Summary

• Alaska-caught salmon are more likely to be found in B.C. grocery stores than salmon caught in-province, partly because the Alaskan fishery is so much bigger than B.C.’s.
• Alaskan fisheries have also been more successful at obtaining certification as sustainable operations, even though some experts claim Alaskan fisheries are depleting salmon populations.
• Indigenous fisheries in B.C., such as the one owned and operated by Lake Babine Nation, prioritize sustainable harvests, and their products can still be purchased — though maybe with a little extra effort.

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Walk into a grocery store in British Columbia and you’ll likely see bright red sockeye salmon for sale, one of the province’s most iconic foods. You might assume the sockeye was caught fresh in B.C. — but it’s far more likely the fish was caught by Alaskan fisheries, and frozen before it reached this store.

Buying Canadian products is a top priority for many people, especially in the face of U.S. tariffs and annexation threats. Some Canadian conservation groups argue Alaska fisheries are unsustainable. So why is salmon from Alaska so much more common? 

A major challenge is volume: Alaska caught 194.8 million salmon in 2025 and 103.5 million in 2024. Some of those salmon would have spawned in B.C., Washington and Oregon — though it’s hard to say exactly how many of those would have returned to B.C. specifically. The catch includes all five species of wild Pacific salmon: sockeye, coho, Chinook, chum and pink. 

Meanwhile, B.C. caught 2.9 million salmon in 2025 and 2.4 million in 2024. 

Those are just commercially caught and retained salmon. Critics are concerned about how many fish are caught in commercial bycatch — those unintentionally caught while targeting other species. Recreational fisheries have an impact, too; catch-and-release can kill significant numbers of fish.

A Lake Babine Nation fisher loads freshly caught salmon into a community member’s truck at Lake Babine’s fish counting fence.

Alaska’s salmon fisheries also have something B.C. salmon fisheries don’t: a globally recognized certification that tells stores and consumers its fish are caught sustainably. The Marine Stewardship Council certification faces some criticisms from conservation groups, but having it helps get fish on shelves and into shopping baskets.

So, why don’t B.C. salmon fisheries have it? How do we find B.C. salmon in stores, and how could there be more of it? What’s the most sustainable? Read on.

Why does Alaska have a leg-up on B.C. in selling salmon?

Alaska catches more salmon, which means it can sell them for less. Smaller fisheries pay more to process and ship fish to the store. The sheer volume also means frozen Alaska-caught salmon is available all year.

Big grocery stores “don’t necessarily care about the story,” Brittany Matthews, chief executive officer of Talok Fisheries in central B.C., says. “Price is going to win every time.” And Talok, owned and operated by Lake Babine Nation, can’t compete on price alone. “That’s what we’re fighting with, to add that care, to add that story, to add the power of an Indigenous product on the shelves and make people think about it versus just grabbing the Alaska fillet,” Matthews says.

And Alaska’s Marine Stewardship Council certification can act as a golden ticket, selling the message to stores and consumers that the fish is sustainably caught. “Major retailers, almost bar none, want [that] certification,” Greg Taylor, fisheries advisor to Talok, explains.

Fish caught by Lake Babine Nation ready for processing.

The Marine Stewardship Council says, globally, fisheries responsible for 19 per cent of the world’s total marine catch have its certification. Getting it requires fisheries to go through a rigorous auditing process.

Due to climate change, forestry and overfishing, B.C. salmon fisheries “no longer produce the volumes to satisfy the Canadian market,” Taylor says.

The fact no B.C. salmon fisheries are certified “says a lot about how poorly our fisheries are managed,” Taylor argues.

Conservation groups have pointed out flaws in the Marine Stewardship Council certification program.

Smaller B.C. fisheries may choose not to take on the task and additional costs of meeting stringent reporting requirements — meaning they are less likely to be stocked in stores.

In 2019, the Canadian Pacific Sustainable Fisheries Society pulled the B.C. fisheries it represented out of the program, since it was likely to fail an upcoming audit, largely because of a lack of good data on the health and abundance of salmon.

Separately, conservation groups have argues the Marine Stewardship Council sometimes certifies unsustainable fisheries. In 2024, a group of Canadian conservation groups formally objected to Alaska salmon fisheries being recertified, but were unsuccessful. They argue that while Canada has been cutting down allowable salmon catch, Alaska is catching too many.

“Alaska’s indiscriminate harvest is preventing the recovery of vulnerable Chinook, chum, sockeye, coho and steelhead that are headed for Canada,” Aaron Hill, executive director of Watershed Watch Salmon Society, said in a statement about the objection.Misty MacDuffee, biologist and wild salmon program director with Raincoast Conservation Foundation, argues the Alaskan Chinook fishery “deprives endangered southern resident killer whales of their primary food source.”

A young grizzly fishes for salmon just below the Babine River counting fence.

Broadly, salmon are struggling. Lake Babine Nation paused its Ts’etzli food fishery in 2024 due to salmon struggling in shallow, warm water of the Babine River. “They’ve had a food fishery there for 8,000 years, and they stopped it two years ago because of climate change,” Taylor says.

Concerns about the Marine Stewardship Council’s certifications go beyond salmon: in March, the Antarctic and Southern Ocean Coalition objected to the Marine Stewardship Council’s decision to recertify the Antarctic krill fishery.

The council’s Canada program director, Kurtis Hayne, says certifications are led by independent experts and include stakeholder input and peer review. The council itself does not lead assessments. Certification requirements include effective management and responsiveness to environmental conditions.

“We are confident in the credibility and outcomes of [our] assessment process,” he said in an emailed statement.

Where do these sustainability concerns about commercial practices come from in the first place?

In the open ocean, most commercial salmon is caught using purse seines and gillnets, which can scoop up non-targeted species, including from endangered stocks. Marine fisheries often catch salmon when they are still far away from their spawning grounds, and in B.C., operate on Canada’s best projections of what returns may be — but in reality, returns can be lower or higher than expected. If they’re lower, there’s no way to un-catch those fish.

Salmon have lost habitat due to development and are impacted by flooding, drought and warming water temperatures. Meanwhile, federal monitoring has declined, leaving spotty data for many populations.

Scientists and conservationists see the value in what First Nations have done for millennia: selectively fishing close to spawning grounds, a sustainable management practice called a terminal fishery. These in-river fisheries enable close monitoring of how many have returned to spawn.

Talok Fisheries, where Matthews is chief executive officer and Taylor is an advisor, is a terminal fishery that is preparing to apply for Marine Stewardship Council certification with support from Fisheries and Oceans Canada, Matthews says.

“Indigenous-produced, sustainably harvested, selectively caught — they hit all the buttons to what a sustainable fishery should be,” Taylor says.

The council told The Narwhal the Quinsam River pink salmon in-river fishery has nearly finished its assessment to be certified as well.

So how can a B.C. fishery compete with Alaska?

Talok salmon is stocked at Costco, Sobeys and Thrifty Foods, thanks to its partnerships with distributors North Delta Seafoods and Premium Brands. It also sells fish through Authentic Indigenous Seafood, a collective that shares processing and shipment costs across Indigenous fisheries. These partnerships have been essential and gave Talok the chance to explain its selective practices, Taylor says.

Otherwise, “for small producers to get into Loblaws or Sobeys is next to impossible,” he says, because the fees are too high and it’s hard to compete with bigger fisheries that can beat them on pricing.

Talok is one of the biggest commercial sockeye operations in B.C., but it still relies on just a couple boats and a beach seine net hauled by the nation’s members who remove fish by hand traditionally. That means a smaller carbon footprint than a fleet of fishing vessels on the ocean, Taylor argues.

During roughly the first two weeks of the season, Talok sees the brightest red salmon. They “have beautiful meat colour early on in our lake harvest,” Matthews says. When processed for the store, they don’t have the “shiny silver skin” buyers love. Alaska “floods the market” with silver-skinned, whole fillets, and has ample fish caught early “before any other B.C. inland fisheries have the opportunity,” she explains. Top that with the price, grocery stores are “going to take the Alaska fish — hand over fish,” she says.

After two weeks at Talok, the fish gets paler. Matthews explains those pale fish are harder to sell to grocery stores but are great for smoking.

The paler fish are sold internationally to be processed into food like fish flakes. The roe from these fish is also good quality, but there’s a limited market for it in B.C., Taylor says.

Alaska’s Bristol Bay sockeye fishery, which is Alaska-origin, is the world’s largest sockeye run. “Even in weaker years, Alaska still dwarfs B.C.’s total output,” Matthews says, and that “sets the tone for pricing, market expectations and buyer relationships.” 

Meanwhile, B.C. has smaller, more variable runs, “chronic” conservation issues and time restrictions. “Markets hate inconsistency — Alaska offers the opposite,” she says.

At the Lake Babine Nation counting fence, people count each fish that goes by. Once a million salmon have passed the fence, the nation can begin fishing commercially.

Talok targets enhanced stocks, which are boosted through hatchery programs, not sensitive wild stocks. Those enhanced stocks return to specific spawning channels.

“If you reduce harvest rates on the coast, all those surplus fish end up at the spawning channels,” Taylor says. This means Talok can target different stocks appropriately, which is good for populations, and also efficient: “like shooting fish in a barrel.”

People count the fish passing the Babine fish fence. Once a million fish pass the fence, they get the green light to fish commercially. It’s prep, wait, then “fish like crazy” in the roughly four weeks they have, Matthews says. Last year they caught 191,872 salmon, according to Taylor.

“We will never fish until we know we have a healthy number to sustain the channels,” Matthews explains. Fisheries and Oceans Canada allows a specific number of these enhanced salmon to enter the spawning channels to maximize productivity in the habitat, and then closes a gate to the channel. Talok harvests fish still heading to that channel, which would have died with their spawn in them if they weren’t harvested. Matthews says the fishery leaves enough for the eagles, the bears and the river system while preventing too many from going to waste.

There’s some debate around spawning channels, since surplus stranded fish can affect productivity of the surrounding habitat. Taylor believes they ultimately should be removed, but it’s best to catch the surplus fish while they’re there. If removed, resources in those spawning channels, like flow control, could be directed to recovering wild streams instead, and Talok could catch a smaller yield.

So why do Alaska fisheries have this designation if B.C. fisheries have found it hard?

First is the capacity to meet monitoring and auditing requirements. Then comes the contention over whether the designation is applied fairly. Alaska and B.C. have interception fisheries, meaning they catch fish in the ocean before they reach their home waters in another country, not in their own jurisdiction. 

Alaska’s constitution requires fish to be maintained on a “sustained yield principle” in its own state, basically meaning “don’t deplete it.” But it allows a fishery to intercept fish returning to Canadian rivers where salmon stocks are experiencing depletion.

“It’s frustrating to see them wipe out the stocks that we have — and then also in the grocery store chain market, to compete against the Alaska fisheries is tough,” Matthews says.

Talok Fisheries tries to use as many fish as possible and reduce waste. Early season salmon are sold to stores for their bright red colour, and later salmon are great for smoking, Brittany Matthews says.

Taylor says “it’s appalling” for Alaska to apply a different standard to B.C. fish and the Marine Stewardship Council “is letting them get away with it.”

Though Taylor objects to this discrepancy he sees, he compliments Alaska for setting escapement goals for its own salmon stocks (meaning how many adults “escape” being caught and return to spawn). Most B.C. salmon stocks don’t have escapement goals. 

“You have to give Alaska credit for managing their own fishery. They do a much better job than Canada does — except when it comes to fishing our populations that are passing through their waters,” he says.

What does Alaska say?

Forrest Bowers, the Alaska Department of Fish & Game’s director of the division of commercial fisheries, says Alaska sells more fish partly because it has more salmon generally, and the vast majority of salmon caught spawn in Alaska. He agreed the Marine Stewardship Council certification helps get Alaska’s fish sold worldwide. He also points to the state’s escapement goals — the same ones Taylor commends — which prioritize sustaining populations into the future “over all other uses of salmon, including harvests.”

Bowers adds that Canada transferred allocation from commercial to recreational fisheries. In some parts of B.C., the recreational fishery catches more than the commercial.

In an emailed statement, Bowers said the cross-boundary fisheries are managed under the Pacific Salmon Treaty, and “a minute amount” of Alaska’s harvest would spawn outside the state. He says Alaska carefully monitors catches of Canadian-origin salmon to meet treaty requirements, “often forgoing harvest opportunity on our own stocks.”

Alaska’s commercial sector is made up of marine fisheries, though they can still be close to a river’s mouth. Pink and chum are its biggest catches. Bowers says in-river fisheries are not viable for Alaska because salmon spawn in thousands of waterways that aren’t connected by roads and would require airplane access.

“Attempting to harvest millions of pink and chum salmon in-river is not only impractical, but it would also lead to lower quality food products since pink and chum salmon sexually mature quickly in fresh water,” he says. He adds commercial operations in-river could lead to conflict with recreational and subsistence fisheries.

Salmon are integral to local economies, First Nations and non-Indigenous communities and habitats, Brittany Matthews points out.

How many Canada-origin fish is Alaska actually taking?

Taylor says the reality is “no one knows what that number is.” It takes several years to finalize annual estimates, and even then, specific numbers are difficult to obtain because they would require extensive genetic testing to be completely sure, he explains. Alaska gave The Narwhal a preliminary catch estimate of 260,000 B.C. salmon in 2025 (excluding some fisheries managed separately under the treaty) but said it doesn’t typically generate those estimates. Other observers think it could be much higher.

The Pacific Salmon Commission, which implements the treaty, told The Narwhal “there are no straightforward answers” in tallying a cumulative number of how many fish each nation intercepts from the other. Estimates of each salmon run are made separately because they “come with important caveats that make summing them together across fisheries and species problematic.”

What does Canada’s fisheries department say?

Fisheries and Oceans Canada (commonly called DFO) was not able to arrange an interview, despite repeated requests made several weeks in advance of publication. In a statement the department said it’s up to fisheries to apply for the Marine Stewardship Council certificate, but it supports applicants by providing data on stocks and compliance and explaining conservation measures.

The department says that while no B.C. salmon fisheries currently have the designation, B.C.’s groundfish trawl fishery has the certification for 16 groundfish species and the offshore hake and halibut fisheries are certified as well.

While the certification affects grocery store decisions, Fisheries and Oceans Canada says it “does not alter [the department’s] regulatory authority or consultation obligations.”

I want to support B.C.-caught salmon — what can I do?

Smaller, locally-owned shops may be more likely to carry B.C. salmon, and you can search and ask around for what B.C. fish is carried by bigger stores. You can find local fisheries in your area and see how you can support in-river operations. Fisheries and Oceans Canada responds to questions from civilians, and the Pacific Salmon Foundation and Pacific Salmon Commission have lots of public data so you can find out which stocks are doing well and which are struggling.

On the larger scale, protecting Pacific salmon relies heavily on co-operation between Canada and the U.S. The two countries signed an agreement in 2024 to suspend fishing of Yukon River Chinook for seven years, so such agreements are possible. Contacting your elected representative is one way to add your voice to the issue. You can also decide how you’re able to support local initiatives to restore salmon habitat and improve monitoring and share information among your peers.

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.

Toyin Kayo-Ajayi’s favourite meal is pounded yam, with cassava and egusi — protein-rich African melon seeds, roasted in oil with spices and blended into a paste (pumpkin seeds will do if that’s all you can find). You can add turkey, chicken, fish, shrimp, kpomo (cow-skin) — any meat you want, with some broth and African spinach or amaranth — to turn it into a stew. 

Cassava and yam are central foods in his Nigerian culture and other Black cuisines across Africa, South America and India. He’s growing the tropical produce in greenhouses in Miracle Valley just outside Mission, B.C., about a 90-minute drive east from Vancouver. 

Kayo-Ajayi was told again and again that farming in Canada would be out of reach — it would be too expensive, the climate too unforgiving for the tropical crops he dreamed of growing. It wouldn’t last.

But he says enthusiasm for his five-acre farm has only grown since he got started in 2020. For five months of the year, he can grow tropical produce in greenhouses. His soil, which he makes himself, consists of clean silt, sand and goat manure. It’s working so well, he says, he is now selling it online and trying to get it stocked in stores. He’s still experimenting at a small scale, but the food he grows, like cassava and yam, he mostly supplies to the African Foods Food Bank, an organization he launched to provide healthy food to Black families.

Toyin Kayo-Ajayi, founder of the Canadian Black Farmers Association, feeds goats at his farm near Mission, B.C. He is committed to empowering Black farmers by connecting them with training and funding.

Donating to the food bank helps more people access African produce that may be out of reach in Canada. Imported cultural food, like cassava, can face extreme mark-ups by the time they get to the grocery store. On top of rising grocery prices and systemic income inequality, those mark-ups can put these foods out of reach. “If it’s somebody that is still low-income, now, he’s struggling to afford the cultural food,” Kayo-Ajayi explains.

This summer, he plans to host people on his farm at the Kara-Kata Africa Village, where they can camp, learn about farming, share good food and enjoy music together, he says. In its fifth year, the initiative is part of his wider vision to break down barriers for Black, African and Caribbean people to get into agriculture in Canada. In 2022, he founded the Canadian Black Farmers Association, which now has over 200 members.

The farm produces an average of 4,500 pounds of produce for the food bank and 250 dozen eggs per year. To date, Kayo-Ajayi has provided agricultural mentoring to more than 500 people.

Breaking down barriers for Black farmers across Canada

Primary agriculture — meaning the work done on a farm or in greenhouses — contributes $31.7 billion to Canada’s economy annually. It employs about 223,000 people, but 40 per cent of that workforce could retire by 2033. 

Just under five per cent of those farmers are Black, and Kayo-Ajayi sees huge opportunity to increase that number in order to grow local economies, improve food security for Black homes, make communities more “self-reliant” food-wise and increase access to cultural foods.

Food growers are the roots of the entire agricultural sector, which generates $149.2 billion annually, or seven per cent of Canada’s gross domestic product.

While Kayo-Ajayi’s priority is getting cultural foods into Black homes at reasonable prices, he says supporting food growers stands to benefit all Canadians as the United States imposes tariffs and threatens annexation. 

“It’s something that is beneficial for our community and for Canada,” he says. “Everybody wins.”

Small-scale producers can face challenges getting operations off the ground and getting products into stores, often operating on small margins. Toyin Kayo-Ajayi has spent years investing in his operations, and wants to make it easier for other aspiring farmers.

Soil ‘the key to most of my success’

When he was about five years old in Ekiti State, Nigeria, Kayo-Ajayi’s mother would send him to visit his grandparents’ farm. “I didn’t like it,” he says. 

But that was where he learned “the most important thing in life is food.”

“I remember, we walked in the farm, they would smell the soil … They could tell you what could easily grow in that area,” he says.

He discovered planting seeds made him feel grounded. “It’s energy. It’s spiritual. It’s actually good for us,” he says.

Toyin Kayo-Ajayi says good soil is the “key” to all his food.

He’s stayed in farming his whole life, and has been farming in Canada for more than 20 years, beginning shortly after he arrived in 2001 at 23 years old. Today he still owns a 500-acre sister farm in Nigeria from which he imports food into Canada as well, including about 7,000 pounds on average each year to the food bank. He’s able to grow more throughout the year, and stocks some produce in the food bank, and sells some to support his operations.

In 2011, he began what would officially become the Kara-Kata Afrobeat Society, which brings music and food to community events in order to build connections and share information about food-growing.

“When there’s music and food, you find more people in our community. And I know how to make good food,” he says.

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At his B.C. farm he creates a loam soil, which supports the tropical plants that yield traditional African foods, like cassava and yam. He says it’s made all his produce grow better and easier. It’s a simple mixture — but it’s “the key to most of my success,” he says. 

“The soil is the root of everything I was able to do.”

Toyin Kayo-Ajayi’s soil is made from clean silt, sand and goat manure.

He hopes to make it widely available for purchase across Canada, and even beyond.

But he says he’s had trouble getting it into stores. He’s reached out to retailers but it hasn’t gone anywhere.

 It can be difficult for small producers to meet retailers’ requirements and make goods at scale, and often little guidance is available.

Kayo-Ajayi wants to use proceeds from soil sales to support programming for Black farmers. In turn, he hopes those farmers will someday contribute to the food bank and build capacity in the community.

“It’s like a cycle, reinvesting back,” he says.

Toyin Kayo-Ajayi, who is also a board member for the Small Scale Food Processors Association in B.C., wants to empower Black food growers to “create a sustainable economy in our community.”

Cultural food can ‘create a sustainable economy in our community’

Kayo-Ajayi’s operations are all-organic, and the plants he grows work together to benefit each other. Herbs repel pests. Cassava leaves provide protein for cows. He grows sorghum, a nutritious grain that grows like grass. You can cut it three times a year, but it just grows back, rather than needing to be replanted like other crops, he says.

He’s met a fair amount of nay-sayers who doubt how successful he can be. “People think I’m crazy, but, you know, it’s good to be crazy in a good way,” he says.

Sorghum, a protein-rich ancient grain, growing at Toyin Kayo-Ajayi’s farm. The nutritious grain is easy to harvest because it will regrow after being cut, instead of needing to be replanted, he explains.

He met aspiring Black farmers who found there was little support in navigating the agriculture system, and wound up giving up on farming. That’s why he created the Canadian Black Farmers Association, which provides advice but also helps members purchase land, create business plans, find funding and secure infrastructure.

Kayo-Ajayi thinks there can also still be lingering stigma around Black farmers. When he first moved to Canada, he was working on a farm close to the road, and someone walked by and asked, “Are you picking some cotton over there?” and laughed.

Those associations can be internalized among Black farmers too, he says. “It’s kind of stuck in the mind, seeing a Black person on the field … That kind of pushed most Black people away,” he says. “ ‘My ancestors were brought here, so I don’t want to bring myself here now, and now give myself up as a slave again.’ ”

Kayo-Ajayi’s vision is to highlight the empowerment that comes from growing healthy and cultural foods for one’s own community. 

“The most important thing in this life is food,” he says again. “We can use that food to create a sustainable economy in our community.”

“The most important thing in this life is food,” Toyin Kayo-Ajayi says at his farm. He wants to expand operations to grow more food, make more soil for sale and expand learning opportunities.

Beyond financial and informational barriers, there are still more challenges for new food growers. Farmers rated upfront costs and climate change as their top two concerns, according to a 2024 poll commissioned by Farmers for Climate Solutions. 

Flooding and drought have caused billions in damages to farmland across Canada, and climate change also is leading to a rise in pests. 

Kayo-Ajayi says his vegetables are mostly grown in greenhouses and are drought-tolerant, and he believes they can be very adaptable to a hotter, drier climate. 

What was it like to farm in 2025? Canadian farmers weigh in

Kayo-Ajayi says he invested a lot of money personally before he started getting funding. “You have to prove that you can do something before you can get support,” he says. 

Since then, the Canadian Black Farmers Association has received funding from organizations like Agriculture Canada, the Vancouver Foundation and the Supporting Black Canadian Communities Initiative. But he says he needs a lot more funding to get the farm going at a bigger scale and get to the point of selling soil.

“This is my passion,” Kayo-Ajayi says. “To me, somebody has to do it. It costs a lot, but guess what? The reason why you have a little is to be able to use the resources you have to make a difference in somebody’s life. To me, investing in another human being is my best investment, and I’m doing it this way.”

Updated on Feb. 18, at 1:50 p.m PT: A previous version of this story stated the farm produces an average of 250 eggs per year. The story has been corrected to state the farm produces an average of 250 dozen eggs per year.

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.

This story is part of Generating Futures, a series from The Narwhal exploring clean energy sovereignty among B.C. First Nations.

On the northwestern corner of Vancouver Island, wind and storms will often rip through Quatsino Sound. The wild west coast weather means Quatsino First Nation experiences frequent power outages.

There are few ways in and out of the community, roughly a six-hour drive northwest from Victoria. If they’re blocked by rough weather, “we’re closed off from society,” Quatsino member Kara Wilson says. 

But that weather has also created opportunities. A wind farm opened in 2013, which the nation has partial ownership in, and Quatsino is working to build more renewable energy infrastructure. It is on the cusp of completing the third and final phase of its 150-kilowatt solar project in the spring.

But Quatsino isn’t stopping there — it is pushing to deploy a tidal energy system later this year, which would be one of the first pilot projects of that technology on the west coast, Wilson says.

Quatsino First Nation installed solar panels at its daycare early in 2025.

Through its energy projects, the nation aims to provide reliable power at lower costs to its population of roughly 600 people, along with bringing jobs and independence. Quatsino is pursuing these renewable projects so members can “have that comfort at home that they’re always going to have energy no matter what,” Wilson says.

Wilson is the energy champion for Quatsino First Nation, a title that means she leads conversations about the nation’s energy projects with business partners  and community members. It also means she’s seen all the funding hurdles, manufacturing interruptions and bureaucratic hiccups that can make it hard for small, remote communities to launch their own projects. But after pushing through those challenges, she says Quatsino hopes to share its successes to show other communities “it is possible.”

Quatsino has a partnership with a wind farm, is completing its own solar project and launching a tidal power pilot project. Kara Wilson, Quatsino’s energy champion, is excited by opportunities to expand nation-led renewable energy.

Challenges to launching small, local energy projects

Quatsino completed the first two phases of its solar project in the first half of 2025, working with Canadian company Shift Energy Group to install solar panels and battery storage at the nation’s daycare and administration building. The third phase, providing power to the nation’s school, was delayed due to U.S. tariffs and a broad public service strike in B.C. late last year.

The efforts go back to 2017, when Quatsino began working with Barkley Project Group, a sustainable energy consultancy on Vancouver Island, to develop a community energy plan. Community members identified lowering energy costs, improving efficiency and exploring renewables as priorities. In 2020, the nation began installing heat pumps in homes, and seeking funding for other projects, like its solar installations.

Wilson hopes these projects will also help create good jobs in construction and maintenance close to home for Quatsino members and people in the nearby community of Port Hardy, B.C.

“A lot of our people are having to relocate because of a lack of work here and the cost of living,” she explains.

A First Nation may only have the capacity to launch something smaller, but it can be challenging to get smaller projects funded, Kara Wilson says.

But creating a local energy source, just big enough to meet a remote community’s needs, can be a tough sell for support and funding, she says. Most of BC Hydro’s calls for power — open application periods for renewable energy projects across the province —have been for larger projects, built to have extra energy to sell, versus small projects focused on bringing sustainable, resilient energy to remote communities. For example, the 2024 and 2025 calls for power required applications to have a minimum capacity of 40 megawatts — or 40,000 kilowatts — compared to the 150 kilowatts Quatsino’s solar panels will generate.

Many projects First Nations are trying to get off the ground are smaller than 40 megawatts. Wilson says the nation had been ready for a while to invest in smaller scale projects but it was hard to get support for those, and they had to wait until they were ready to take on something bigger.

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These projects don’t provide the obvious economic impact of being able to sell excess energy, but they provide a relief to community members with lower energy bills.

“All across B.C., everybody everywhere is struggling with the ongoing rises with rent, with the basic essentials to do with having a roof over your family,” Wilson says. 

Quatsino’s solar project is projected to save the nation $18,000 annually in energy costs once completed.

First Nations have ‘a central role’ in B.C.’s clean energy future: BC Hydro

Many First Nations across B.C. have ambitions to pursue renewable energy, but are hindered by a lack of capacity and funding opportunities. In response, the province has created new funds, and BC Hydro required 25 per cent Indigenous equity in applications to its 2024 and 2025 calls for power. 

In an emailed statement, BC Hydro said the 2024 call for power delivered majority First Nations ownership for almost every project it funded and up to $3 billion in equity ownership for First Nations, and the 2025 call “is also designed to ensure First Nations play a central role in the province’s clean energy future.”

Solar power inverter equipment at Quatsino’s daycare converts the direct current (DC) to alternating current (AC), the circuit type used for power grids and household electricity.

BC Hydro said it’s also supporting smaller projects, partly by working with off-grid communities since 2019 to support them in designing and developing renewable energy to use less diesel, along with supporting other programs for microgrid and on-grid communities like the Community Energy Diesel Reduction program. 

The utility is focusing on “partnering with communities rather than building projects ourselves” and purchasing energy from the communities, the statement said.

As for personal consumption, BC Hydro said it has among the lowest electricity rates in North America, and that residential rates are third lowest and half of what Albertans pay. It said it has eliminated higher electricity rates for 14 off-grid communities, which are primarily First Nations. In 2024, it contributed $80 million to support lower income households, social housing and Indigenous communities in programs and rebates through its Energy Efficiency Plan.

Nation is pursuing energy cost savings and independence

Quatsino estimates the solar panels will annually save the nation over $18,000 annually through reduced BC Hydro usage by the daycare, administration building and school. 

“The way we got leadership on board was highlighting those estimated savings,” Wilson said, and the fact those savings could support “other programs that [they’re] wishing to either revitalize, restructure or start new.”

If these projects create jobs that can keep people in the community, Wilson hopes that will also give them more opportunity to connect with revitalizing cultural and traditional art practices within Quatsino — some of which may be supported and powered by the new energy sources.

Quatsino First Nation Energy Champion Kara Wilson looks at solar equipment at the nation’s daycare.

The nation is hoping the solar power can supply its youth culture camp at the ancient village of Xwatis, also called Old Quatsino. It’s a significant cultural site where Quatsino people lived before they were relocated farther north to their current reserve.

The nation wants to diversify from hydroelectricity partly because people are concerned about its impacts, as it diverts water and can contribute to drought and hydrological issues, Wilson says.

To branch out into new forms of energy, Quatsino sourced funds from New Relationship Trust (which the B.C. government supports) and Natural Resources Canada. It also applied to B.C.’s First Nations Clean Energy Business Fund, which has allocated $1.49 million to 12 First Nations so far. Quatsino was also accepted with the Accelerating Community Energy Transformation initiative at University of Victoria.

‘This is the vision’: Inside Nlaka’pamux Nation’s quest to build B.C.’s first major solar project

Quatsino had also hoped to receive funds from the BC Hydro rebate program for solar panels and battery storage for Indigenous communities, but interest in the program was so great it had to pause intake of applications, including Quatsino’s.

Among B.C. First Nations, the momentum seems to be building. Last year, Ulkatcho First Nation broke ground on its solar project, while Nlaka’pamux launched its own in October. Another went online in December owned by Tll Yahda Energy, a partnership of Skidegate Band Council, Old Massett Village Council and the Council of the Haida Nation.

Quatsino has worked with several funding partners to advance renewable energy. Quatsino’s school, pictured above, will have solar panels installed this year.

Quatsino’s broad energy sovereignty vision includes more than the solar project and tidal energy device. The nation is also exploring the feasibility of electrifying four fish farms. It’s also possible Quatsino could eventually take over majority ownership of the Cape Scott wind farm from the current majority owner, Engie.

In 2025, the nation also received funding from Island Coastal Economic Trust to partner with Ehattesaht, Ka:’yu:’k’t’h’/Che:k:tles7et’h’, Nuchatlaht and Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations to pursue a transmission line to the North Island to improve connection with the BC Hydro grid, ensuring more reliable power for communities.

Wilson says she takes immense pride in her role as energy champion and what the nation has accomplished so far. She was once intimidated by the technical details of these projects, but now, she’s the one breaking them down for community members.

“I emotionally got invested because I have two boys at home that I want to set the example for, about how they can become a leader and how even when you run into hiccups — that it’s still possible, as long as you keep pushing and don’t give up.”

Generating Futures is made possible with support from the Real Estate Foundation of BC. 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.

Walking down the aisles of one of Canada’s major groceries, it’s rare to see Indigenous food products. Even in smaller, independently-owned retailers, they are still few and far between. Fish might be from Alaska and seaweed from Japan, despite being plentiful on the coast of British Columbia and harvested by local First Nations. There are many Canadian products big and small, but Indigenous producers, as well as their local traditional foods, are rare. Where are the Indigenous goods?

Food is a unique gateway for bridging cultures and building understanding, and picking up a package of bannock mix or candied salmon is a tangible way of supporting Indigenous economies. For those seeking them, they’re not too hard to find at gift shops and independent markets, and directly purchasing from Indigenous businesses online and in person is an option too. But it left me wondering — what does it take to get Indigenous foods into grocery stores? And is the effort worth it for the companies? 

The production costs can be high, while the margins can be low, business owners told me. Grocery stores can charge producers high fees to be on their shelves, and distributors can want a cut of the profit too, while expecting low costs on wholesale goods. Meanwhile, meeting large orders and checking all the boxes can challenge the capacity of small businesses. 

Kelsey Coutts is co-owner of Bangin’ Bannock, which sells premade bannock mix and is based in Coast Salish territories. She said covering those fees requires raising the price. “Then who are we catering to, who is it for, if it’s very expensive?” she asked. At the same time, Indigenous food producers are like other businesses: they want to reach more customers and be sustainable. 

So, how do companies break into these stores — and do they even want to? Read on.

Kelsey Coutts (left) and Destiny Houshte are co-founders of Bangin’ Bannock. Coutts said community support was integral to them getting their company off the ground. Photo: Supplied by Bangin’ Bannock

Fees are a challenge for small producers, Indigenous businesses say

Some Indigenous producers have found a foothold in stores. Authentic Indigenous Seafood can be found in stores of all sizes, in particular their candied and canned salmon — and that’s because it is a supply chain co-operative that brings together about a half-dozen fisheries, making the costs more approachable. Authentic Indigenous Seafood takes in fish from Indigenous fisheries and takes on the often expensive roles of transporting, processing, packaging and marketing to get fish to market. The costs can be prohibitive when operating independently, especially cold storage for frozen fish. 

Gordon Sterritt, chief executive officer of the co-operative and member of the Gitxsan Nation, said the idea came from a handful of Indigenous fisheries finding they didn’t have the capacity to do the processing and marketing individually.

Lena Russ, the co-operative’s special projects manager and a member of Haida Nation, said they would like to expand more into frozen fish in grocery stores, and into restaurants and wineries. For now, their shelf-stable preserved fish has been easier to transport and stock. Every bag or can of salmon gives details where the fish came from and which community caught it. 

“It took us a while to get to a point where distribution is easy now, and we’re not fighting for sales,” she said.

The fees to be carried in a grocery store can be high. They vary by store, but food suppliers can face late delivery fees that can cost up to $1,200 per delivery, out of stock fees that can cost thousands, and unloading fees that can charge $500 per pallet of goods, according to a 2021 report from a working group on retail fees in the Canadian food industry. The working group said shelf fees — essentially, the cost to claim space in a grocery aisle — broadly made sense to food suppliers, but other fees were more contentious for lacking transparency and being unpredictable.  

Grocery stores largely keep data on these fees confidential, but anecdotal research found between 15 per cent and 40 per cent of sales could go to the grocery store, according to the report. 

There can also be fees to the small producer if goods get damaged, even if it happens in the grocery store, Greg Taylor said. He’s an advisor for Lake Babine Nation, which owns Talok Fisheries.

“If your products get damaged in their stores or their process, they charge you back for them at the price they would have sold them for — not at the cost they bought them for,” he said. “And this is the damage done in their shop.” 

Authentic Indigenous Seafood’s collective structure means independent fisheries can access equipment, refrigeration and transportation that can be too expensive for a small operation to take on alone. Photos: Supplied by Authentic Indigenous Seafood

Some grocery stores have local programs that waive shelving fees for local businesses, like the Loblaw small supplier program. But overall, the fees can be prohibitive for small companies, Shyra Barberstock, chief executive officer of Anishinaabe tea and coffee company Kebaonish, said — making it largely worth it for them to prioritize seeking direct sales or working with smaller stores, at least while they grow.

“Our main focus right now is working with smaller independent businesses … but we do expect that as we expand, we also will eventually be in mainstream supermarkets,” she said.

What will it take to make traditional foods thrive again?

Sayisi Dene chef Sarah Meconse Mierau had a similar experience. Mierau runs Tradish, where she started out selling teas and jams, and expanded to a food truck, catering and running The Ancestor Café at Fort Langley. Initially, she wanted Indigenous people to be able to see her jams with plant medicines in the grocery store, but she quickly realized the cost of getting into the big chains “wasn’t very feasible.” She said it didn’t align with her cultural protocols to profit off selling plant medicines. Instead, she prices them just to cover the cost of producing them, and makes a profit from the other parts of her business.

Jordan Hocking, founder of Sriracha Revolver Hot Sauce, said bigger chains often require business owners to put their products on sale for a certain amount of time each year, but the business owner has to pay the difference in price to make up for the customer’s discount. “I can see why it’s not always a place people want to stay, or go, in the first place,” she said.

Hocking, a member of Sweetgrass First Nation, said getting commercial kitchen space to create enough supply is another high cost. She got coaching and access to a kitchen from Andrea Gray-Grant, founder of Good to Grow, which provides training support for emerging food and beverage companies.

Sriracha Revolver founder Jordan Hocking said small businesses are often making high quality products, which makes them less competitive price-wise. “Your product may have better ingredients, but the consumer doesn’t always know that, or isn’t able to hear your story from the shelf to know why they want to invest in you,” she said. Photo: Supplied by Sriracha Revolver

Pursuing growth while upholding values

Sterritt pointed out that post-contact, First Nations were restricted to reserves and prevented from living off traditional foods. After operating fisheries for millennia, communities were sidelined in the newly imposed system and found it hard to compete.

Sterritt first began working in fisheries in 1997 and said for a long time, due to these systemic issues, it could feel like their project was “never going to get anywhere.” But business really took off the past couple years, and Authentic Indigenous Seafood received an Indigenous Business Award in 2024.

Operating as a collective works better for the small, in-river fisheries run by Indigenous communities that are prioritizing sustainable harvest. These fisheries harvest salmon close to their spawning grounds, according to the number that have managed to return in a given year. Marine fisheries, on the other hand, will catch large numbers of fish mid-migration based on spawning predictions, before it’s known how many will actually get to their spawning grounds.

“Our fisheries have to be sustainable. They have to have that conservation focus,” Sterritt said.

Deer are destroying B.C. island ecosystems. Indigenous hunting could be the solution

Challenges such as climate change and natural disasters, including the 2019 Big Bar landslide and Chilcotin landslide in 2024, affect their planned fisheries. But Authentic Indigenous Seafood hopes to grow, which depends on partnering with more fisheries. 

“We have huge opportunities, we just need to have the supply,” Sterritt said.

For others, maintaining high-quality ingredients or sustainable packaging that align with their values and protocols can also make it hard to meet supply demands of bigger chains. Hocking’s hot sauces don’t rely on traditional Indigenous ingredients, but for businesses that do work exclusively with those foods, maintaining a consistent supply year-round “can be a real challenge,” she said. “If you’re going to make a relationship with a large retailer, they’re going to expect that you are going to supply that product when they need it … So that is intimidating.”

Mireau uses all organic and local ingredients in her Tradish jams, and hemp labels for the jars, and acknowledges that gets expensive. She wants to keep the cost per jar as low as possible, and the easiest way to do that is to sell them at markets and online. She’d prefer bigger chains mark up products to create their own profits, rather than cut into the independent businesses’ profits by asking for a lower price. 

“Our profit margin is already so small,” she said. “They want us to do it for literally nothing.”

Trained chef Sarah Meconse Mierau said culinary school helped her learn the ins and outs of running a food business. She focuses on selling her jams and teas directly to people to keep the cost as accessible as possible. Photo: Supplied by Tradish

Sarah Meconse Mierau said the glass jars, hemp labels and all-organic ingredients cost her $15 per jar of jam to make, and she sells them at $20 to cover overhead costs. She could cut costs by using cheaper materials and ingredients, but she’s not willing to sacrifice on the quality or the values she upholds, she said. Photo: Supplied by Tradish

Collaboration, mentorship and community are key to success

Coutts is working with distributors to sell her bannock mix, but said the capacity demands can be very high for such a small company. There can be last minute, very large orders that are hard for a small team to fulfill.

“We do it — but it can be a bit stressful,” she said.

Coutts said Bangin’ Bannock was only possible due to community support. In their first year, before they had the funds for a warehouse space, Squamish Nation’s Chief Joe Mathias Centre let Coutts and co-founder Destiny Houshte use the recreation centre’s kitchen to make their mixes. Coutts is Nak’azdli Dakelh and Houshte is Assiniboine.

“That’s the only reason we were able to begin,” Coutts said. “Just the community who decided to open their hearts and their doors and allow us to come in and succeed.”

She said she and Houshte combined their two family bannock recipes, and it was a winner on the first try. Then they created a gluten-free version.

“That was super fun too, because you’d have the uncles in and we’re getting up to try all the different tasters of bannocks and jams,” she said of the recipe development process.

Kelsey Coutts said federal requirements called for French on Bangin’ Bannock packages, but she and Destiny Houshte pushed back to include Cree and Nakota instead, the languages spoken by their families. Photo: Supplied by Bangin’ Bannock

She said peer support and mentorship has been key. “The small Indigenous business world is just so uplifting and so supporting and so loving,” she said.

Bangin’ Bannock is currently stocked in over 150 stores across Canada, and while Coutts and Houshte are more focused on smaller stores that are more community-oriented, Coutts said she sees the value in getting on big grocery store shelves for the representation of Indigenous foods. She wants young people to see Indigenous products where they shop. And that representation can also lead to connection, she said.

She’s found “bannock is a golden ticket to be able to have a non-threatening conversation with many curious people,” she said. 

“We’re able to have conversations about food sovereignty, and about reservations and residential schools and all of the history that brought us to what bannock is,” she said.

“It’s so much more than fried bread — it’s a really full history.”

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.

Skeena Resources is seeking to develop an old underground mine into an open-pit gold and silver mine in northern British Columbia and the plans have some Tahltan community members and experts concerned about water contamination.

The revitalized Eskay Creek mine in Tahltan territory is expected to increase metals concentrations in some nearby streams above provincial guidelines. In addition to worries raised by scientists and the community, Alaskan Tribes launched a court challenge against B.C. in November, demanding to be consulted since they could potentially be impacted downstream.

The mine, just under 300 kilometres northwest of Smithers as the crow flies, would generate $14 billion over the mine’s lifetime if gold and silver prices remain stable, according to Skeena Resources. It plans to provide 949 direct jobs during peak construction and 771 direct jobs during peak operations while it operates for about 12 years.

Skeena Resources — a Vancouver-based mining company which does business as Skeena Gold + Silver — acknowledges the mine is expected to impact stream flows and water quality, but believes those specific streams aren’t fish-bearing, emphasizing it doesn’t expect to cause harm to key aquatic species. Concerned observers say data gaps leave uncertainty about the full extent of impacts on water and fish, and whether fish use the area to spawn. Eskay Creek would be the first mine operated by Skeena Resources.

A group of Tahltan women have also formed the K’adesibe Collective to share concerns about the environmental risks. They are keeping their identities confidential due to fear of backlash within their community. At community engagement events, members raised concerns about environmental risks and Skeena Resources itself. Some members sent a letter to the company naming their concerns, and say they received no response.

For a long time, mining in Tahltan territory has not directly financially benefited the nation. Eskay Creek is the first consent-based agreement under the B.C. Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act to explicitly require the nation’s free, prior and informed consent. But some members say they have felt left out of the process. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Skeena Resources hoped to receive its environmental assessment certificate from B.C. this year, but that hinges on the Tahltan Central Government’s votes to assent to the certificate’s conditions. Tahltan requested the final assessment be delayed until January to allow more time to engage with members. The mine will be green-lit through a consent-based approval process, meaning Tahltan must independently approve the certificate, in addition to the province.  

Dozens of community engagement sessions were held over the past three months for members to discuss the possible impacts and benefits of the mine, but the decision to approve or deny the certificate will be made by the board alone, which is composed of one representative from each of the 10 Tahltan families.

The Narwhal requested an interview with Tahltan Central Government President Kerry Carlick, but he provided a written statement instead.

“The reopening of the Eskay Creek mine is a generational opportunity for the Tahltan Nation,” Carlick said in the statement. “This is a significant step toward economic reconciliation, resulting in $1.2 billion in cash for the Tahltan Nation, in addition to $570 million of Tahltan contracts and $184 million in wages to Tahltans.”

“The Tahltan Central Government, Iskut Band and Tahltan Band are committed to protecting the environment and ensuring open, honest conversations with our community about the proposed Eskay Creek revitalization project.” 

Skeena Resources also provided a statement instead of an interview, and told The Narwhal it “is working collaboratively with the Tahltan Central Government to construct and operate [Eskay Creek] with environmental protection measures that consider broader principles of land stewardship, Tahltan sustainability principles and values of [Tahltan Central Government],” and those measures will inform the permit that is co-developed by Tahltan and the province. 

Tahltan Central Government defends process, shares some details of impact benefit agreement

In a document prepared for its members, Tahltan Central Government said it has contributed to the mine reclamation plan, which outlines how the mine will be safely closed. The nation led its own risk assessment which “brings the opportunity for the nation to set specific Tahltan conditions to offset environmental risks,” the document says, adding that the process ensures “Tahltan decisions are grounded in Nation laws and stewardship principles.” The draft conditions include having a Tahltan monitor during construction and including the nation in environmental monitoring.

Separately, Tahltan community members are expected to vote on Dec. 13 whether to approve an impact benefit agreement or send it back to the drawing table. The vote was delayed from October, when a number of community members raised environmental concerns, and questions of how much the terms would economically benefit all Tahltan people. 

These types of agreements are generally not made public, but on Nov. 19 Tahltan Central Government publicly posted some of the terms, including approximately $10,000 for every Tahltan member.

Imperial Metals’ Red Chris mine also sits on Tahltan territory in northwest B.C. It is another one of the 18 projects the B.C. government plans to expedite. It experienced unexpected issues with waste rock seepage into groundwater. Photo: Garth Lenz / The Narwhal

Mining has been an economic cornerstone in the region for decades, but as more mines are developed — and critical minerals are positioned as an essential part of B.C.’s future — critics have been calling for improvements to mining practices. A massive tailings dam failure in 2014 at the Mount Polley mine near Quesnel was a clarion call for communities across the north, with some fearing potential impacts from poor practices could outweigh any economic benefits. 

Walter Coles, executive chairman of Skeena Resources, tried to build a uranium mine in Virginia with a company he co-founded with his father, on their land passed down from plantation wealth. The proposed mine was rejected due to the state’s moratorium on uranium mining. 

In the name of critical minerals, B.C. is fast-tracking mines — except gold and silver are not critical minerals

Eksay is on Premier David Eby’s list of major projects to fast-track, and the province has been framing this push as a step to strengthen economic sovereignty and build up energy and critical minerals needed for clean energy. Eskay is a gold and silver mine, neither of which are considered critical minerals, but Skeena Resources says it also has critical minerals potential. 

There’s no way to enforce or even keep track of whether critical minerals do, in fact, get sold for clean energy or other purposes, ecologist Adrienne Berchtold pointed out to The Narwhal.

Berchtold, a mining impacts researcher with the non-profit SkeenaWild, argued the government is touting the financial payoff of continual extraction, but the cumulative effects also have a cost — and right now, the costs of Eskay Mine aren’t clear.

Clean water and healthy salmon are also incredibly valuable resources for British Columbians, Berchtold said, and this mine could place more pressure on the already-stressed resources. The northwest region is being “rapidly deglaciated,” waters are warming while the province experiences drought and many salmon are in decline, she said. 

“The cost-benefit analysis of these projects is broken,” she said. 

“In my mind, it is all cost.”

Free, prior and informed consent should look different than old approval processes: Tahltan lawyer

Cynthia Callison, a Tahltan lawyer, says it can be hard to discuss the contentious project in the community. She’d like to see more room for respectful disagreement and debate on the future of mining for Tahltan. “To have a democracy you need to have differing points of view. If we want to become a true government we will have differing points of view,” she said.

“This is the first time we are implementing free, prior and informed consent, and it’s a lot different than the old model of consultation and accommodation — or, it should be,” she said.

In this “old model” it’s long been the norm for First Nations to feel pressured to say yes to industrial projects, she said, because otherwise a project may still be approved even if they say no, and they will get no economic benefit from it if they don’t engage. In a consent-based agreement, there should be room to get every question answered before saying yes, she added.

Across Canada, governments are racing to expand production of critical minerals. Here, lithium core samples extracted in Manitoba are stacked on pallets. Photo: Shannon VanRaes / The Narwhal

Beverly Slater served as Tahltan interim president for one year after then-incumbent Chad Day was suspended and resigned, partly due to the Tahltan board’s concerns Day had a potential conflict of interest due to his father’s business involvement with Skeena Resources and other mining companies. (A year later, the B.C. Supreme Court concluded the board had not met its procedural requirements in suspending Day. The judge did not conclude the board acted in bad faith.)

Slater wants full clarity on the science around Eskay’s potential impacts before it goes ahead. She’s heard some experts cite concerns about risk to fish and water, and concerns about earthquakes and the mine’s design, while Skeena Resources assures the community they’ve fully addressed these issues. The conflicting information leaves her “feeling confused by the science around all of this, and what’s right,” she said.

Slater is concerned about cumulative effects and the health of the ecosystem as a whole, and its ability to sustain people and animals in coming decades. “We can’t eat money,” she said.

“I take a step back and I go, what’s our responsibility to future generations, and, really, who’s benefiting in all of this?” she said. Many Tahltans simply want to put food on the table and look out for their families, but Slater worries the push for jobs may be put before protecting the environment for future generations. “I do respect the fact that people are talking about their livelihoods, but at what cost?” she asked. 

She said she feels like Eskay is being framed as a foregone conclusion, even though it hasn’t been approved yet. She feels concerned that some mitigation measures won’t be clarified until after the Tahltan vote on it. 

“How is that free, prior and informed consent?” she asked.

Carlick told The Narwhal there have been 85 community consultations to date “to make sure that every member can be heard.” He said the government’s goal is to ensure “every member can access the information they need to make an informed choice.”

Slater said at some information sessions she saw “people were asking questions and not getting the answer.” Online and in conversation with The Narwhal, some Tahltan members shared concerns about these meetings of members being muted or censored, not getting adequate information and feeling unsafe to voice concerns. 

Eskay Creek mine poised to be approved with uncertainties for water quality and fish left unanswered

Nikki Skuce, director at the non-profit Northern Confluence, said it’s generally good to keep mining at areas that have already been disturbed — called brownfield sites — versus disturbing new areas. But given the scale, she wants to see all data gaps filled before the project can go ahead. Reviving the mine would require managing about 40 million tonnes of tailings and 160 million tonnes of potentially acid-generating rock. Tom MacKay Lake, just south of the mine, will continue to be used for tailings deposits, as was allowed with the first iteration of the mine.

If approved, this potentially acid-generating rock from the Eskay mine could affect groundwater quality, if it seeped into creeks from the tailings pond. Some metals already exceed aquatic life water guidelines downstream of the existing mine, including copper, iron, lead and selenium. Skeena Resources said this is not uncommon in areas that are mineral rich. Effluent is discharged in Tom MacKay Lake, and Skeena Resources expects construction of the mine rock-storage area will lead to effluent exceeding drinking water quality guidelines.

The company also expects mining activities will affect the flow of nearby streams, even after the mine closes. Water treatment will likely need to continue “in perpetuity” — a timeline that could mean hundreds of years, or forever. Skeena Resources said treatment will be required for at least 100 years. It said it is exploring “innovative” treatment solutions for sustainable water treatment in collaboration with Tahltan.

Cleaning up B.C.’s Tulsequah Chief mine will cost $48.7 million

Canada’s federal fisheries department recommended Skeena Resources collect more baseline information to determine whether salmon are spawning in the affected Ketchum Creek. In response, Skeena said it agreed to use the precautionary principle and treat the creek fish-bearing in absence of data, meaning doing some habitat off-setting.

Ecologist Berchtold wants answers to these questions, but argued that B.C.’s environmental assessment office’s draft conditions propose approving the project first and figuring out uncertainties later. Specifically, the assessment concludes Skeena Resources would face measures to “minimize adverse effects” after it’s approved and going through the permitting process.) 

“The province tends to adopt this ‘wait-and-see’ approach,” she said. “We want to see more detailed planning before projects get approved.”

“We just shouldn’t be approving projects to move forward with that level of uncertainty.”

Nikki Skuce, director of the non-profit Northern Confluence, said data gaps and uncertainties should be addressed before a mine’s environmental assessment can be approved. Photo: Marty Clemens / The Narwhal

Berchtold pointed to Red Chris mine, also in Tahltan territory, as an example. She said the mine proceeded with uncertainty and wound up experiencing unexpected issues managing water and seeing unexpected waste rock seepage spreading into groundwater. 

Skeena Resources outlines mitigation measures like diverting contaminated water, mitigating seepage and proposing building two water treatment plants. Still, Tahltan Central Government and Environment and Climate Change Canada both raised concerns during the provincial assessment process around uncertainty of how long the treatment plants would be required, how effective and sustainable they would be and what water quality would be like if there were no active water treatment plants, with no contingency plan in place. The provincial environmental assessment acknowledged the company is still developing its proposals to mitigate groundwater quality and “there is still uncertainty about their effectiveness.”

In addition to effects on water pollution and streamflow, the draft provincial assessment report found air contaminants may expose off-duty workers at work camps to toxins and particulates which are expected to exceed air quality guidelines. The report said those particulates may be breathed in by humans and wildlife while the mine is in operation and noted First Nations people may be disproportionately affected since they spend more time on the land. Accurately assessing the risk remains “highly uncertain,” the report concluded. 

“If you’re sort of saying, ‘Yeah, there’s some stuff we still don’t know but we’re going to go ahead anyway and figure it out later,’ that doesn’t align with the intention of environmental assessments,” Berchtold said.

In its statement, Skeena Resources said future monitoring will provide more understanding of effects on water quality and build on existing data. Predictions around groundwater “always have a degree of uncertainty,” it said, but it has a “robust” mitigation plan. It said it will codevelop a human health plan with Tahltan to monitor potential impacts to human health from mine activities, including air quality.

Mines don’t always deliver on economic promises: report

After hearing concerns from Tahltan members, the central government said it went back to the negotiation table, leading to the new terms. One such term was Skeena Resources opening an office on-reserve so Tahltan employees may be eligible for tax-exempt wages.

“I commend Skeena Gold + Silver for listening to us and undertaking this important initiative. It will attract Tahltans to return home, spur housing and infrastructure investment in Iskut, Dease Lake and Telegraph Creek, and propel our nation further on our journey toward economic independence,” Carlick said in a statement.

A 2024 report said 32 Tahltans were employed across 20 full-time roles out of 316 direct employees.

The same report said it has made agreements with 41 Tahltan companies, including multiple owned by the current Tahltan Central Government vice-president Kimberley Marion. 

Skeena told The Narwhal it will report on employment annually and will prioritize hiring Tahltans, along with training, mentorship and career planning programs “aimed at having as many Tahltans as possible working at the site and creating the future leaders for the Nation and the industry.” It said environment and cultural protections will be required to take place “whether the mine makes a profit or not.” 

Skuce and Berchtold are skeptical of these economic promises. Projects are often approved based on promises, but the province doesn’t track how much they are fulfilled, Skuce said. A 2024 report in the journal Facets looked at 27 B.C. mines and found on average, only 12 jobs materialized for every 100 promised, and only 23 tonnes of ore were produced for every 100 tonnes promised.

B.C.’s ‘economic engine’ is revving — but do we need the power?

She argued there is no urgent need to mine gold and silver, as those resources are available to be recycled, and what remains in the ground could be left for future generations.

Skuce said B.C. has improved at getting financial security from mining companies upfront to cover the cost of remediating mine sites. Companies are required to pay these reclamation bonds in full upfront to cover the first five years, and B.C. is incentivizing those companies to begin reclaiming while still operating. Skuce would like to see even higher bonds upfront to cover longer-term costs, and be prepared for environmental risks occurring more often like landslides and wildfires.

“There’s just an inherent risk for having a site that already shows there are a bunch of contaminants … that there will be water treatment needed forever.”

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 Gulf Islands around Vancouver Island are beautiful — full of lakes and sheltered bays, and dotted with meadows and deer grazing along the road. 

At first glance, most walking through these islands would believe what they see is natural and healthy — but the environment is actually “highly degraded,” Tara Martin, professor in the department of forest and conservation sciences at the University of British Columbia, explains.

Those meadows were once filled with food and medicine plants and trees. But since the 1970s, the deer population on these islands has exploded and many native plants and trees can’t thrive. Native black-tailed deer, along with invasive fallow deer, have grazed these ecosystems into decline, one nibble at a time.

“[It’s a] very slow, gradual loss — so slow that most people don’t even recognize it,” Martin says.

The landscape of Prevost Island has been heavily impacted by deer grazing. Just to the south, the smaller Channel Islands show what these ecosystems look like when no population of deer is present. Photos: Supplied by Sofie McComb

Martin has been investigating the issue for 15 years. She co-authored a study published this month in People and Nature, which concludes Indigenous hunting is the most cost-effective and efficient solution to reduce “hyperabundant deer” — a population that has grown so large as to be environmentally unsustainable — on the Southern Gulf and San Juan Islands, bringing balance to a stressed ecosystem and benefit human well-being.

University researchers worked with First Nations knowledge-holders and provincial and federal scientists on this study to create models of a range of solutions and their costs, and predicted success and uptake. They also predicted Indigenous hunting would have the highest chance of achieving objectives within 10 years on bigger islands.

“At the moment, what we’re seeing is we are putting a higher value on deer than everything else. And so we are losing hundreds of incredible plants — plants that pollinators, bumblebees, rely on,” Martin says.

“We’re losing Garry oaks, these amazing trees. We’re losing arbutus. … Ultimately, we’re heading towards an ecosystem that is much more simple and uninteresting and less biodiverse.”

To Tsawout Hereditary Chief W̱IĆKINEM Eric Pelkey, a co-author, the findings reaffirm the W̱SÁNEĆ goals to revitalize the Garry oak ecosystem — unique, highly biodiverse and critically endangered — and promote food sovereignty. Garry oak woodlands, which in Canada are found only in southwest B.C. and are one of the rarest ecosystems in the province, are crucial habitats for many native plants and animals, but have been threatened by urban development and invasive species.

“This is for the benefit of everyone. We’re trying to save our ecosystem,” Pelkey told The Narwhal.

An enclosure blocks deer from accessing native plants, showing how much they would grow if it weren’t for so much grazing. Photos: Supplied by Sofie McComb

Less hunting, deforestation and eradicating predators made perfect conditions for deer to spread

Even as a child on Salt Spring Island in the 1970s, Martin recalls walking through fields “almost shoulder-deep in wild flowers” like camas, biscuit root, desert parsley and chocolate lilies. It was a “kaleidoscope of colour,” she remembers. 

Hyperabundant deer can graze until little remains, also impacting tree seedlings, shrubs and pollinators that depend on them.

Settlers cleared a lot of forest in the 20th century, and introduced gardens and pushed out predators. All these conditions created a welcoming environment for deer to increase unfettered. While native black-tailed deer increased, so did invasive fallow deer introduced by settlers. Some evidence suggests there are 10 times more deer on these islands than there were 100 years ago, Martin says.

UBC professor Tara Martin recalls being “almost shoulder-deep in wild flowers” as a child on Salt Spring Island in the 1970s. Flowers like that can still be found on Gulf Islands that don’t have deer on them, such as the nearby Channel Islands. Photo: Supplied by Sofie McComb

The Garry oak ecosystem is one of the most endangered in Canada, with only three per cent estimated to remain. Even if what remains is protected from further development, Martin and Pelkey worry about the already-diminished habitat’s ability to bounce back due to hyperabundant deer.

“Even little shrubs — as soon as they come out of the ground, they eat them,” Pelkey says about the deer. On Sidney Island, they are seeing less wild rose, trailing blackberry, or ocean spray — a plant W̱SÁNEĆ people have long used as an indicator for when salmon will start running.

“Sidney Island used to be a place of medicines and foods and so forth. … Everything’s gone. That was really disturbing to our medicine people and to our Elders,” he says.

“Sidney Island used to be a place of medicines and foods and so forth,” Tsawout Hereditary Chief W̱IĆKINEM Eric Pelkey says. Because of heavy grazing by deer, “everything’s gone.” Photo: Taylor Roades / The Narwhal

Even deer suffer when they are overpopulated, the study’s lead author, Sofie McComb, told The Narwhal. When the landscape is cleared, it’s harder for them to find nutritious food. “They are eating so many starvation foods right now,” she says. “These places are not looking like, or functioning how they’re supposed to. They’re just not functioning in a healthy manner at all.”

Giving predators more room is part of the hyperabundant deer puzzle

In the study, the research team compared several other strategies like enabling predators to return, bringing in deer reduction specialists, increased licensed hunting and birth control. They also considered scenarios that brought multiple strategies together.

When only Western perspectives were considered, increasing licensed hunting and hiring professional deer reduction specialists were ranked most cost-effective. But Indigenous hunting ranked highest for improving well-being for both the ecosystem and for humans, supporting Indigenous food sovereignty and cultural practices and reducing the population of deer.

Lead author of the deer study Sofie McComb (right) and a fellow researcher look at island habitat not grazed over by hyperabundant deer. Photo: Supplied by Sofie McComb

For bigger islands, hunting led by local Indigenous communities was the only strategy with a high chance of bringing deer populations back down to a manageable size within a decade. To ensure uptake, hunters would be compensated for their work; increasing the number of hunting licences available does not ensure uptake, researchers said. For smaller islands, Indigenous hunting still had a high chance of success, but so did deer reduction specialists, and a combination of Indigenous hunting, deer reduction specialists and improving predator viability.

Cougars and wolves naturally do still swim to these islands — but they are often shot pretty quickly, Martin says. By improving predator viability they don’t mean actively reintroducing them to the islands, but improving human-predator coexistence. 

Public opinion on hunting, funding identified as challenges to Indigenous hunting

The Douglas Treaty protects W̱SÁNEĆ rights to hunt and fish as they did before contact. But Pelkey pointed out Indigenous hunters can still face interference and racism when trying to execute those rights. 

“We’re trying to get our people back to our native foods, but there’s a lot of impediments in our way to be able to harvest fish or hunt for our native meats,” he said. “It’s a challenge for us. Even though we have a Douglas Treaty right to hunt, we have always run into problems with people who object to that.”

Pelkey sat on a committee to reduce deer on Sidney Island. They worked with Parks Canada, the SPCA and residents of the island for years, but they were met with public outcry from some people who didn’t want to see the deer hunted. People were concerned with deer getting caught in fencing and wanting to see a solution that didn’t include killing deer. The government was quick to succumb to public pressure, Pelkey says.

“They pulled the rug out from under the whole project,” he says.

But Indigenous hunting passes on ancestral skills, connects Elders and youth, supports food sovereignty and ensures the entire animal is used sustainably, he explains, while bringing balance to an area suffering from over-grazing.

They’d never been hunting. Now, Indigenous youth learn skills, culture and language — thanks to a First Nation program

“We don’t just hunt them for sport. We actually hunt them for food … the fur, the skins, the hooves and the antlers. We use all of that,” he said. “It’s against our laws to be wasteful.”

In the study, experts identified societal uptake and funding as bigger challenges than technically implementing any of the strategies. The researchers will be travelling to communities in 2026 to share the findings, and Martin hopes to share with more people what the healthy baseline for these empty meadows actually looks like.

“I want to live in a place where there’s an abundance of all species,” Martin 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.

A proposed expansion at Canada’s busiest port could be fast-tracked by the federal government. The impact could be felt by many species, including a tiny but mighty bird and its source of superfood that’s uniquely plentiful in the Fraser estuary of Metro Vancouver. 

Microscopic organisms make up the food — called biofilm — which supports the round, fluffy western sandpiper. Biofilm provides the little shorebird fuel as it makes an epic journey between Peru and Alaska. Thousands of western sandpipers fly in artistic murmurations and gently poke their pointy beaks into the mud, scooping up biofilm with hairy tongues. Biofilm is part of the foundation of the food chain that also supports crabs and fish, bears and whales. 

But Roberts Bank Terminal 2, the expansion at Canada’s biggest container terminal Deltaport, is on the path to double in size. The goal is to bring in larger cargo ships and even more imported items from overseas — a development many scientists conclude will weaken the Fraser estuary’s ability to be a refuge for wildlife.

Tiny western sandpiper relies on biofilm, which is high in fatty acids, to power them in their epic journey from as far as Peru to Alaska. The birds typically weigh between 22 and 35 grams, about the same as a piece of bread.

The 2020 federal assessment of the project concluded the expansion’s impact on wetland function, Chinook and chum salmon and southern resident killer whales “is high in magnitude, permanent and irreversible.” The review panel concluded it could not say with certainty how the expansion may disrupt biofilm and western sandpipers since it’s a new area of research — but acknowledged there is no known way to recreate the habitat. Biofilm, a naturally occurring phenomenon, has not been successfully re-engineered by humans in all its natural complexity.

The provincial assessment also concluded the expansion would have negative effects, and federal and provincial environment ministers agreed with the conclusions. But Canada approved the project anyway in 2023 — arguing it is in the “national interest” — subject to 370 environmental conditions. B.C. ministers cited environmental concerns, but said the province does not have jurisdictional power to stop the project.

Now, in the face of escalating trade tensions with the United States, both British Columbia and Canada are looking to expedite major industrial projects, raising concerns from environmental organizations and First Nations that environmental considerations may be pushed to the wayside. Roberts Bank Terminal 2 was on a draft list of 32 projects to potentially fast-track under the Building Canada Act, according to an internal government document obtained by the Globe and Mail.

“They’re cute and they’re small,” Bob Elner said about western sandpipers. They have hairy tongues and long, flexible beaks. They bob their heads a bit when they walk and weigh less than a golf ball.

‘The science is being ignored’

Biofilm is made up of diatoms — microscopic organisms a fraction of a hair’s width wide. It’s a widespread phenomenon, but at the Fraser estuary, the biofilm is very “activated” and “rich” compared to nearby estuaries, Elner explained.

Bob Elner, scientist emeritus with Environment and Climate Change Canada and adjunct professor at Simon Fraser University, said evidence suggests this unique richness is due to the spring influx of fresh water from the Fraser River into the salt water, which causes a “shock” in the tiny diatoms, causing them to be highly active and pulse out rich omega-3 fatty acids and other nutrients.

Elner said Roberts Bank “is the largest old unaltered, intertidal estuary” in the province; equivalent banks have been impacted by development. He closely studies western sandpipers, but said they aren’t the only creatures that may decline as a result of changing the biofilm. 

“Really, it’s much bigger than that, because those same fatty acids [in the biofilm] are responsible for the eulachan fishery, salmon fisheries and it goes up to orcas and marine mammals. It’s really that transfer of fat — these fatty acids — through the system,” he explained.

Western sandpipers in front of Deltaport in Tsawwassen. The shorebirds rely on Roberts Bank in the Fraser estuary as a place to rest and refuel with high-fat biofilm.

The Vancouver Fraser Port Authority, the federal agency that pitched the project, touts the economic payoff of expanding the cargo terminal and argues more cargo capacity is needed. But Elner emphasized the estuary is a “high-value” system that could be “fundamentally, ecologically destroyed.”

“This isn’t that ports are bad,” he said. “Biofilm is really valuable, and we’ve got options in terms of how we get containers from wherever back to wherever, so trade doesn’t trump the environment.”

“I believe in science,” he added. “The science has been ignored.”

There are only 73 endangered southern resident killer whales left, according to most recent data. Marine traffic noise disrupts their ability to hunt and communicate with sonar, and the port is expected to impact Chinook salmon, which the whales rely on.

Between Peru and Alaska, every western sandpiper will likely stop in the Fraser estuary

Deltaport connects the West Coast to the world of international trade. Clothing, electronics and manufacturing parts are packed in the thousands of cargo containers that pass through the port every day — more than all five other ports in Canada combined.

Roberts Bank is a significant stop on the Pacific Flyway shorebird migration route. It’s widely assumed every western sandpiper will stop at Roberts Bank at least once in its lifetime, Elner said, between breeding in Alaska and wintering down south.

You can go down to Roberts Bank and watch the birds roll in and out with the tide as they go north in spring and south in late summer. “It’s quite magnificent to see them flying in these huge flocks,” he said.

Western sandpipers’ next major stop in their spring migration is in the Stikine estuary, about 1,000 kilometres northwest. The tiny birds are far less likely to survive the journey without the bountiful biofilm at Roberts Bank, Elner explained.

“Every year, less and less birds will make it to the Arctic. There will be less numbers successfully breeding. We can interpret that in a fairly short number of generations, we’ll be looking at a species that’s a vestige of what it once was,” he explained.

A murmuration of western sandpipers fly over the water near Roberts Bank. It’s hard to count migrating birds, but estimates sit around 2.8 to 4.3 million. Shorebirds are declining significantly worldwide.

“The risk this will occur is very, very high, and the outcome is very predictable — species-wide impact, but also impacts at the fisheries level.”

Shorebirds are one of the “fastest declining groups” of birds in the world, he added. “Much of it, in my professional opinion, is tied to the removal of these sources of active biofilm.”

The Fraser River estuary has already lost 85 per cent of its salmon habitat, and the proposed project would deplete an additional 177 hectares. A 2022 study found 102 species in the Fraser estuary are at risk of local extinction between now and 2045.

Federally mandated biofilm research at Roberts Bank must remain rigorous if project fast-tracked: scientist

The federal conditions include convening an arm’s-length panel of scientists to oversee research and monitoring of biofilm and shorebirds up until construction begins. If it’s determined the ecosystem is being compromised, the port could be required to remove the structure, redesign it or mitigate it. 

Elner believes it’s a “credible” process that could effectively identify risk and require a dramatic correction to reduce that risk. But as Roberts Bank Terminal 2 is on a preliminary list of candidates to be fast-tracked, Elner emphasized environmental processes need to remain rigorous.

The Port of Vancouver sees $275 billion of trade pass through every year, exporting goods like pulp, lumber, coal and crops. The port includes other sectors, like automobiles and bulk goods, but the expansion only affects the container terminal.

Bob Elner turns over some mud at Roberts Bank. The mud is not obviously full of life, but is in fact home to highly active biofilm made up of algae and bacteria.

The Vancouver Fraser Port Authority says its forecasts show more container capacity is needed, and the expansion meets the projected demand. The project would widen the rail causeway leading to the port and build an artificial island about the size of 330 football fields to house three new berths, increasing container capacity on the West Coast by about 30 per cent. It would increase the port’s container capacity by nearly 50 per cent, meaning it could handle an additional 2.4 million 20-foot shipping containers each year.

The port authority anticipates construction will begin in 2027 and the terminal will take about six years to build, becoming operational in the early- to mid-2030s. It projects the terminal will add $3 billion to the economy every year. The Narwhal asked the port authority whether the original $3.5-billion price tag to build the terminal has changed due to economic factors and inflation, but the port authority said that was confidential as it tries to procure a construction partner. 

Western sandpipers eat at Roberts Bank near Deltaport. Estuary habitat is biologically rich, and the Fraser estuary is a biodiversity hotspot. But estuaries are also highly desirable for development.

Port authority says environmental conditions will be met, but independent scientists say they need more information about how

The Vancouver Fraser Port Authority declined to be interviewed by The Narwhal and instead sent an emailed statement in response to questions. It said it is on track to meet the hundreds of environmental conditions from the federal and provincial government.

The total sandpiper population is estimated at 3.5 million birds, and it’s likely all of them will stop at Roberts Bank at some point. The port authority said “studies show even with the project in place, there will be sufficient biofilm to support one million sandpipers in a single day.” It did not provide specific studies in its statement or after The Narwhal asked for such evidence, but referred us to hundreds of pages of documents. In them, we could only find the port authority referencing its own models to make this prediction.

The port authority said it does not expect any impacts on sandpipers, but will “avoid, monitor and — if required — mitigate any potential effects.”  

But scientists have reaffirmed multiple times they cannot confidently conclude negative effects will not impact biofilm or migratory shorebirds. In 2022, Environment and Climate Change Canada said the project “will likely be unmitigable and irreversible,” leading to higher risk to the “viability” of western sandpipers and have “major” effects on the quality of biofilm.

A sandpiper helps itself to biofilm at Roberts Bank.

The port authority has often said the federal review panel found the project would not result in adverse effects on biofilm in its 2019 report. But in 2022, Environment and Climate Change Canada called this an “incomplete” description by the port authority, explaining there is “uncertainty” since science around biofilm is quite new, and emphasizing this means the review panel could not say the expansion would not have negative impacts either.

The independent scientific body that has been overseeing the port authority’s monitoring of biofilm and sandpipers — mandated as part of the 370 federal conditions to approve this project — underlined this uncertainty in its most recent report earlier this year. 

The group of independent scientists called for more details about how the port authority plans to execute its monitoring or analyze the data it collects. They outlined the challenge of using local data to make any assumptions about changes to the entire population, and said it’s unclear how the port authority will make this connection. It said “more precision” is needed in the plans or else they risk producing “erroneous” results.

The group of scientists wanted to see more evidence from the port showing its methods will produce reliable information. Specifically, they said the port may need to extend how long it monitors the birds. Right now, the port wants to monitor for three years after the proposed terminal is built, but the scientists pointed out that any decline would likely result from fewer birds reproducing year over year, so population decline may not be detectable until more than three years later.

A coyote trots among the many western sandpipers, with Deltaport visible in the background.

The scientists pointed out some of the port’s proposed monitoring would only detect if there was a 50 per cent change in population or higher over two years, and any change under 50 per cent would not be detected. 

“Changes considerably smaller than 50 per cent may be biologically significant, especially if they occurred over such a short time interval,” the scientists pointed out.

Additionally, counting western sandpipers is difficult, and there’s potential for the port’s plans to result in incorrect counts, scientists added, which may under- or over-estimate the impacts on birds. 

The port authority told The Narwhal the western sandpiper population is trending upwards, and only 17 per cent relies on Roberts Bank during spring migration. The Narwhal found other scientific sources that suggest western sandpipers could be declining, and up to 64 per cent of the population relies on Roberts Bank.

The Vancouver Fraser Port Authority is confident enough biofilm will remain after the expansion to feed one million shorebirds in a single day.

The expansion was originally estimated to cost $3.5 billion. The Narwhal asked if there is an updated figure, due to inflation and other economic factors, but the port authority said the cost estimate is “confidential” as it tries to procure a construction team.

The port authority has signed 27 mutual benefits agreements with the 28 Indigenous governments it is seeking agreements with.

Prime Minister Mark Carney announced the launch of the Major Projects Office in August, with the goal to “fast-track nation-building projects by streamlining regulatory assessment and approvals and helping to structure financing.”

The office said it will help the proponents finish the final regulatory steps and information will be shared online the same as it typically is, and no research or monitoring timelines have been condensed. Fast-tracking will come from “upfront certainty regarding approvals” and some processes happening simultaneously rather than sequentially, it added.

“While we are moving forward on projects that will build Canada … we are equally committed to upholding Canada’s environmental protections.”

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 first lake at the famous Joffre Lakes Park is quiet and empty. Usually, the viewpoints are clamouring with people. But on this cool spring morning, Lhpat (Maxine Bruce) stands alone at the shore, holding her drum. No cameras, no crowds.

When she sings, her voice and the beat of the drum travel uninterrupted across the calm water. A bird is perched on a branch behind her, and its trills also cut through the still air. Between silent trees, only the songs of Lhpat and the bird can be heard.

A few years ago, this peaceful moment couldn’t have happened. The area’s original name is Pipi7íyekw in Ucwalmícwts, the language spoken by the Líl̓wat (Lil’wat) and N’Quatqua nations. For generations, their people have been in relationship with the area, gathering plants and practicing ceremony. But ever since the park got Instagram-famous around 2018, community members have barely been able to access the area. The parking lot fills up and the paths are packed.

On the left, Lhpat (Maxine Bruce) sings in a quiet moment at Pipi7íyekw during a June closure. On the right, the trail is lined with people on an average weekday in July.

On the left, Roxanne Joe harvests off the trail at Pipi7íyekw during a September closure. On the right, a typical weekday in July sees the path packed with visitors.

British Columbia and the nations are implementing periodic closures to allow the park to rest from the feet and noise — and allow the nations to care for the area, harvest and connect. For three weeks over April and May, two weeks in June and one month in early autumn, the park was closed to everyone except members of Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua.

During the spring closure, the nations set up a sweat lodge in the parking lot. In the fall closure, between Sep. 2 and Oct. 3, people are busy picking berries, mushrooms, swamp tea and other medicines. They call these closures reconnection periods.

“Nature needs a rest,” Lhpat explains. “Mother Earth loves us every day … Every day, we need to love Mother Earth too, and give back.”

Keisha Andrew steps into the water at Pipi7íyekw during the September connection period when the park is closed to rest.

Because of the park’s popularity, a day pass system was implemented in 2022 to deal with overcrowded trails. But the free passes are gone within minutes of being posted at 7:00 a.m. two days in advance, and aspiring park-goers are frustrated. Sometimes, people try to sneak in while the park is closed, or without passes during opening hours. During the reconnection period, some have asked for special permission to enter the park anyway; others have gone online to vent their frustration about the nations’ members exercising their rights.

The nations are frustrated too — not only because of the challenges they’ve experienced while executing their co-management agreement with B.C., but also because of the hate and misinformation that has been directed at them online.

Amid the combative discourse, some of it led by B.C. politicians, the nations’ intentions can get lost in the conversation.

“B.C. sees this as recreation,” Casey Gonzalez, director of k̓wezúsmin̓ (title and rights) for Líl̓wat, says at Pipi7íyekw. “We see this as medicine, as cultural.”

Líl̓wat didn’t make the decision to allow photographer Paige Taylor White and me into the park during the reconnection periods lightly. But with so much disinformation and hate swirling online, community members wanted to show people directly why the closures matter. With the fall closure ending this Friday, Oct. 3, they wanted people to see the space at rest.

On the left, Roxanne Joe harvests traditional medicines. On the right, smoke from a nearby cultural burn rises over sisters Jessie-Lynne Joe and Roxanne Joe as they hike Pipi7íyekw. During the September closure, the nation prioritizes harvesting, rejuvenation and connection.

‘Heaven on Earth’

“It’s peaceful up here,” Terry Jameson says, looking out at the third and final lake on the hike. It’s his first time here.

The water is turquoise under the sun. He and his wife, Lightning Rose Jameson, are thinking of renewing their vows at Pipi7íyekw because the turquoise matches their wedding colours.

“It feels really amazing,” she says. “I honestly feel like this is a heaven on Earth, for sure — and this is only our backyard, you know? I’ve been here before, but this is my first time making it to the third lake and … I’m just happy.”

Terry Jameson helps his wife Lightning Rose Jameson down from the rocks during their hike at Pipi7íyekw on Sept. 25, 2025.

They are exploring the area in September, the last closure of the year. Líl̓wat members are running into each other excitedly, laughing and chatting, in between quiet stretches of having the trail to themselves.

Crowds have deterred Jessie-Lynne Joe from visiting before — it’s her first time, too. Now she wants to come back.

“I’m pretty happy that I made it,” she says.

Hearing about the crowds and seeing the traffic the rest of the year, “it’s kind of intimidating to even think of coming,” community member Lisa Peters says after finishing the hike.

“I feel really good I was here on our territory and with family.”

Deterred by crowds, many community members have never visited the park before, including Jessie-Lynne Joe.

Instagram fame put pressure on ecosystem and community services

After it got online-famous, Joffre Lakes stayed busy. The trail became hectic, with people parking illegally along the highway and spilling onto the road.

“It was ridiculous,” Lightning Rose says. “The traffic was blocking the road pretty much.”

A log at the second lake at Joffre Lakes / Pipi7íyekw is a favourite for photos. A late September search on Instagram brought up these results. Screenshot: Instagram

People wait in line to take a photo at the Instagram-famous log at Middle Joffre Lake in July, before hanging out once they get to the water’s edge.

Gonzalez, whose ancestral name is Pasít, saw an Instagram video of someone taking the classic photo everyone wants — standing on a log at the second lake — before panning behind to the line-up of people waiting to take a near-identical picture.

“That doesn’t look like fun in nature,” she says.

During the September closure, Lightning Rose Jameson helps her sister-in-law Lisa Peters dip in the cold water.

In 2018, Líl̓wat, N’Quatqua and B.C. signed an agreement to co-manage the park. It was a joint priority, since annual visits more than tripled between 2010 and 2019.

After COVID-19 hit and many urban residents went looking for uncrowded areas, the nearby forest road became overrun with campers, Lhpat and Gonzalez say, and the affordability and housing crises in the years since have kept people living out there.

The small community became anxious about what the influx of people could mean for its limited emergency and medical services. Now, there were people camping long-term — not always legally — and showing up ill-equipped for the hike or sneaking in when no staff were around.

It’s not just Joffre Lakes. People have breached safety closures in other areas as well. When a road was closed in Líl̓wat territory due to landslide risk, Gonzalez says people brought a cutting torch and plywood to run their ATVs over the gate.

Casey Gonzalez, director of k̓wezúsmin̓ (title and rights) for Líl̓wat, listens while Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations gather to hold a ceremony just before Labour Day. The nations denounced BC Parks’ decision to open Pipi7íyekw (Joffre Lakes Park) for the long weekend against their wishes.

The Joffre closures bring privacy to Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua folks who have to go off the trail to pick berries, but don’t want hundreds of strangers “thinking they can do the same,” Gonzalez says.

The nations are concerned about the trail, which has begun to widen, spilling further into the ecosystem. They’re also worried about wildlife being driven out of the area and busier roads further limiting animals’ movements.

B.C. and the nations introduced the first closures in 2023.

The visitor use management strategy aims to improve visitor experience by reducing crowds, protecting the area from being overworked and giving nation members access.

“These reconnection periods are not to exclude people from Pipi7íyekw,” Gonzalez says. “They’re for Pipi7íyekw to regenerate and heal.”

Keisha Andrew walks into the the water at Pipi7íyekw during the September connection period.

‘Our communities need this’

The spring closure was aligned with Declaration Day, a celebration in May shared by Líl̓wat, N’Quatqua and the nine other St’át’imc communities that commemorates when their chiefs signed a declaration in 1911 asserting their sovereignty. Feather runners and horseback riders go from nation to nation, spreading the word about which nation is going to host the celebration that year. Gonzalez explains they imagined the runners being able to fulfill their journey without being surrounded by so many cars, and people able to stop at the lakes while travelling between communities.

Gonzalez says the park brings important spiritual and mental health benefits, especially for young people facing mental health and addiction issues due to interwoven socioeconomic factors. She says giving them time and space in important cultural places brings feelings of empowerment.

“For us to be up here … It lifts the hearts of the people,” Lhpat says.

On the left, Lhpat (Maxine Bruce) is alone at Pipi7íyekw during one of the closures. On the right, a group of hikers take photos when the park is open. Lhpat says peaceful time on the land “lifts the hearts of the people.”

There was one economic trade-off — less business at the nation’s gas station during the closures. Gonzalez says Líl̓wat leadership is considering how to counteract that effect. But the closures bring benefits that are harder to quantify than numbers.

“Our communities need this,” Gonzalez says. “Our communities are suffering hugely by the toxic drug crisis, by mental health. It all leads back to colonization, and our communities really need to reconnect with the land and our teachings.”

Many aspiring visitors want to be an ‘exception’ to the rules

During the closure in June, a group of people came out of the trees at Joffre Lakes Park, heading to their car — but they were not from the community.

“We did have a group of sneaker-inners,” BC Parks ranger Alexandra Beech tells us. “We had nation members show up, and I made [the group] apologize.”

It’s not a one-time occurence: people regularly try to sneak in outside the park’s open hours and that’s continued during the reconnection periods.

A person reads a sign in the Joffre Lakes parking lot that lists alternate hikes in the area. Many people have their hearts set on Joffre Lakes, but other there are many other glacial lakes and rivers in the region.

Again and again, people say they want to be the exception. They say they understand the park is really busy, but think they are a worthy, special case.

I travelled so far to be here. I flew in for this place.

Can I take wedding photos while it’s empty?

Can I just go to the first lake?

We only got five passes online. Can the nation give us permission to bring two more people? (“We don’t issue the day passes,” Gonzalez says.)

Still, Gonzalez says the vast majority of interactions are positive. Many people are interested and want to respect the reconnection periods. But there’s a loud and noticeable minority — mostly “keyboard warriors,” Lhpat says, who are angry about the closures. She believes educating the public can bring “positive change,” but it takes conscious effort that can leave her feeling overwhelmed.

“We need to open our minds and hearts to each other — because we’re going to be here,” she adds.

Terry Jameson washes fresh water over his face at a waterfall at Pipi7íyekw.

The lakes at Pipi7íyekw / Joffre Lakes Park are quiet and calm during their resting periods in June (left) and September (right).

‘Figuring out what reconciliation actually is’

Lhpat shows us the spot in the parking lot where a sweat lodge was set up earlier this year.

“We paved paradise and put up a parking lot,” she says, referencing Joni Mitchell’s song Big Yellow Taxi. “Every now and then, that song comes out on the radio and, man. It really hits home for me.”

The nation has been working with B.C. since 2018 in a significant effort at collaboration, but the partnership still hasn’t been perfect. The nations were upset this summer when the province chose closure dates without their buy-in, making them a full month shorter than the nations requested. Despite their opposition. B.C. made the call to allow public access over Labour Day weekend.

On a Friday morning in August, the nations held a ceremony and blocked traffic on Highway 99 to bring attention to what they saw as the province’s betrayal of their partnership.

Kalentitikwa, a Líl̓wat citizen, directs traffic after the First Nations blocked Highway 99. She is one of many community members that had never been to Pipi7íyekw, just 25 minutes from their home, until the closures. “I’m excited to take my baby out there,” she said of the hike she had planned for the fall closure.

To Gonzalez, BC Parks announcing new closure dates without the nations’ buy-in meant they were holding onto a “back-minded mentality that they are the ultimate decision-makers of our unceded territories,” she says.

In an emailed statement, B.C. told The Narwhal the shorter closure still “allows the park to recover from a busy summer” and time for nation members to carry out cultural practices.

“We acknowledge that the Nations had requested additional closure dates beyond what the province was prepared to agree to,” it said. “Although a final agreement for 2025 was not reached, this year’s closure schedule honoured the approach agreed to for the 2024 season.”

“We have a responsibility to support public access to parks while also respecting First Nations cultural practices and conservation goals,” the ministry continued. “We greatly value our relationship with the Líl̓wat Nation and N’Quatqua, and are committed to a continued collaborative planning process.”

A rock was vandalized with graffiti over Labour Day weekend at Pipi7íyekw / Joffre Lakes Park, when Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations had wanted the park to be closed.

Historically, parks were created without consent from Indigenous Peoples, sometimes forcibly displacing people from their homes, erasing villages and expelling people from their harvesting and hunting areas. These nations are among many that want to ensure true collaborative management for the future.

Legally enshrined Indigenous Rights include the right to access traditional territories and engage in activities such as harvesting, fishing and gathering medicines. Canada’s adoption of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in 2021, and B.C.’s own Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act in 2019, require the federal and provincial governments to uphold those rights. But also, there were 20.8 million parks visitors across the province from 2013 to 2014; a decade later, that figure had grown by nearly 30 per cent to just over 27 million. Balancing Indigenous Rights to access these places with demand from Canadians and visitors alike is a challenge — and leads to thorny conversations.

Indigenous Peoples have protected rights to connect with the land as they have always done, but development, urbanization and resource extraction create hurdles to exercising those rights.

“I think there’s also this level of fear and unknown … [and] discomfort while we go through figuring out what reconciliation actually is,” Gonzalez says.

“I’m just as unsure what to say … I feel uncomfortable. But if I don’t say it, then I’m complacent with where we’re at.”

But Gonzalez is not content with where things are at. She wants to see big changes. She wants Indigenous Peoples to be included equally in early planning of all management decisions around parks. She wants Indigenous Peoples to have safe, protected access to their territories that have been disrupted in so many ways.

For her part, Lhpat would like to see a Guardians program launched in Joffre Lakes Park. She’d also like more jobs at BC Parks to be prioritized for nation members.

She wants everyone, non-Indigenous as well, to feel love and responsibility to care for the land, not just use it.

“Look at what we’ve done,” she says, referring to the destruction of ecosystems. “But if we leave it alone for a while, the land will forgive us and recoup itself.”

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.

This story is part of Habitat, a series from The Narwhal which looks at how communities are working to address the housing and climate change crises simultaneously

Since wildfires tore through his Yunesit’in community in 2017, Russell Myers Ross has been pursuing a dream: building a fire-resistant house that will survive everything climate change can throw at it. 

“I sometimes joke that we could make this good enough to have a grandmother stay in here and live through the apocalypse,” Ross says with a laugh.

His community, one of six in the Tsilhqot’in Nation, was severely damaged in the 2017 wildfire season. Afterward, Ross, who was elected chief at the time, began envisioning a housing solution. The design includes a white, highly reflective metal roof that deflects heat and is fire-resistant, gravel lining the house and sprinklers facing the walls — using easily accessible technologies for a resilient home that makes sense for the dry, hot interior of B.C.

The fire-resistant house is designed to be built with high-quality materials that fend off flame and smoke while incorporating the elements of traditional Yunesit’in pit homes — round and set in the ground. Ross wants more for his community than the houses introduced with the Indian Act, which were often low-quality.

The design worked to emulate traditional Yunesit’in pithouses, with the house partly set in the ground and a centre-point of a skylight and stove that emulates a circular home. Photos: UBC School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture

“We should build houses that are better than the ‘INAC shacks,’ ” Ross says, referring to the nickname for houses provided by the former department of Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada (which has since had many similar names and is now two separate federal departments).

In 2016, Ross began talking to professor John Bass from the University of British Columbia’s school of architecture and landscape architecture to realize his vision, and work took off in earnest in 2018 after the destructive wildfires. On Monday they released videos of the prototype that include a three-dimensional walk-through of the design and community members speaking to the importance of getting this house built.

“This work has been done. It’s just about finding a funder to get a prototype,” Bass says.

Outdoor space includes space for a fire and a smokehouse

The 2017 fires burned 2,326 square kilometres around Yunesit’in — a region almost as big as Metro Vancouver. Since then, the Yunesit’in government wrote a report on how to prepare for future wildfires, which included more resilient housing. The Tsilhqot’in National Government has been revitalizing cultural burning, which was outlawed by the province for decades even though it helps clear the forest understory to reduce the chance of highly catastrophic fires.

In a 2019 report by the Tsilhqot’in National Government, community members said their top housing concerns are the need for major repairs, the high cost of energy, overcrowded homes and mold — which, like smoke, is a respiratory health risk. The concerns made it crystal clear to Ross that people need higher quality housing. In a 2019 survey done by Yunesit’in, people also said they wanted storage sheds, renewable energy options, smokehouses, gardens and outdoor space.

Indoor and outdoor space were given equal thought in the design, with the ability to host family gatherings in mind. Photos: UBC School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture

Ross now works in an array of positions, including advancing fire stewardship in the Dasiqox Tribal Park, led by Yunesitʼin and the Xeni Gwetʼin First Nations, and being the online program and operations manager to the Bachelor of Indigenous Land Stewardship at the University of British Columbia, but remains committed to the fire-resistant house. He says Indigenous concepts of homes are expansive, reflecting each nation’s territory, history and values. Building a culturally specific home may mean prioritizing emissions reduction or hiring community members as builders. It can mean ample outdoor or shared community spaces. 

“It’s trying to get a feel of what a liveable space is for people,” Ross says.

For this design, it means extending beyond walls — the outdoor space, which includes plans for a fire pit, space to process meat and a smokehouse, is just as important, he says, as what’s built indoors.

Kainai Nation ignites the first Indigenous fire guardians program in Canada

Because so much family time centres around preparing and enjoying food together, the space was designed so that residents can move seamlessly from inside to the fire and food-processing area outside. “That was the most important cultural idea — living happens outside as much as it happens inside,” Bass says. 

They wanted the home to reflect a Tsilhqot’in pit house, and to be simple and durable. Although this design is not round like a pit house, they tried to emulate the feeling by placing a central skylight above a stove marking the centre of the home and columns along the edges.

The design is made to fit Yunesit’in’s needs, but Ross hopes the template can be adapted for other Indigenous cultures — imagining, for example, a design that reflects the long houses of coastal First Nations.

Russell Myers Ross (left) and John Bass (right) began leading the design on the wildfire-resilient house in 2016. Photos: UBC School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture

Clean air, fire-resilient wood and energy efficiency

Reflecting members’ desire for sustainability, the house includes a heat pump for cooling during heat waves, solar panels for energy efficiency, a membrane to prevent mold and high-efficiency air filtration (called HEPA) for smoke. The design meets step 4 of the BC Energy Step Code, which is almost at a passive house level. A passive house is a voluntary standard to make a building highly efficient due to passive elements of its design (like being well-sealed and using high-quality materials and insulation) versus relying on active heating and cooling.

The home is also designed with heat recovery ventilation (HRV) technology, which replaces stale indoor air with fresh outdoor air without compromising the energy-efficient seal of the home.

Some technology, like the HEPA filtration, is simple to install and available in hardware stores but still rarely found on reserve, Bass says. “They’re commonly understood but cost money,” he explains.

In addition to gravel around the house, fire protection includes naturally fire-resistant berry hedges that can capture burning embers from fires. It includes rainwater harvesting for irrigation and fire emergencies, and sprinklers to spray against the walls and moisten them to help prevent them catching fire.

We know how to protect homes from wildfires. Why don’t more people do it?

The walls were one area culture and economics came into play — Bass wanted metal walls, but community members wanted wood. The final compromise was to use charred wood, which has a scorched exterior. “It’s harder to ignite — but in an intense fire, it’s going to burn,” Bass says.

Ross says they were considering what resources they have available.

“Part of it, for us, was like, ‘What can we build from our own landscape?’ … We were trying to think long-term in that regard,” Ross says. He was thinking of what resources can be depended on and what jobs can be locally supported and maintained over time. “If we’re going to design something, we’ve got to design it with all of our interests in mind,” he adds.

Bass says that he has learned how important it is to adapt when working with capacity-strapped communities. In this case, he and his students had to focus on designing with Yunesit’in ideas at the centre, even if that meant deadlines extended outside of the academic calendar. “It’s their project,” he emphasizes. The goal is to help a community realize their vision — not “burden” them with imposed timelines.

The design includes charred wood with a scorched exterior that is harder to ignite. Photo: UBC School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture

The house utilizes the naturally fire-resistant properties of berry to line the property, along with gravel to line the house. Photo: UBC School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture

The housing problem requires ‘many solutions’ for many First Nations contexts

Like Yunesit’in with the University of British Columbia, other B.C. First Nations are forming partnerships to build housing that reflects their cultures and visions for the future, including the realities of climate change. 

Bass and his students also worked with Haíɫzaqv (Heiltsuk) Nation to build four tiny homes. The community faces a similar housing shortage and is looking for ways to install clean energy infrastructure and build climate-resilient homes to survive heat waves, sea-level rise and wildfires.

John Bass and his students were part of a team that helped Heiltsuk Nation build four tiny homes in Bella Bella on the central coast of British Columbia. Photo: Stephanie Wood / The Narwhal

On Vancouver Island, Cowichan Tribes is building River’s Edge, a project of over 200 rental townhomes, with priority given to community members for some of the below-market units. To account for possible flooding of the Cowichan River, the development involves removing sediment from the river to prevent build-up and deepen the river to prevent overflow. That sediment has been used at other construction sites, with royalties going back to the nation.

“We’re obviously experiencing climate chaos,” Renée Olson, interim chief executive officer of Cowichan’s Khowutzun Development Corporation, says. “So to mitigate when floods will happen, we’re very conscientious about sediment removal.”

Construction is underway at the River’s Edge development owned by Cowichan Tribes. The building is designed to be energy efficient and have up to 30 per cent of units at below-market rates. Qu’wutsun citizens will be given right of first refusal. Photos: Khowutzun Development Corp.

Cowichan Tribes developed its project through the BC Builds program, run by the Crown corporation BC Housing. It focuses on rental housing, keeping rental costs down through low-interest financing, finding ways to speed the development process and utilizing public lands.

“One of the reasons housing has become out of reach, especially in dense residential [areas], is shareholders were demanding a rate of return,” Olson says. “This is why this BC Builds program is so important … It’s about creating opportunities for community land.”

In the shadow of Kelowna’s housing boom, fragile ecosystems depend on those fighting to save them

Cultural elements of River’s Edge include spacious indoor kitchens, a shared outdoor kitchen, a community garden and native plants.

Cowichan has more than 5,500 citizens, and the plan is for money generated from the development to go back into building homes on reserve — where many more are needed.

“It takes many solutions, different solutions, to tackle this complex problem,” Olson adds.

Construction and housing costs higher than ever

Ross says the main obstacle to getting the first prototype house built is funding — not just enough to get the walls up, but to benefit the community.

Since COVID-19 hit in 2020, construction costs have skyrocketed, Bass explains, all while housing problems also ballooned. It’s now harder than ever to catch up, he says, but they’ll be contacting government, industry, foundations and private donors for potential support. 

For Ross, getting this house built is just one step in a larger vision. He wants to build more high-quality homes, but also a local economy, including training and hiring members to build and maintain the homes — something that would require a locally owned mill. He sees a self-sustaining future.

“The idea was to have a circular economy — so we’re building from our community, but with the hope that we could build enough capacity to help our other surrounding communities,” he says.

Yunesit’in’s future has to be considered in every step of the fire-resistant design, including how it will contribute to a local, self-sufficient economy, Russell Myers Ross says. “If we’re going to design something, we’ve got to design it with all of our interests in mind,” he adds. Photos: UBC School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture

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.

Just before Labour Day weekend, B.C. approved a proposed expansion at Mount Polley mine, the site of one of the worst mining disasters in B.C.’s history.

Mount Polley mine, located in central B.C. and owned by Imperial Metals, plans to expand one of its pits, increase its waste rock storage and extend its lifespan until 2033. It is also raising its tailings pond dam by four metres, a change approved earlier this year.

The mine is infamous due to a catastrophic 2014 spill that dumped billions of litres of waste into the surrounding environment. Xatśūll First Nation is battling in court to halt the dam raising until a plan is reached with their consent.

So what does it mean that Mount Polley’s life has been extended? Read on.

Why did B.C. approve the Mount Polley expansion?

B.C. said its approval of the expansion comes after a year-long review by the Environmental Assessment Office. The decision opens the door for Mount Polley to extend its life and continue looking for opportunities to expand further.

In March, B.C. ministers allowed the gold and copper mine to enter the permitting stage of raising its tailings pond dam as an “interim measure” without calling for an environmental assessment. 

In April, Xatśūll (pronounced hat-sooth) tried to stop the dam raising by applying for an injunction and a judicial review of B.C.’s decision to approve it without an environmental assessment or the nation’s consent. Both challenges were denied in the following months, but the nation is appealing the judicial review decision.

B.C.’s approval of the wider expansion aligns with the province’s recent push to fast-track industrial projects amid tensions with the United States.

B.C.’s approval “confirms exactly what Xatśūll First Nation has feared,” the nation said in an emailed statement. “The view of provincial regulators is that the Mount Polley mine can continue to expand without undergoing environmental assessment or obtaining Xatśūll’s free, prior, and informed consent.”

Xatśūll renews court challenge while Imperial Metals says approval is ‘good news’

On Aug. 4, 2014, a tailings dam breached, causing an estimated 25 billion litres of contaminated materials to gush into Polley Lake, Hazeltine Creek and Quesnel Lake, a source of drinking water and major spawning grounds for sockeye salmon. The mining waste sludge included nickel, arsenic, lead and copper, and contaminants can still be detected in Quesnel Lake more than a decade later. The mine continues to discharge treated water into Quesnel.

B.C. taxpayers covered $40 million in cleanup costs. Imperial Metals went to court last December, facing 15 charges under the federal Fisheries Act for the spill, but no judgment has been made yet.

A tailings dam at the Mount Polley mine failed in 2014, releasing 25 billion litres of toxic sludge into the surrounding environment. Now, Mount Polley plans to raise its tailings dam to enable continued operation of the mine. A request from Xatśūll First Nation for an injunction to halt the dam-raising was denied by a B.C. court earlier this year, but the First Nation is challenging that decision. Photo: Supplied by Phil Owens

Mining comes with environmental risks, and Mount Polley was the worst-case scenario. Kukpi7 (Chief) Rhonda Phillips told The Narwhal Xatśūll recognizes the need for mining, but it wants development that is “responsible, sustainable and carried out in partnership with Indigenous Nations.”

Brian Kynoch, President of Imperial Metals, said the expansion permit is “good news” for workers, community and First Nations. “We will be able to continue to provide good jobs and economic opportunities for the region,” he said in a press release. 

He said the mining company plans to continue exploration and “look for opportunities for further extension of the mine life.” 

In a release, the Ministry of Mining and Critical Minerals said a “careful assessment” of the expansion ensured the approval “meets B.C.’s high standards for environmental protection and public safety.”

5 things you need to know about Mount Polley, 10 years after Canada’s worst mine waste disaster

What is the First Nation challenging?

There’s a bit of nuance here: B.C. approved the mine’s application for four-meter dam raising earlier this year, separately from its application for the expansion. The dam raise was considered to be allowing existing operations to continue. That approval went ahead without an environmental assessment.

But the mine was also applying for the expansion of its Springer pit and waste rock storage, which had a year-long review from the environmental assessment office.

B.C.’s first decision — to go ahead with the  dam increase without the nation’s consent or an environmental assessment — is what Xatśūll is currently challenging in court.

The court’s dismissal “seriously limits the level of environmental oversight and protection of Aboriginal rights and title” required by provincial regulators, Xatśūll said in a press release on Wednesday.

Outside the B.C. courts in April, Phillips told The Narwhal the nation is fighting the expansion going ahead without their consent — all while their land and water is still in recovery from the 2014 spill and faces other industrial activity. She said the nation wants a better idea of the remaining impact on the landscape and how long it will take to recover.

“There’s hardly any area to go hunting anymore,” she said.

Why does Mount Polley want to raise its dam?

Mount Polley Mining Corporation says raising the dam is “a normal and necessary part of operating any mine that stores tailings using a dam structure.” In a web post, it says more space is needed as it produces more waste from more mining. 

“The design meets or exceeds all regulatory safety standards,” the post reads.

The mine is testing dry stack tailings, which is exactly what it sounds like: waste is dried up and stacked. It is more expensive, but less likely to leak. On its website, the company acknowledges it “significantly” reduces the environmental impact compared to conventional tailings storage.

Mount Polley said the increase was primarily to accommodate more tailings, while B.C. said it was to accommodate spring flooding (called freshet).

Critics point out that Mount Polley proved catastrophic failure is possible, and argue B.C. is still understaffed and not doing enough monitoring, and needs to build that capacity to properly monitor tailings dam safety.

Critics have called on B.C. to close loopholes for avoiding environmental assessments by “splitting projects into smaller parts.” (By expanding mines over time, mining companies can vastly increase their footprint beyond what was covered in the initial environmental assessment.)

What are the implications of extending the mine’s lifespan?

Nikki Skuce, co-chair of the BC Mining Law Reform Network, told The Narwhal in an emailed statement that it’s better to extend the life of existing “brown field sites” rather than starting new mines — but it must be done responsibly and with consent. 

She argued this can’t be done with a series of incremental amendments to permits;  instead, she said, a package of proposed expansions should be assessed together.

“Most of us view the mine as a whole operation, not piecemeal and unrelated,” she said.

Skuce pointed out two reasons for the 2014 failure were tailings dam expansions built too high and narrow, and the mine’s location on unstable glacial till — the coarse, uneven deposits left behind by receding glaciers.

“The ground is the same. The same dam that was breached, repaired and filled again is now approved to be raised. How are the risks being mitigated?” she asked.

Nikki Skuce, co-chair of BC Mining Law Reform Network, pointed out Mount Polley has not yet faced repercussions for the 2014 disaster. She said expansions must be done with consent from local communities. Photo: Marty Clemens / The Narwhal

While each mine is approved in isolation, there are cumulative impacts to many mines operating in B.C. Abandoned and closed mines must continue to be managed for contamination in perpetuity — which basically means forever. The cost of remediation is often shouldered by taxpayers.

The BC Mining Law Reform Network published a recent report on B.C.’s most risky mines, and pointed out the province is storing about 2.5 billion cubic metres of tailings waste — which it said is enough to fill BC Place stadium 943 times.

The network calls for environmental assessments to be strengthened and mandatory when requested by First Nations or local communities on mines or major expansions. It also calls for mines to only be approved with consent from Indigenous Peoples, and for wet tailings to be prohibited, unless they can be proven to be safer than dry tailings.

B.C. has been pushing for expedition of major projects

In May, the BC NDP government passed Bill 15, the Infrastructure Projects Act, and Bill 14, the Renewable Energy Projects Streamlining Act. Bill 15 grants the provincial government broad powers to expedite pretty much any major infrastructure project, whether publicly or privately owned, while Bill 14 is meant to streamline renewable energy projects.

Former NDP MLA Melanie Mark — the first First Nations woman to serve as an MLA and cabinet minister in B.C. — condemned the legislation for “bypassing constitutionally protected and inherent First Nations/Indigenous Rights.”

B.C.’s current consultation process is already criticized by some as a box-checking exercise. Phillips called it “drive-by” consultation — and now leaders fear consent will be bypassed even further. 

But disregarding Indigenous consent can lead to uncertainty and delays rather than acceleration by getting tied up in court battles for years, even decades. Courts have repeatedly recognized the constitutionally enshrined rights of First Nations. Indigenous leaders argue consent brings certainty, and lack of consent brings conflict and delays.

Can Canada’s fast-tracking laws avoid the mistakes of the past?

Just recently, B.C. enacted a new policy for issuing mineral claims not because it wanted to, but because it was court-ordered to do so, since the court found the system of staking claims without consultation breached the government’s duty to consult. 

Skuce said B.C.’s push for deregulation goes back further than this year.

“While not associated with Bill 15, over the last couple of years, the province has tended to evade environmental assessments for mine expansions,” Skuce said.

“Environmental assessments are a planning tool and way to bring in science and local knowledge to best evaluate risks and mitigate impacts,” she argued.

“Avoiding them doesn’t result in British Columbia having a responsible mining sector.”

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.

Canadians everywhere are planning where to hike, swim or set up a picnic this long weekend — and top of that list, for many British Columbians, will be the turquoise-blue waters and mountainous views of Joffre Lakes Provincial Park. When the portal to reserve a day pass opens at 7:00 a.m. two days in advance, hundreds of hopeful hikers click frantically as they vie for spots that book up within moments.

Joffre Lakes is just one of many places to see glacial lakes and rivers in the Sea-to-Sky area. But it has status. It’s Instagram-famous. It’s undeniably beautiful. And in recent years, it’s become a site of conflict over the competing priorities of Indigenous Rights, conservation and public access.

On a typical summer weekend, the trails and lakes of Joffre Lakes are crowded with visitors. A log that extends into the turquoise waters of Middle Joffre Lake has become an especially popular photo site.

The area’s original name is Pipi7íyekw in Ucwalmícwts, the language spoken by the Líl̓wat (Lil’wat) and N’Quatqua nations. The nations were under the impression they’d reached an agreement with B.C. to close the park from Aug. 22 to Oct. 23 this year, to mitigate stress on the ecosystem and allow Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua citizens time to harvest and connect with the land that is otherwise challenging to carry out due to the crowds.

On an average summer Saturday, hikers line the trail like students after the bell rings, foot-to-foot, one behind the other. Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua have been working with B.C. since 2018 to co-manage the park and establish regular closures to let the land recover from the constant trampling of feet. A management plan for the park was identified as a joint priority since annual visits to the park spiked, and more than tripled between 2010 and 2019, impacting safety and visitor experience as well as the First Nations’ rights.

But Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua felt the rug pulled from under them on Aug. 19, when B.C. announced to the public that the park would be open over Labour Day weekend, and the closure would be shortened from two months to one month. The nations say B.C. went ahead without informing them in advance, and in full knowledge the nations opposed a shorter closure.

Last Friday, they held a ceremony on Highway 99 to mark the day they intended the park closure to begin. Members and supporters of the two nations blocked traffic in either direction for roughly two hours to raise awareness of how their partnership with the province, to them, had been betrayed. 

Líl̓wat citizen Amanda Ritchie holds a flag at the ceremony and road closure Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations held last week. They denounced British Columbia’s decision to open Pipi7íyekw (Joffre Lakes Provincial Park) during the closure dates they say both parties agreed upon.

Cars idle and drivers walk along Highway 99 where Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations halted traffic on Aug. 22 to hold ceremony and denounce B.C. for opening Joffre Lakes Provincial Park despite the nations opposing the decision. On Aug. 19, the province announced the park would be open over Labour Day weekend, despite the nations’ wishes.

In a joint management strategy signed in 2018, BC Parks and both nations committed to “work collaboratively, in good faith, with respect for one another,” Casey Gonzalez, director of land, resources and infrastructure for Líl̓wat, told The Narwhal.

To Gonzalez, BC Parks announcing new closure dates without the nations’ buy-in means “they are not upholding that end of their commitment.” 

“They need to come back, speak with the nations with an open heart and an open mind and be ready to actually collaborate without this back-minded mentality that they are the ultimate decision-makers of our unceded territories,” she said.

Lil’wat community member Kalentitikwa helps guide traffic on Highway 99 after the road closure Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations held in Mount Currie on Aug. 22, calling on B.C. to honour its partnership with the two First Nations.

While Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations have seen some hateful posts online, Casey Gonzalez said by and large they encounter support. Above, three onlookers witness and listen to the ceremony the nations held on the highway.

The Narwhal requested an interview with the Minister of Environment and Parks or another spokesperson, but the ministry sent an emailed statement instead. “We acknowledge the nations had requested additional closure dates, beyond what we were prepared to agree to,” it said. “We always want to work collaboratively with First Nations partners.”

The ministry said it had several meetings with the nations, but Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua say those meetings reached no collaborative resolution.

In its announcement of the new closure dates, the ministry said it chose a schedule it believes “balances cultural practices, conservation goals and public access to the park.” 

Líl̓wat citizen and former councillor Linda Dan participated in the Friday ceremony. Afterwards, she sat on the side of the road, watching large semi-trailer trucks pass. “We only need this [closure] for a short window, for our gathering of food,” she said, but still, “we are not heard.”

“Education needs to continue on who we really are and what we stand for,” she added. “We don’t mean to hurt anybody. We come in peace. We’re trying to do reconciliation.”

Casey Gonzalez listens while Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua nations gather in ceremony on Highway 99. She said the nations have been co-managing the park with B.C. since 2018, and their faith in the province is shaken.

Keeping Joffre Lakes open was a ‘sticking point’ for some constituents, Líl̓wat director said she was told by B.C.

According to Gonzalez, the nations chose the original closure dates and informed park staff in December, but those staff have since been removed and relocated. In May, Minister of Environment and Parks Tamara Davidson visited Pipi7íyekw, and the nations affirmed their expectation the dates would still be met. She said B.C. told the nations in June it wanted the park opened for Labour Day.

Gonzalez said the nations met with Davidson and staff again on Aug. 18, and said they still expected the initial closure dates they discussed in December 2024 to go ahead. “[Davidson] had eight months for their staff to implement this,” Gonzalez said.

Gonzalez said ministry staff told her at that meeting that people wanted access over Labour Day and it was a “sticking point” for constituents. The next day, B.C. announced publicly the park would remain open for the long weekend and the closure would be one month. Gonzalez said B.C. did not tell the nations its intention to go ahead with its own dates. However, in a statement provided to The Narwhal, the ministry wrote “We communicated our final closure schedule—aligned with last year’s agreement—to the Lil’wat Nation and N’Quatqua before it was made public.”

“Throughout negotiations, our position was clear: we intended to stick to a closure schedule that aligned with the balanced approach agreed to last year. We have a responsibility to support public access to parks while also respecting First Nations cultural practices and conservation goals. Although a final agreement for 2025 was not reached, this year’s closure schedule honoured the approach agreed to for the 2024 season,” the ministry wrote. It added that improving advance notice to park visitors is also a priority.

“The final 68 days of closures are consistent with the 60 agreed-to closure dates from last year, rather than the 103 closure dates requested by the nations,” the ministry of environment said in a previous emailed statement.

It pointed out the nations and B.C. collaboratively brought in the day pass, and reduced it from 1,000 people per day to 500 per day in 2024, which has reduced some of its concerns around over-capacity.

Linda Dan (right) says she’s surprised and hurt she needs to tell others that she and her community members “come in peace” and want to protect the land. Photos: Paige Taylor White / The Narwhal

The nations and B.C. agreed to close the park for three weeks earlier this year, from Apr. 25 to May 16. They had picked the fall closure dates to align with when berries and medicines are available and traditionally harvested. Outside of those dates, the park is open to the public.

“The community wants to be in Pipi7íyekw to harvest in the fall season, harvest our medicines and our food for the winter,” Gonzalez said.

Dan said the nations’ members have been confined to reserves, a tiny portion of the territories they took care of and lived off of before colonization. None of this land was given up by agreement or treaty, but they were forcibly constrained to small plots of land anyway — and not often where they would have spent most of their time. If the land was desirable, it was more likely to be taken by the Crown.

“Our ancestors were up every one of these mountains,” Dan said. “The government put us in reserves … They put us here, we barely had anything — and we made something of it.” 

Now, countless cars pass through their Mount Currie reserve on the way to Joffre Lakes.

Most interactions with non-nation members are positive, Líl̓wat director said

Some of the online rhetoric in response to the closures has been volatile, denying the nations’ rights to the area and speculating the nations are blocking access for nefarious or selfish reasons. Such posts have said the nation is forcing closures unilaterally, despite its ongoing negotiations and collaboration with B.C. since 2018. Some posts on Reddit had to be removed by moderators for racist language.

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

“It’s hard to send a message out to deaf ears,” Amanda Ritchie, a Líl̓wat community member, said.

Dan said these kinds of comments have been “very hurtful.” But in many posts, people also have said they supported the closures, saw the environmental benefit and recognized that First Nations have unceded rights to their lands, protected by Canada’s constitution.

Gonzalez said in her experience “90 per cent” of interactions with non-Indigenous folks about the closure are positive — but that last minority is loud.

Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua First Nations plan to do a cumulative effects assessment during the September closure of Joffre Lakes Park. During this time members will be able to harvest and do the famous hike in their territory — some for the first time.

Líl̓wat councillor Maxine Bruce at the ceremony held by Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua First Nations. The nations are determined to advocate for their inherent rights to the area.

At the closure, The Narwhal only heard one report of a driver who yelled and swerved past a car blocking the street. Far more people waited or pulled over to see what was going on, and many honked in support once traffic opened up and they passed by the remaining Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua members lining the highway.

Ritchie said oral stories of Pipi7íyekw tell of people going there to gain strength. Despite this latest setback in negotiations with the province, the nations’ members are looking forward to reconnecting with the land as it rests. 

“We would go up there for harvesting and trapping,” she said. “It’s what sustains us and keeps us healthy.”

Kalentitikwa, also from Líl̓wat, said she will hike Joffre Lakes for the first time during the September closure. “I’m excited to take my baby out there. She’s only two and she loves eating berries fresh off of the land,” she said.

“It’s awesome to see that she’s able to do something that I did when I was her age, in our own backyards, and now we can go up to Joffre with our family and our friends and the rest of the nation, and we can just be St’át’imc on St’át’imc land.”

Updated on August 28, 2025 at 12:35 p.m PT: This story has been updated to include additional statements from the Ministry of Environment and Parks, which were provided to The Narwhal after publication time.

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