. 

With the go-ahead from the Tourism Ministry, a developer submits an application, including a master development plan; environmental assessment; business and capital investment plans;  proposed approaches to landscape compatibility and integrating the resort into nearby municipalities. They have to identify constraints and “any other information as required.” 

At this stage, the developer also has to carry out public engagement and consultation

with Indigenous communities on the development plan. Once the ministry decides an application is complete, a decision is made within 150 days. 

With the green light from the Tourism Ministry, construction can start.

3. Land can be removed from provincial parks to build resorts

Three all-season resort areas were designated in December 2025 under the act and, perhaps confusingly, named after the resorts there: Fortress, Nakiska and Castle All-season Resort Areas. The first two are in Kananaskis Country and the third is near Waterton Lakes National Park. 

All three areas already offer winter activities, to varying degrees. After land is designated under the act, developers are able to apply to build or expand into as an all-season resort.

Fortress is the only area with a development application underway — an expansion of the existing ski resort that could bring in nearly 10,000 additional daily visitors.

A fourth area, Silvertip Gondola, largely in Bow Valley Wildland Provincial Park overlooking the town of Canmore, is in review to become a designated all-seasons resort area. The designation would require a change in park boundaries and an amendment to the South Saskatchewan Regional Plan, the land use framework for the region.  

To make way for these resort areas, some provincial parkland has already been shifted out of protected status. That includes 131 hectares of parkland that has lost its protected status to make way for Fortress, according to an analysis from the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society. 

A Ministry of Tourism and Sport spokesperson told CBC the government conducted public and Indigenous consultation in 2023 about year-round resorts more broadly and “found strong support for the designations.” Critics say the decision to remove land from parks happened without public consultation. 

“It’s a little bit of the fox watching the hen house,” Katie Morrison, executive director of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society Southern Alberta chapter, said.

4. Experts say the whole approval process is fast-tracked

The All-season Resorts Act passed in December 2024. The first three areas were designated in December 2025, at the same time the official policy was released. 

In January, Fortress was the first to apply with a project proposal, a year-round resort in Kananaskis. The development would bring roughly 10,000 daily visitors to a water-sensitive region home to sensitive wildlife and already under strain from tourism.  

Morrison, of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society, said the entire legislative process, from tabling the act to implementation, including 150-day statutory timelines for decisions on applications, has been rushed. And rushing, she said, doesn’t make sense here. 

“Some of the reasons we have had delays in approval on these things is because this is a really complex landscape,” she said.

5. The environmental assessment for the first development application under the act is not ‘credible,’ according to experts

The Fortress proposal includes an environmental assessment Morrison calls “woefully inadequate” for assessing impacts. 

Fluker, the law professor, said the inadequacy of the assessment “undermines the whole approval process.” 

“No credible impact assessment process would take that as a final submission because there’s really nothing usable in it,” Fluker said.  

Though the proposal raises questions around water use in drought-stricken southern Alberta, the environmental assessment does not address where more water would come from, just that it may be required. 

“That is exactly the kind of issue or topic that a credible impact assessment process grapples [with],” Fluker said.

For its part, Fortress says the project team is dedicated to sustainability. “We aim to be the most water-efficient resort in Alberta,” project director Danielle Vlemmiks said in response to The Narwhal’s questions over email.

An assessment should put forth enough data for experts to evaluate the potential impacts of a project and come up with solutions, Fluker said. With this assessment, he said, “I don’t know how anybody could do that.” 

The Alberta government did not respond to detailed questions from The Narwhal.

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Summary

• A shuttered resort in Kananaskis Country could size up and reopen, with plans to build 1,400 parking spots, mountain coasters, minigolf and space for nearly 10,000 visitors a day.
• The location has been designated under Alberta’s All-season Resorts Act, which aims to speed up approvals for tourism projects.
• Experts are concerned the project, the size of a small city, will consume huge amounts of water in a region already dealing with drought.

Hidden amongst the sprawling, rugged network of public land, protected areas and provincial parks 125 kilometres west of Calgary, scattered, partially boarded up buildings sit below mountain peaks. They are the relics of the once-vibrant Fortress Mountain Resort. 

Now the company behind the on-again, off-again ski resort is applying under the All-season Resorts Act to build out its aged resort as a much-expanded four-season destination.

But when Fortress Mountain Resort unveiled its redevelopment plan in January, many were left with more questions than answers, particularly when it comes to the water supply for thousands of visitors to a drought-stricken region. 

“I don’t understand where that water’s going to come from,” Bob Sandford, senior government relations liaison with the United Nations University Institute for Water, Environment and Health, said in an interview with The Narwhal. 

The resort would welcome nearly 10,000 additional daily visitors to Kananaskis Country at its peak, which Sandford compared to the development of a small city. 

“A town the size that they’re developing, that water footprint’s really heavy,” he said. “What are the downstream effects going to be?”

The proposed expansion is a far cry from the old days of Fortress. When the resort first opened in 1967 under the name Snowridge, the lodge could accommodate 140 overnight guests. Six condos were built in 1976.

The ski hill operated for decades, changing hands multiple times before closing to the public one last time in 2006. 

Now, Alberta’s 2024 All-season Resorts Act is giving it new life. The Alberta government says the act helps to grow the tourism industry, “strengthen investor confidence” and offer “tailored support to the resort development industry.” The Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society says the act means resorts can circumvent and undermine environmental laws. Under the act, areas are designated for streamlined approval for tourism projects.

Fortress is hoping to develop in one of three areas that were designated under the act in December. A fourth is under review. 

The five-phase vision for Fortress includes up to 9,650 day-visitors by completion and 1,500 employees, plus overnight visitors and staff in 2,500 on-site units that would be a mix of tourist accommodation, real estate and employee housing, along with at least 1,400 parking stalls. It would take 15 years to complete. 

Designating the Fortress site for an all-season resort required the removal of 131 hectares from provincial parkland, according to an analysis from the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society.

The resort will include activities like electric all-terrain vehicles, mountain biking, minigolf, two “mountain coasters” (bobsled-like roller coasters), zip lining and more, along with infrastructure for more than 12 ski lifts, including five gondolas and five chairlifts. 

It’s what Katie Morrison, the executive director of the southern Alberta chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society, describes as an “amusement park” in an area of ecological importance for sensitive wildlife like grizzly bears, wolverines and bull trout — all in an area already under strain from tourism.

For its part, Fortress says the project team is dedicated to sustainability.

“We aim to be the most water-efficient resort in Alberta,” project director Danielle Vlemmiks said in response to The Narwhal’s questions over email.

Vlemmiks said, should the resort decide to make snow in later phases, Fortress plans to use grey water for snowmaking, something done at other resorts, and is planning activities that do not require large water use.

But that doesn’t quell concerns from environmental advocates who have long been ringing alarm bells over tourism development in the Rockies — an area where wildlife habitat and headwaters are already under threat from clear-cutting, coal mining and more.

So, when Fortress released its plan in January, it was a “worst-case scenario,” Morrison said.

Resort act a ‘regulatory failure’: lawyer

The Fortress proposal and water use is a good example of the All-season Resorts Act’s shortcomings, University of Calgary law professor Shaun Fluker said in an interview with The Narwhal.

Under the act, decision-making power for some large-scale recreation projects has been given to the Tourism Ministry, which has set a goal to grow tourism revenues to $25 billion by 2035. It’s a system Fluker describes as a “fiefdom of the minister.”  

“There are no guardrails,” he said.

The All-season Resorts Act establishes a new kind of zone, an “all-season resort area,” which can be created by the tourism minister. After an area has been designated under the act, a developer can then submit an application for a proposed development, including an environmental assessment it has contracted. The proposal must also undergo a minimum 30-day public consultation and an Indigenous consultation period. The Tourism Ministry makes a decision within 150 days of the application being complete. 

Morrison said the entire legislative process, from tabling the act to implementing it, has been rushed. And she noted the decision-making power lies with the same ministry mandated to increase tourism development, which she says is problematic, particularly under a fast timeline. 

“It’s a little bit of the fox watching the hen house,” Morrison said. “Some of the reasons we have had delays in approval on these things is because this is a really complex landscape.”

As it stands, Morrison said, the environmental assessment Fortress supplied as part of its application lacks critical information, and is “woefully inadequate” in addressing the potential impacts of the development. Bull trout, a threatened species in Alberta, have specifically been “completely ignored” by the report, she said, as has information needed to understand the impacts of the development on wildlife, aquatic ecosystems and water use in the region.

Fluker said the inadequacy of the assessment, which every expert in this story agreed lacked information for decision-making, “undermines the whole approval process.” 

“No credible impact assessment process would take that as a final submission because there’s really nothing usable in it,” he said. 

As a requirement, an assessment should put forth enough data for experts to evaluate the potential impacts of a project and come up with solutions. 

With this assessment, he said, “I don’t know how anybody could do that.” 

Details like how much water the resort would need to operate are currently being studied, Vlemmiks said. But, because Fortress is planning to be as economical with its water use as possible, the needs of the development will have to align with the project design, which will not be finalized for some time.

According to the assessment, and confirmed by Vlemmiks, Fortress has enough water for phase one of its five-phase plan, which anticipates 3,000 day-use visitors. Beyond that, more water may be required. 

According to a briefing note from the Tourism Ministry dated June 19, 2025, and obtained through a freedom of information request, the government is well aware of concerns with how the act will deal with water issues in particular. 

“[The Ministry of Environment and Protected Areas] has previously raised concerns about how [all-season resorts] will align with water management priorities, especially in light of recent droughts in southern Alberta,” the note reads. 

But, it adds, “these concerns are addressed” through a system where Tourism and Sport will share water management responsibilities at resorts alongside the Environment Ministry. 

The system is a red flag to Fluker.

Concerns should be brought to and evaluated by an independent board of scientific experts, he said. (The Alberta government did not respond to detailed questions from The Narwhal.)

“That is exactly the kind of issue or topic that a credible impact assessment process grapples [with],” he said. 

Morrison agrees, adding she was surprised water didn’t play a bigger role in the proposal — especially given Fortress’s history with water use.

Water from resort is currently sold as bottled ‘glacier water’

Alberta is in a multi-year drought, with conditions across the province ranging from “abnormally dry” to “severe drought.” Forty water shortage advisories were posted in April 2026. But southern Alberta has a long, complex history with drought and water management, including in Kananskis Country.

Alberta has seen two or three seasons of significant water shortage in the last 20 years, Cathy Ryan, a University of Calgary professor in earth, energy and environment, said. 

In times of drought, the main concerns are increased wildfires and sufficient water supply — for residents, visitors and ecosystems, Ryan said.

Water supply is managed by the province through a licence system that grants users the right to divert water whether from below ground or from rivers, lakes or streams.

Fortress is part of the vast Bow River Basin — which is itself within the South Saskatchewan River Basin drainage area. The Bow River flows through Banff National Park and eventually merges with the Oldman River to form the South Saskatchewan River. From there, it moves across the Prairies toward Medicine Hat in southern Alberta and beyond. 

The sale of new water licences in the South Saskatchewan River Basin, where Fortress is located, has been prohibited since 2006. But Fortress Mountain Holdings has two licences, one of which is for potable water. 

In 2019, Fortress was given the green light to sell half of the 98,700 cubic metres, or just under 40 Olympic swimming pools, of its potable water licence commercially. The change was opposed by environmental groups and lawyers and was challenged — unsuccessfully — by Stoney Nakoda First Nation in court in 2020. Canned water from Fortress is now sold as rök Glacier Water.

Should the resort proposal be approved, Vlemmiks said Fortress will cease commercial water sales.

She said the company plans to create a closed-loop system on site. That could include geothermal heat, greywater-supplied snowmaking and reusing water, though she did not provide any further details.

Vlemmiks also said Fortress is exploring a partnership with Stoney Nakoda First Nation to supply and manage water for subsequent phases, and is currently undergoing an Indigenous consultation process. Stoney Nakoda First Nation did not respond to a request for comment.  

“We are actively pursuing answers,” Vlemmiks said. 

But critics warn even the best-laid plans are subject to a changing climate — and declining water resources.

 Concerns about water shortages in Kananaskis Country

When it comes to divvying up water, Cathy Ryan from the University of Calgary said it’s been managed so far by “playing nicely in the sandbox.” But in the event of a shortage, the government can step in to manage water supply.

It’s happened more than once in the last 20 years. Most recently, in April 2024, Alberta instituted water-sharing agreements, where 38 of the largest water-licence holders — making up 90 per cent of the Bow and Oldman basins and 70 per cent in the Red Deer basin — agreed to voluntarily reduce water use if severe drought conditions developed due to several dry seasons and an El Niño winter.  

But water-sharing agreements are voluntary. 

In 2006, more drastic measures were taken: the province stopped the sale of new water licences in the over-allocated South Saskatchewan River Basin to protect the aquatic ecosystem and ensure Alberta could meet its water-sharing obligation with neighbouring provinces.

According to the province’s online tool, the Bow River Basin, where Fortress is located, was considered in moderate drought in February. 

In January, United Nations and Global Affairs Canada released a report about water bankruptcy, defined as when sustained water withdrawal exceeds replenishment, akin to spending outpacing income. Sandford, with the United Nations water think-tank, warned southern Alberta is already headed toward water bankruptcy. 

As climate change increases temperatures and exacerbates the effects of drought, Sandford’s concerns are far-reaching.

Fortress’s proposed development will land amidst a sea of warning signs outlined in the report, Sandford said. Southern Alberta ticks every box, he added, including infrastructure, long-term over-allocation of water and what’s known as ecological liquidation, when wetlands and forests are degraded for short-term gain.

Sandford said the province needs to plan for the persistent high temperatures, extreme drought and low snowpacks it is already seeing, and the impacts. Multiple wildfires have already been reported in southern Alberta since the beginning of the year. 

And as soil moisture dries up, rain won’t have the same penetrating effects, resulting in a “vicious circle of drying out,” Sandford said.

“You’re taking away the environment’s share of water,” he said. “Even at this moment, without the projected changes that we’re seeing, I don’t think they can do this.”

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Canadian outdoor guides, whose lives are dedicated to getting people out in nature, feel the impacts of climate change acutely. It makes sense: Canada is warming twice as fast as the global average — three times in the North. 

Melting ice, unpredictable weather, wildfires and more make it challenging for guides to keep people safe, whether they’re taking clients rock climbing, skiing, scaling frozen waterfalls or performing search and rescue operations.

The changing environment can also create an emotional tug-of-war for people who have built their lives around the mountains. 

“As guides, it’s an interesting position. We experience the full spectrum of [climate change], from the consequences to the cause, in a really intense way,” mountain guide Dylan Cunningham told The Narwhal. 

“I have almost died from hazards that are largely because of how climate change has affected the mountains. On the other hand, I experience the joy of doing things dramatically bad for our climate on a different level than [most].” 

“People heli-ski for a week, or once in a lifetime. I do it all winter. It’s an amazing job — but there’s an intense conflict with that. Some heli-ski guides are getting to the point where they’re going, ‘This feels hard to justify.’ ”

The Narwhal spoke to mountain, ski and alpine guides in British Columbia and Alberta, like Cunningham, about how climate change has altered their reality. Here’s what they said. 

Mike Adolph, Nordegg, Alta. 

Mike Adolph has been guiding professionally since 1995. He’s a certified mountain guide through the International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations and technical director for the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides, the organization that trains and certifies guides while upholding professional standards. In that time, he’s seen first hand the impacts of climate change. 

“It’s one of those things where it seems to be kind of slapping us in the face. And we adapt, and we’re changing, but what action are we taking? 

I think there’s been more of a conscientious effort amongst guides to look at ways to reduce our footprint. We all look at the mountains and go, ‘Things are changing. We need to do something about this.’ But I think everybody feels like, ‘What can I do about it?’ 

We might not be able to change the course where things are going, but we can slow it down. 

It needs to be part of a bigger movement that everybody’s participating in. We’re not slowing it down to the point where things are ever going to be as they were.

But if everybody does a little bit to reduce our footprint, that’s all steps in the right direction. And I think that’s the best that we can hope for.”

Ian Welsted, Golden, B.C.

Alpine guide Ian Welsted started guiding professionally six years ago after an accomplished career climbing peaks around the world. As an alpine guide, a certification specific to climbing year-round in the mountains, Welsted specializes in trips up prominent peaks, like Mount Robson, the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. 

“Climbing had a big impact on my life. I grew up in a conservative farming town in Manitoba, and wasn’t happy there. [When] I discovered climbing, it made me come out of my shell.

That’s partly why I got into guiding. I wanted to show other people how climbing can bring something constructive to your life. 

If people live in the city and have no tie to the natural world, then when they’re sold this weird lie that [climate change doesn’t matter] — if you’ve literally never experienced the natural world, then you probably don’t have any basis to make any kind of value judgment. 

It’s not a magic pill. I’m going to take someone ice climbing and they’re suddenly going to buy an electric car, or lobby against opening the [Arctic] National Wildlife Refuge. But marginally — you never know.”

Jordy Shepherd, Canmore, Alta.

Jordy Shepherd has been guiding and performing search and rescue in Western Canada for more than 25 years. Shepherd became an internationally certified mountain guide in 2000. Among many other hats, Shepherd guides professionally, hosts a podcast about mountain safety and volunteers with Columbia Valley Search and Rescue.  

“These glaciers are our freshwater reserves. We’re using our reserves. You can’t just spend, spend, spend your savings. You’ve got to make back the buffer or you run out.

Time is of the essence, and anyone who has expertise and experience to pass on needs to.

As ice recedes, there are all these unstable boulder fields — dirt and sand that haven’t seen the light of day in 10,000 years. Support is being taken away.

I’m finding I have to be more open to making the obvious decision, which is the tougher decision, to not go certain places. Just carve it off the menu.

I think about [the impact on the next generation of guides] all the time. 

People raring to go, looking to make their mark. With the way things are changing, it’s hard to predict how that is going to go for them when trade routes [commonly guided trips] are not accessible.

There’s certain stuff that you want to have in your repertoire for the ability to take people to. If you can’t take them there, it’s a big loss.”

Christian Schlumpf, Golden, B.C.

Christian Schlumpf began guiding in 2016 and became an internationally certified mountain guide in 2024. Before guiding, Schlumpf pursued engineering physics and worked on solar installations in Switzerland, where he fell in love with the mountains. During the winter, Schlumpf’s work is a mix of backcountry ski guiding, around Golden and internationally, and in the summer he guides rock climbing out of Squamish, B.C.

“For someone who’s a bit younger, like myself, [climate change] has always been a thing. 

I didn’t really think too much about [it]. I just wanted to be in the mountains. I wanted to do this as a profession. 

I don’t feel too nervous about it at this point. It’s just something to manage.

The important part of guiding is how you communicate that. Just getting to a summit is not necessarily the goal of a day in the mountains.  

If anything, I think it’s become more accepted to not put pressure on yourself. 

We’re more accepting of deciding to turn around for whatever reason it may be. Because I think we also realize that things are changing, and things are more unpredictable than they were in the past, and we don’t always have the answers that we think.”

Dylan Cunningham, Golden, B.C.

Dylan Cunningham started guiding in 2015 and became an internationally certified mountain guide in 2022. Cunningham splits his time between heli-ski guiding in B.C., where clients ski from remote locations accessed via helicopter, and guiding internationally and supporting Guardians of the Ice, a non-profit raising awareness of Western Canada’s melting glaciers.    

“[The mountains] hold a very special place to me in the way they add so much value to my and other people’s lives. 

That we’re having a profound impact on that space is moving for me. But it’s pretty hard to detach myself from thoughts of ‘what are the downstream effects of this?’

That cost is going to be disproportionately borne by people who are vulnerable, not by affluent people [with] social and geographic mobility. 

I try to think of it not as how is [climate change] going to impact my career. But how does this impact future generations?

Sometimes that can tap into something a little bit more powerful than, ‘How much convenience and opulence do you want for yourself?’ ”

Kevin Hjertaas, Banff, Alta.

Ski guide Kevin Hjertaas explored the Canadian Rockies on skis his whole life before he began guiding professionally 12 years ago. Formerly a competitive skier and avalanche controller, Hjertaas is based in Banff National Park and cohosts monthly snowpack discussions sharing ski and avalanche conditions across B.C. and Alberta. 

“It’s hard not to get depressed. You’re walking for hours up this glacier with your thoughts for most of the day. Your nearest partner is 15 metres away, there’s no conversation.

It’s really cool to bring your guests [to snow caves that form at the bottom of glaciers], a magical spot where there’s beautiful ice and you’re underneath it. 

You get there and realize that was only two years ago, but now the glacier is a full 60 metres back, and there is no cave. 

But if [they haven’t] been there before, they’re still awed by it. If you’ve seen it before, it’s so diminished. So if I can just drop my expectation, there are still magical places. 

It’s hard. I try to bite my tongue [when] I want to say, ‘It used to be like this,’ but it happens. I try to get off it quickly. You don’t want to diminish that experience. 

I grew up with the expectation glaciers were receding before we recognized global warming had such a human element to it. As a child, we thought it was part of the natural cycle. The fact it’s so accelerated now — I don’t know how you reconcile that.”

Jasmin Caton, Nelson, B.C.

Before becoming a ski, rock and apprentice alpine guide, Jasmin Caton studied hydrogeology and thought she might become an environmental scientist. 

The lead guide and owner of Valhalla Mountain Touring strives to operate her off-grid ski lodge in B.C.’s Selkirk Mountains with as little environmental impact as possible. But climate change may be plotting against her. 

Most remote ski lodges use helicopters to transport guests. To burn less fossil fuel, Caton offers catskiing, transporting guests by tracked land vehicles called snowcats. From wildfires to drought, Caton has experienced the impacts of climate change first hand. 

“I’m a happy, optimistic person. I guard myself against getting dragged down by this stuff. But it’s hard. It’s really sad. 

[When I hear news like] ‘carbon dioxide levels are higher than scientists were predicting,’ this heaviness sets in.

I think about taking my kids to glaciers, because what are glaciers going to look like when they’re my age? So many of the iconic glaciers in this area will not exist in decades. It’s heavy.

I think it’s just good to be able to say it, and also to find joy in life. Because otherwise, what’s the point? 

I’m flying to Greece to go rock climbing with my family. There are all the hypocritical things we do to keep going and find [joy in] life.

It’s the balance I’ve chosen to strike with my career. Owning a business where I take people into the mountains and they can feel more connected to nature, and using my business as a bit of a soapbox, or supporting environmental activities where I feel like I’m doing something meaningful.”

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Standing on the Athabasca Glacier in Jasper National Park, Alta., the wind picks up with an icy bite. 

It will be a lot warmer down there, our guide tells me, pointing to a moulin, a hole in the glacier formed by meltwater.

Trusting my rope, I, like the others, lean back and descend 35 metres down until my spiked feet land inside a sculpture of perfect blue ice. 

Every spring and fall since 2022, photographers Jim Elzinga and Roger Vernon, with mountain guide Dylan Cunningham, venture to the Columbia Icefield. Their mission is to capture the vast glacial expanse straddling the Alberta and British Columbia border before it’s gone.

“This is the beauty,” Elzinga says. “But this is what we’re potentially going to lose.”

Glaciers in Western Canada are melting faster than ever, and the last four years have been particularly devastating. From 2021 to 2024, glaciers receded twice as fast as in the last decade due to low snow, high temperatures and wildfires darkening glacial ice as ash and soot on the surface absorb heat, according to recent research published in Geophysical Research Letters. 

On our current trajectory, Environment and Climate Change Canada predicts glaciers in the Canadian Rockies are likely to all but vanish by 2100, according to a statement emailed to The Narwhal. The consequences are far-reaching, impacting everything from water security to infrastructure to ecosystems and contributing to sea level rise. 

But below the surface of the Athabasca Glacier, encapsulated in its water-sculpted walls, that’s easy to forget. The ethereal blue seems endless, engulfing our senses and filling our peripheral vision.

It’s inescapable — a feeling Elzinga and Vernon strive to replicate with their photography. 

Vernon made sure everyone touched the ice with their bare hands to experience the smooth texture. 

Capturing the beauty of the Columbia Icefield glaciers 

For three decades, Elzinga and Vernon were in the same social circles in the mountain community of Canmore, Alta. But it wasn’t until 2021, when Vernon got a call from Elzinga asking to collaborate on a glacier project, that the pair got to know each other. It was a natural pairing.

“When we came together there was such a common language,” Vernon says. 

Their goal too, was shared. In a world inundated with images, they want to take photos that grab people’s attention at a scale that’s difficult to ignore. 

“We wanted to have our images so big that if you stood back at this distance,” he says, holding his arm out wide, “it still smacked you in your face, commanded your presence.

That shared vision led to Meltdown — a photography project exhibited in large scale at galleries and museums capturing the beauty of the Columbia Icefield glaciers before they are gone. It’s part of a larger initiative by an educational non-profit called Guardians of the Ice which Elzinga cofounded. The group aims to raise awareness of the consequences of losing Western Canada’s glaciers by marrying art and science.

For Vernon, it’s a bit of a shift from his other life behind the camera on the big screen, where he has a long history as a cinematographer, including documentary films and Academy Award–winning movies. 

Elzinga, meanwhile, is an accomplished alpinist who has spent a lifetime guiding and exploring in the mountains at high altitudes. In 1986, he led an expedition when the first North American woman summitted Mount Everest.

While both Elzinga and Vernon have accomplished much in their careers, they brush it off when we talk. The current mission takes centre stage — they are living and breathing glaciers.

Vernon first became aware of the impact of glacier melt when volunteering with a Calgary-based non-profit focused on water security. His work there took him around the world, to Zambia, Ethiopia and Congo. When Elzinga approached him for Guardians of the Ice, Vernon saw an opportunity to have an impact on water security locally.

“Imagine 50 years from now when we don’t have our glaciers. … Those folks aren’t going to have the water,” Vernon says, pointing to downstream Alberta communities. “That’s our food production.”

Water from glaciers in the Columbia Icefield joins rivers, streams and eventually the Pacific, Arctic and Atlantic oceans. As glaciers retreat, declining meltwater supply may impact freshwater availability as early as 2050, according to Environment and Climate Change Canada.

Elzinga, who studied photography in university, dreamt of photographing mountains since the 1980s but had to wait for technology to catch up with his vision. Elzinga and Vernon use a high-resolution camera capable of aerial mapping and space quality imagery to capture the detail and scale of their photography.

The team uses a Phase One camera, a high-resolution camera that allows Elzinga and Vernon to capture the scope of the mountains and glaciers without sacrificing fine details.

Elzinga and Vernon use a technique called photo stacking which combines multiple images to increase the quality of their photos. The technique has been useful for capturing moulins, in particular.

Witnessing glaciers disappear

Before everyone ventures into the moulin, Elzinga and Vernon stand to the side of the opening, looking at their phones. They wait for Cunningham, the mountain guide who supports their work, to text photos to the pair so they can preview the spot and make sure the imagery is what they’re looking for.

Together, Elzinga and Vernon have the mountaineering experience required for the project, but they’re now in their 70s, so they enlisted Cunningham to focus on safety and technical requirements while they focus on the art. 

“We get wrapped up in the minutia of what’s in our eyes,” Elzinga says.

Today we’re also joined by alpine guide and long-time climbing partner of Elzinga’s, Ian Welsted, who volunteered his time to facilitate bringing a reporting team on the shoot. While Elzinga and Vernon take photos, Welsted explores the darker reaches of the moulin.

Behind the camera, Elzinga and Vernon can work together almost wordlessly, an important skill when conditions get rough, they say, like the cold winds and snow when I visit. 

While finding the exact image is a know-it-when-you-see-it scenario, the areas photographed are very intentional. 

A few days after the photoshoot, at Vernon’s home base in Canmore, Alta., he unfolds a map with mountain peaks marked one through 12, the starting point four years ago, when the duo was planning where to photograph. 

The mountains flanking the icefields are known as the “guardians of the ice,” he says, the origin of the non-profit’s name.“Now all that glacier is gone,” Vernon says, pointing to different spots on the map. He points to another area — “gone.” And another, gone.

 Features the photographers planned to capture had vanished or receded remarkably year over year, like the Columbia Glacier, which they estimate to have receded 100 metres from one photograph to the next.

The art of changing people’s minds

While Cunningham has always felt a responsibility toward the environment, working with Elzinga has had a “profound” impact on his outlook, he says. 

When Cunningham gets cynical about climate change, Elzinga’s optimism has the power to pull him back.

“You can’t think that way,” Elzinga will tell him. “We can solve this, we’re making a difference, and we’re going to keep pushing.” 

Giving up isn’t an option for Elzinga.

“It’s really easy to look at this stuff and be overwhelmed by it,” he says. “My attitude is, well, at least you’ve got to try and do something.” 

The non-profit supplies Alberta Tomorrow, a free educational platform, with their materials from the icefields, and plans to expand to the university level as well as experiment with other mediums, like virtual reality. 

Elzinga hopes that awareness will then ripple through every aspect of people’s lives, including the ballot box. “It’s at government levels that you can get policy change,” he says. 

The climate crisis is like a virus, Elzinga says. Even if people are aware of it, they can’t really see it. And as the urgency increases rapidly, maybe art can help show people what’s at stake. 

Among the photographs displayed in the Columbia Icefield Glacier Discovery Centre, where Meltdown is exhibited across from the Athabasca Glacier from May to September until 2027, a wall titled “no action too small” encourages visitors to be mindful of their environmental impact through pledging to take small actions such as eating less meat or divesting from fossil fuel. 

Not everybody who sees the images will make choices for the planet, but some might, and for Vernon and Elzinga, that’s what counts. 

“Sometimes people say, ‘Well, what I do is not going to make a big difference,’ ” Elzinga says. His comeback is to flip the concept of a drop in the bucket on its head. 

“A lot of raindrops go into a rain barrel and then eventually that rain barrel is overflowing.”

As he sees it, if 75,000 people see the images at the gallery, not everybody will make a change — but the percentage of them that do, he says, will “go out and within their circle, they can make a difference.”

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When Anthony Mondia entered the common area of the Conrad Kain Hut in B.C.’s Bugaboo Park on Aug. 17, the expressions on the guides’ faces made it clear something was wrong.

“They were in game mode,” said Mondia, an accountant and avid outdoor recreationalist who was staying at the hut to learn glacier skills with an Alpine Club of Canada course. He saw how the creek outside the cabin had tripled in size overnight, washing over a footbridge on the trail used to get to the hut.  

Mondia had spent the rainy day before practising rope skills on Crescent Glacier with a guided group. The next day, the lake that sat against the same glacier was flooding as water cut through the ice. 

August is the height of the climbing season in the Bugaboos, a glaciated alpine paradise that draws people from around the world to its granite spires. With the hut and campground busy, responders made the choice to evacuate more than 60 people from the park via helicopter. 

About ten search and rescue volunteers with additional support from RCMP and BC Parks worked together to execute the emergency evacuation. The full-day operation lasted a little over eight hours.

When Jordy Shepherd first surveyed the scene from above, the mountain guide and member of Columbia Valley Search and Rescue struggled to understand what he was seeing. 

“You just don’t normally see a lake start to drain out the other direction,” he said. 

Water which typically fed a series of smaller glacial lakes, providing a water source for the campgrounds and funnelling into the creek by the hut, looked like it was pounding from the centre of the lake.

Shepherd wasn’t the only one surprised by how the flooding occurred.

Brian Menounos, a research professor at the University of Northern British Columbia, said melt is happening at much higher elevation than was previously seen, with “bonkers” results.

When glaciers recede, most people imagine the toe, the lowermost part of the glacier, pulling back, he explained.

“This didn’t happen that way,” said Menounos, who is also an affiliate of the Hakai Institute, a B.C.-based coastal research organization.

With widespread disappearance of seasonal snow at higher elevations, warming temperatures and ice surface darkening from wildfires, melt is happening much higher than before — and faster than ever. 

In the Bugaboos in August, the glacial lake was dammed by already-thinning ice. Heavy rain combined with typical ice and snow melt to raise the water level, spilling over the edge and also cutting up to 15 metres wide and 10 metres deep into the ice barrier, sending what Menounos estimates was 750,000 cubic metres of water — the equivalent of 300 Olympic-sized swimming pools — through the park over a month.

As Menounos put it, that was “unusual.”  

Recent research shows guides in the Canadian Rockies are feeling the effects of climate change. All eight guides The Narwhal spoke to for this story echoed a similar sentiment: a rapidly changing environment means rules of thumb no longer apply in the mountains. 

Scientists say climate change in the mountains means disappearing glaciers, extreme weather or even the possibility that entire mountain ecosystems will disappear as temperatures rise. That leads to impacts felt by the people who are often responsible for your safety in the mountains: hired alpine, rock and ski guides or rescue teams. 

The risks are clear. In May 2019, two catastrophic landslides occurred on Mount Joffre in B.C.’s popular Joffre Lakes Park, in part due to glacier retreat and melting permafrost. 

In 2012 in Jasper, Alta., Mount Edith Cavell’s Ghost Glacier collapsed overnight, causing a flood and debris that reached the parking lot and day use area. No one was there, but Mount Edith Cavell is a high-visitor-use area in Jasper National Park. Had people been there, fatalities could have occurred. 

As climate change worsens, the risks of such incidents will only increase, with consequences not just for guides, but Canadians at large. 

Beyond natural disasters, hazards from glacial melt have the potential to impact water security and aquatic ecosystems, damage infrastructure or cause bodily harm.

B.C. has about 17,000 glaciers, what’s being done to stop them from melting?  

Canada is warming two times faster than the global average and three times faster in the North, Samantha Bayard, spokesperson for Environment and Climate Change Canada said over email. 

In addition to environmental, economic and household impacts, climate change directly impacts affordability and threatens lives, health and well-being, especially for northern communities and vulnerable populations.

When asked how the federal government plans to mitigate the effects of climate change on glaciers and the potential hazards, Bayard said Canada “recognizes reducing emissions is critical in the fight against climate change” and can help reduce impacts across the country.

Marie Martin, senior communications advisor for Natural Resources Canada, said over email that glacier mass balance is monitored at reference glaciers in Western Canada and in the Arctic.

The government takes the threat and all hazards posed by climate and weather events to communities, infrastructure, industry and health very seriously, she said. Emergencies are first managed locally, then provincially or territorially. 

“If these jurisdictions need help, they can ask the federal government for more resources,” Martin said, adding the government has programs to inform Canadians and support provincial and territorial efforts, and that families can reference Canada’s emergency preparedness webpage. 

B.C. has roughly 17,000 glaciers, or 23,884 square kilometres, and lost 22 per cent of glacier surface area between 1985 and 2021, B.C.’s Ministry of Water, Land and Resource Stewardship said in an emailed statement. 

Three glaciers in the province are currently monitored by GeoBC, Natural Resources Canada and the Hakai Institute. Pending capacity and resources, research is expected to continue. 

Alberta’s Ministry of Environment and Protected Areas did not respond to requests for comment on climate planning, the accelerated rate of glacier melt in Western Canada or potential hazards and impacts. 

“It’s a new reality for us out there,” said Mike Adolph, an International Federation of Mountain Guide Associations certified mountain guide and technical director for the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides (ACMG), the organization that trains and certifies alpine, ski, rock-climbing and hiking guides and upholds professional guiding standards. 

‘We can’t even go there’: mountain adventures are increasingly elusive

Jasmin Caton was deep into her preparations for the ACMG apprentice alpine guide exam, a multi-day undertaking that tests skills including climbing movement, glacier travel, waterfall ice climbing and more, when she heard the location — the Bugaboos — had to change due to flooding. 

With six days to go, new areas were ironed out: Rogers Pass in B.C., and the Columbia Icefield and Bow Valley region in Alberta. 

Conditions were challenging on the icefield, with unstable slopes of loose rock from glacier recession and complex route-finding on bare glaciers. But on the last day something unexpected happened. 

“I popped into a crevasse up to my armpits,” Caton said. Falling into the crack feature in the glacier wasn’t surprising. It was that she had been walking in the footsteps of another exam group from the day before when it happened, creating a false sense of security.

“Things that used to be simple are just often not that simple anymore,” she said.

Shifting timeframes is one way to manage safety, and can be an “interesting balancing act,” said Adolph, who, coincidentally, was one of Caton’s examiners.

At the end of the 2025 season, because typical alpine climbing routes were no longer in season by late summer, the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides decided to split its alpine guide exam into two summer modules going forward, to test aspiring guides on snow and ice when the routes are still in shape, but before rockfall hazards become too great.  

Rockfall has always been the main concern in mountaineering, he explained. When most people look up they see a beautiful mountain: a guide looks up and sees looming overhead rockfall potential.

These risks are exacerbated by terrain changes, permafrost thawing and temperature fluctuations; shrinking seasons, bigger crevasses in unexpected locations and low snow cover to fill those gaps are just some of the increased hazards facing the outdoor community. 

And as glaciers melt, moraines — ridges of debris which includes rocks, boulders, clay and sand — can start to shift or collapse without the ice holding them in place.

When Adolph started instructing 15 years ago, the north glacier of Mount Athabasca in Jasper, Alta., seemed to be ten times the size, he said, and a regular spot for the guide association’s summer programs. Watching the area change has been a red flag. 

Adolph has seen the glaciated terrain change from snow, to bare ice to rock and then more rock. It’s now at a stage where there’s concern the glacier will snap off. 

“Now it’s to the point where we can’t even go there,” he said.

Almost every guide The Narwhal spoke to has a story about Mount Athabasca. Famous for its easy glacier access from the road on the Icefields Parkway, the mountain is home to many well-known alpine climbing and ski routes. 

Alpine guide Ian Welsted has watched climbers traverse glaciated terrain on Mount Athabasca’s popular “ramp route,” even though the glacier has melted so much that the route is steeper, more hazardous and no longer the safest option. 

The choice might be due to a lack of experience or simply relying on “inherited information” of how things were always done, he said. But terrain choices shouldn’t be taken for granted.

“Complacency kills,” Welsted said. “Some of the closest incidents I’ve had have been when I thought I knew the route.”

Working as a rock guide since 2005 and ski guide since 2010 before becoming an apprentice alpine guide this year, Caton feels the difference of varying experience levels in her guiding practice.

Maturity can bring the benefit of knowing when to step away, she said. But it can also create a bias from having done things one way for a long time, “and it always working out fine.”

The Narwhal asked Parks Canada, Kananaskis Public Safety and BC Search and Rescue Association whether climate change led to an increase in mountain incidents. 

The first two organizations did not respond. In an emailed statement, Kyle Van Delft, BC Search and Rescue Association’s data administrator, said it does not keep specific incident data related to climate change hazards, adding anecdotal evidence and references exist, but are not a reliable data point. 

‘Let’s understand what all of our risks are’: grassroots efforts fill information gaps

When Kevin Hjertaas heard a scientific researcher had confirmed glacial melt was happening in unexpected ways, the ski guide’s eyes widened.

“It sure feels that way,” Hjertaas, who is based in Banff, Alta., said.

Hjertaas, who has been guiding for 12 years and skiing in the Rockies his whole life, said the terrain has changed dramatically, and in unfamiliar ways.

Where parts of the glacier have sagged or collapsed, “you end up with a circle of crevasses going in really different directions that are not what I’m used to looking for.”

The increasing speed with which Hjertaas has observed the changes, which used to feel like historic events but are now year over year, has also kept pace with science. Glaciers in the Canadian Rockies melted twice as fast in the last four years versus in the past decade, according to Menounos’s research.  

Hjertaas co-hosts monthly snowpack discussions at Canmore Brewing, where avalanche forecasters and safety specialists in B.C. and Alberta share ski and avalanche conditions. New hazards and crevasses have become a recurring theme.

The talks are an example of the kind of grassroots information-sharing that has evolved to serve the outdoor community.

While crevasses are common, they pose a serious risk to people who venture on the ice in all seasons. The rate of melting and low snow cover have made them increasingly difficult to navigate. 

You have to understand the risks, then have a plan, explained Evan Stevens, an International Federation of Mountain Guide Associations–certified mountain guide based in Squamish, B.C., and assistant technical director for the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides. 

“That’s the core of the issue — let’s understand what all of our risks are.”

And with winters getting “weirder” it’s easy to get caught off guard. “It doesn’t seem like too much status quo anymore,” he said. 

Ahead of the ski season, Stevens shares aerial photos of snow-free glaciers in B.C.’s southwest coastal regions, where he does the majority of his guiding, on his blog.

The images are a tool to compare up-to-date information with maps, see how terrain has changed and plan ahead. Not only for crevasses, but to assess where glacier recession may have steepened terrain or increased rockfall.

It’s about more than ‘these glaciers are dying’

Whether it’s to share conditions or report on a missing piece of hardware on a rock climb, guides and recreationalists rely on formal and informal networks to share observations and promote safety. 

The efforts are an example of the public stepping up to fill information gaps, said Shepherd, the Columbia Valley Search and Rescue responder from the Bugaboos incident. 

The more we have experience with events like the Bugaboos flooding, the more experience we can apply to forecasting, Shepherd said.

A clear picture for hazard planning requires a lot of instrumentation, explained Menounos, the professor and Hakai Institute affiliate. 

“Part of the mystery here is that the physics involved in these sorts of failures is really difficult,” he said.  

As glacial recession occurs slowly, forecasting models similar to those used for avalanches would not be applicable, Devin Baines, senior communications advisor, said in an emailed statement on behalf of Natural Resources Canada.

There is ongoing research to understand potential rockfall hazards that occur with glacial recession, he said. This could help provide a broader understanding of the hazard implications and processes related to glacier change. 

There is no comprehensive, national-scale mapping of glacial extent in Canada currently, and it is unclear whether this would be beneficial to mountain guides, as it would not support site-specific hazard assessments, he added. 

B.C.’s Ministry of Water, Land and Resource Stewardship said over email that it focuses research efforts on glaciers through data collection and partnerships to help understand how climate change is affecting the province.

Right now, about 3.6 per cent of the area covered by glaciers in B.C. has publicly available light detection and ranging (LiDAR) data, a three-dimensional mapping system, with plans to expand over the coming years.

The Alberta government and Parks Canada did not respond to requests for comment about supporting year-round information resources similar to Avalanche Canada or mapping glacial recession. 

The flooding wasn’t the first rescue call Shepherd has responded to in the Bugaboos — and it’s unlikely to be the last. 

“It’s a different landscape, and very, very unpredictable,” he said. 

Menounos said the best way to prepare for hazards is to understand where they are and think about mitigation strategies to prevent loss of life and property. 

Science has a fundamental role to play, particularly through long-term observation, which is about more than “these glaciers are dying,” he said. 

“It’s a treasure trove of information” that can be used to make better physical models and predictions. 

But for that to happen, governments at all levels will have to understand it is essential and requires better funding, he said. 

“Because this information is ultimately going to help both decision-makers and the community at large.”

Updated Jan. 9, 2026, at 11:45 a.m. PT: A photo caption describing the Mount Athabasca glacier was updated to properly identify the correct glacier, Mount Andromeda.

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Making her way up the Lady Macdonald hiking trail above Canmore, Alta., while the sun slowly retreats behind the mountains, Naomi Wiebe pauses to make out the sound of a bird call. 

The sounds of nocturnal wildlife are just one of the things — like the full moon or northern lights — that make being out at night special. 

“There’s something magical about being in the mountains in the dark,” Wiebe says, adding her favourite piece of outdoor gear is a headlamp.

The Canmore resident and self-proclaimed member of the “crack of noon club” doesn’t always plan to be out late; sometimes it just happens. And sometimes it’s a scheduling issue. 

When she first started dating her partner 11 years ago, evenings were the only time they could get to the mountains together. She’d leave work in Calgary, drive an hour and meet up for a hiking date at Grassi Lakes near Canmore, bringing wine and cheese to enjoy under the stars.

The first time I went ice climbing was seven years ago, at night, to avoid other people. We had to go after work, my friend said: there were too many people on the weekends. Our plan paid off, and we swung our ice axes alone under a pantheon of stars. 

While the outdoors may create a sense of solitude at night, people aren’t alone out there. And our push to spend more time outside, at all hours, can have more of an impact on wildlife than we may realize.

Recent research has shown the scope of the effects of human activity: on every continent except Antarctica, wildlife has become more nocturnal to avoid people. As more and more people seek out nature, experts agree more needs to be done to protect wildlife sharing these spaces, including thinking about a very different kind of wildlife sanctuary: a temporal one.

Recreating in the woods between dusk and dawn pushes wildlife deeper into the night 

In 2018, research published in Science found all human activities — including hunting, hiking, agriculture, urban development and more — were pushing species from across the animal kingdom to become increasingly nocturnal. It warned of the possibility of “ecosystem-level consequences.” Wild animals instinctively see humans as a threat, and naturally try to avoid us. 

The researchers found that as human activity expands, we’re encroaching not only on animals’ space — but also on their time. 

Closer to home, research in B.C. and Alberta found grizzly bears adapted to living with humans by becoming more active at night. 

Clayton Lamb, a wildlife scientist at Biodiversity Pathways, a research institute out of the University of British Columbia Okanagan, and co-author of the research, said that trend impacted grizzly bear survival “in a big way.” 

The research showed that grizzly bears living near humans gradually shifted their activity into nighttime hours, by two to three per cent per year after the age of three. That increasingly nocturnal behaviour led to a two to three per cent increase in annual survival rates. No significant shift was detected in wilderness areas, suggesting humans were the cause. Bears being more active at night, the researchers found, “not only enhances bear survival but reduces conflicts with people.” 

The bears have little choice, they added. “There are two outcomes for young animals in landscapes of coexistence: adapt to people by becoming more nocturnal or die because of people.”

Wildlife advocates say the onus shouldn’t just be on wildlife.

Wildlife need refuge from people in both space and time

Nikki Heim has seen the glow of headlamps ascending Lady Macdonald from the window of her Canmore home. 

Heim is the communities and conservation program team manager for Yellowstone to Yukon Conservation Initiative (Y2Y), an organization that works collaboratively across the United States and Canada to protect wildlife habitat. She’s also an avid skier, hiker and climber who grew up in Western Canada and witnessed the outdoor recreation boom first hand, particularly since the COVID-19 pandemic.

As the world reopened, interest in outdoor adventure has remained high. Banff National Park had a record-breaking 4.3 million visitors in the 2023-24 season and anticipated a new high for 2024, while nearby Kananaskis Country kept pace with its neighbour. 

While putting a precise number on the time of day people recreate is challenging, a ministry spokesperson for Alberta Parks confirmed observing an increasing number of people cycling (including on electric bikes with bright headlights), hiking, dog walking and trail running at dawn, dusk and nighttime hours.

“As it gets busier, people still want to feel like they’re alone,” Heim says. 

People aren’t always trying to avoid crowds, though. Sometimes, night recreation has other reasons — like hiking in the dark to reach a summit for sunrise, rushing to beat another climber to the wall or to beat the summer heat. And as climate researchers predict the number of very hot days will increase steadily during Canadian summers, more and more people may be looking for ways to avoid the hottest hours of the day.

“They might not necessarily be recreating in the middle of the night, but they’re pushing those boundaries,” Heim says. 

When an animal shifts to be more nocturnal or use the dawn and dusk period, that time acts as a temporal refuge for them, in the same way it might use a spatial refuge like a protected wilderness area — but in time, Heim explains. 

“It’s their space where they can comfortably breed and feed,” she says. “So if we’re now recreating at night, they don’t have any time to be in that area undisturbed.”

‘The response was incredible’

When Parks Canada piloted a seasonal temporal travel restriction on a 17-kilometre stretch of road in Banff National Park, Bill Hunt was astounded by how quickly the wolves, deer, elk and grizzlies living in the area got the memo. 

Wildlife detection on the road doubled during the closure and, within three years, the former Parks Canada resource conservation manager and his colleagues had enough strong data collected to send their study on the impacts of the temporal restriction on wildlife for peer review. 

“The response was incredible,” Hunt says. “It was immediate, and it was very clear.” 

For nearly four months in the spring, the Bow Valley Parkway, which runs parallel to the Trans Canada highway, is closed from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. to all travel. Within the closure period, daytime use is further restricted from May 1 to June 25, when only cyclists and pedestrians are permitted. 

For a wolf focused on its pups, for example, this half-day period sheltered from humans allows them to hunt and bring food back for their young undisturbed, Hunt says. 

“That’s a really critical thing when you’re trying to feed three or four or five or six pups in a den.”

The project aims to balance human needs — including tourism and socioeconomic factors — with the needs of wildlife. 

The concept of “nature needs half,” an initiative focused on protecting biodiversity, is often thought of in terms of what space we can give back to wildlife, Hunt explains. 

“We need to start thinking of what we can do in terms of time as well.” 

In nearby Fernie, B.C., the Fernie Trails Alliance recommends people avoid using trails at dusk and dawn, when bears and other wildlife are most active. That initiative was launched in partnership with Y2Y and Wildsight, a B.C.-based environmental organization, in consultation with Lamb, the wildlife scientist from the grizzly study.

It’s not a closure, Lamb stresses, but proactive education.

Using cameras to monitor wildlife activity on mountain biking trails, Lamb’s research, still in progress, found wildlife trail use increased at night when human activity dropped. 

What Lamb saw varied depending on the animal, with some species like mule deer or black bears seemingly undisturbed, while elk were more avoidant.

Hunt compared human movement to vehicle traffic he experienced in Vancouver: people leave 15 minutes earlier to beat rush hour, only to find everyone else had the same idea. 

“You get this ballooning pattern where people spread out in time when they can’t spread out in space,” he says. 

Limiting human activity in morning and evening periods might be able to keep those pressures from spilling over, Lamb explains.

Busy trails can displace grizzlies, wolves

Peter R. Thompson hasn’t spent time on trails at night, but as an avid birder, the postdoctoral researcher at Simon Fraser University tends to be out in nature for first light when birds are most active, before the day heats up and the bugs start buzzing. 

Hiking in Sheep River, Alta., in the sliver of time before dawn that isn’t pitch black but still dark enough to obscure vision, Thompson has been startled by the loud exhale of a deer hidden alongside a trail. 

“It scared the hell out of me,” he says, laughing. 

That twilight period, Thompson explains, is important for wildlife because trails are much less crowded. 

Humans have many of the same preferences. Animals, especially ungulates (those of the hoofed family like deer or elk), take advantage of the time of day when there’s enough light to navigate but it’s still not too hot out. 

“[Wildlife] use these spaces because there aren’t people there, and more and more, there are reasons for people to be there,” he says.

Thompson’s recent research with the University of Alberta found grizzly bears and wolves in the central Canadian Rockies avoided a larger area than previously estimated due to consistently high human trail use. 

Only half of grizzlies came within 300 metres of the trails studied. The figure was 600 metres for wolves. Human activity had a “small, but measurable influence” on grizzlies as far away as 1.8 kilometres and 6.1 kilometres for wolves.

The research didn’t take into account the time of day or season of human activity. Drilling down on those finer details, like the impact of recreation at night, remains a question Thompson would like to answer one day. 

“It’s kind of like the one that got away,” he says.

How much recreation at night is too much? 

When it comes to land management, making decisions to balance the needs of wildlife and recreation can be difficult without knowing when — and where — people are heading out, according to Annie Loosen, who studied trail usage as a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Northern British Columbia and Y2Y. 

“One of the biggest challenges is actually just getting the data,” she says. In 2022, Loosen published research compiling trail data from southwestern Alberta and southeastern B.C. from a huge range of sources — from government databases to social media, including apps like Strava and AllTrails as well as online community groups. 

The mammoth undertaking revealed 24 per cent of trails in the southern Rockies aren’t official routes — making them unlikely to be included in decisions about how to best manage a landscape. People use trails that aren’t in government databases while land managers make decisions without a full picture of what’s happening on the ground. “There’s a mismatch,” she says.  

While we have some understanding of human impact on wildlife, “recreation impact on wildlife is in its infancy,” Loosen says. 

Lamb, the wildlife scientist at Biodiversity Pathways, agrees. In his view, most of the recreation ecology science out there — including his own — has been fairly poor. 

“It’s observational,” he says. “All that we get is a trail network that already has people using it, and you go out and study it.” 

But Lamb wants to see more. While experimental research exists, it’s in the minority. 

“It’s a new field,” he says. “Not to knock those either, because that’s how information starts, you kind of sputter and work with what you can.”

Simply knowing that wildlife is becoming more nocturnal in areas with high human activity is enough to merit exploring whether — and how — human recreation at night might impact wildlife, Thompson says. 

“How much recreation at night is too much? How much is going on? How much is it going to increase? It’s really important for people to know the impact that they’re having.”

‘Live with, not against’: a cultural turning point for recreation

Experts agree: the current volume of recreation is new and it’s time to have a conversation about it.  

There are numerous factors at play — more people wanting to get outside, for one — but also rapidly improving technology and gear. High-powered headlamps, GPS maps and satellite phones make it possible to feel safer going to more remote places at all hours of the day.

With more and more people heading out into wilderness areas, “it’s a key time to start thinking about how we can coexist with this incredible assemblage of mammals,” Lamb says.

It’s kind of like littering, Hunt says. Change can come from the top down, but it can also start with the individual.

We know that animals rely on predictability to coexist with humans, he says. If a pulp mill makes noise 24 hours a day, most wildlife can get used to that.

“It’s loud, it’s disturbing — but it’s totally predictable.” It’s when disturbances are episodic that wildlife are more thrown off. 

Hunt recommends people avoid trails between dusk and dawn when possible, and stick to popular, out and back routes if you do recreate in those times — and always stay on trail. 

If recreating in the evening, the Alberta government also asks that visitors stay vigilant, give wildlife their space and stay on designated trails.

Moments like right now are exciting to Heim, because we all want to enjoy the outdoors. It’s an opportunity to reframe our culture and “live with, not against.”

“[People] want to feel the wildness still,” she says. “There’s spirit in these landscapes because we still have those species here, and we can feel that.”

As Wiebe and I hike down Lady Macdonald, the sun has long retreated behind the mountains and the first few stars appear above us. Our headlamps guide us over the rocky trail back toward the lights of Canmore shining in the valley below. It’s beautiful — and quiet.

But the spectre of learning how we’ve encroached on animals’ time followed me down the trail. Earlier, on a break in our hike, Wiebe asked what my reporting had turned up. She was invested in understanding her impact.

It turns out the answer is complicated — but scientists aren’t alone in wanting to understand how we can best coexist with wildlife.

As the outdoors become increasingly popular, we will need limits. We’ll also need to examine our own behaviours and be open to solutions.

That way, we can continue to enjoy landscapes like these — and the plants and animals that call them home — without loving them to death.

This piece was written with the support of the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity’s Literary Journalism: Environmental Writing residency.

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