Summary

• An AI computing company is proposing to fill in a wetland to build a massive data centre near the neighbourhood of Lorneville in Saint John, N.B.
• Once operating, the data centre will be one of New Brunswick’s largest carbon emitters and devour about 390 megawatts of electricity — more than 10 per cent of the province’s total energy demand.
• Residents of Lorneville are resisting the proposal, but provincial and municipal leaders have expressed support, arguing it will bring jobs and revenue to the region.

On a sunny Saturday in April, Adam Wilkins and Chris Watson trace a path through a forest a short distance from the Bay of Fundy. 

As he walks down a slope, Wilkins wonders aloud whether cleaning out the ditch upstream would make the trail easier to run on; for the past decade, he and his wife have been building forest trails in this area, to encourage more outdoor recreation and stewardship.

After about 10 minutes, at a fork in the path, Watson stops, pointing at the forest ahead: the area slated to become the site of the first hyperscale data centre in Atlantic Canada. That is, a data centre with massive scalable capacity, like those Apple, Google and Microsoft are building.  

For years, the City of Saint John and the New Brunswick provincial government have been working to expand an industrial park in Lorneville, a coastal community on the outskirts of Saint John. A $2-billion data centre built by Alberta company Beacon Data Centers and partially powered by a new gas plant is slated to be the first tenant.

Data centres provide the material backbone for cloud services, file sharing and artificial intelligence. A customer for Beacon Data Centers’ proposed New Brunswick facility has not been announced.

Officials have said Lorneville is an ideal location for business development, as the area offers large amounts of land and water, as well as abundant electricity and accessible fibre cables. The municipality has also said developing Lorneville would bring much-needed jobs and tax revenue to the city; the local Irving Oil refinery exports most of its products to the United States, while New Brunswick generally sends most of its seafood and lumber south of the border, making Saint John “Canada’s most tariff-exposed city” according to the Canadian Chamber of Commerce. 

Officials initially stated that they were actively attracting businesses to the expanded industrial park that would be focused in “green and clean” sectors. But residents have pushed back, noting that expansion of the industrial park, and construction of the data centre itself, would destroy rare old-growth forest and wetlands. If built, the data centre would rely on a gas plant for much of its power, making it one of the province’s largest emitters, while also increasing demand on the grid. And residents say the process to develop the data centre has suffered from a lack of transparency.

Documents obtained through provincial access to information legislation by The Narwhal and by residents show provincial officials were in discussions to bring a data centre to the park long before residents were told about the tenant — and that details of that data centre conflicted with the more low-impact vision for the industrial park advertised to residents.

Building AI data centres across Canada has been identified by the federal government as a priority, and dozens of new facilities have been proposed in the past year. Since early May, Beacon Data Centers has lobbied various federal departments four times to advocate for the role of data centres in supporting “national priorities,” and to request government support for the New Brunswick project. But many communities are concerned about environmental impacts of the water- and power-hungry facilities, as well as the lack of oversight and transparency regarding their impacts.

“For the past two years, this fight has been a huge stressor for people,” Wilkins says. “It’s all in the name of progress, or we need the taxes, or you need AI to generate your stupid images, but it impacts people’s lives.”

Data centre proposal reopening old wounds in Lorneville

This spring, billboards and bus ads began appearing around Saint John, promising the creation of 1,200 jobs from construction of the 390-megawatt data centre — an appealing prospect in a city reliant on trade with a volatile United States and a province facing a grim financial forecast.

But in those signs, many Lorneville residents saw something troubling. 

Lorneville was once a fishing village perched on the Bay of Fundy’s rocky shoreline. In the 1970s, a 3,600-hectare chunk of land along the coast was expropriated by the provincial government to develop an industrial project that — apart from a power plant built on the water — never materialized. Residents say a promise they were given to return the land if the project didn’t move forward never came to fruition either.

“My grandparents were still getting upset, even talking about it, until the day they were gone,” Cecil McCavour, whose family has been fishing in Lorneville since the 1840s, told The Narwhal. McCavour, along with his dad and cousin, are the last fishermen working from the community’s wharf. His family lost hundreds of acres to expropriation, he says. Now, the data centre is reopening old wounds. “Every decade something’s coming down the pipeline that does damage to our community.”

In subsequent years, a dump was established in the area, but was found to be insufficiently lined for modern-day standards, creating concerns contaminants were seeping into the groundwater.

Then, in July 2024, residents received letters in envelopes with no originating address. A consulting agency hired by the province stated that a proposal to clear and construct a 110-hectare “development-ready pad” for industry a short distance from their homes was in the works.

Instead, residents resisted, submitting dozens of letters, collecting hundreds of signatures and packing council meetings at which the expansion was debated. In response, the City of Saint John — which was pursuing the expansion along with New Brunswick’s Regional Development Corporation — paused the plan and initiated a task force in which residents and city officials were meant to work through concerns. 

Residents were not told which specific industries were being considered for the expanded industrial park, or if any potential tenants had come forward.

The documents obtained through access to information legislation by The Narwhal and residents show that before the task force began meeting, provincial officials were already in discussions to bring a data centre to the park. In emails from October 2024, Martin Luckett, an official with the province’s business development agency, Opportunities NB, wrote to a redacted recipient that the agency felt “strongly that there is considerable potential for one of your centers here in New Brunswick,” and describes the Lorneville area as a potential location. By November 2024, Beacon Data Centers had submitted a feasibility application to NB Power, according to emails. 

In May 2025, city council voted on whether to allow the expansion after a series of tense council meetings that stretched late into the evening. Dozens of people spoke out against the plan, while just three speakers spoke in favour. Still, the council voted unanimously to allow the expansion.

City staff initially attempted to assuage residents’ concerns by affirming businesses in the industrial park would be green and non-emitting. But the data centre — which was announced in October 2025 — has made people doubt that commitment, Wilkins says. “The first thing announced was a hyperscale data centre powered by a natural gas plant … what else is coming?”

Old-growth forests, wetlands would be cleared for data centre

In 2024, Chris Watson bought a house beside a large saltmarsh in Lorneville, recognized as a “provincially significant wetland” for its ecological value . In the forest behind his home, eastern cedar shade mossy swamps, while gnarled red spruce with lichen-covered branches grow nearby.

Watson was surprised when he read the environmental impact assessment for the industrial park expansion, which includes the forest behind his house, describing it as relatively low value.” His own observations, though not expert, suggested at least parts of it were exceptional.

He bought a tool for taking cores and gathered samples from the largest trees. Ben Phillips, who runs a dendrochronology lab — focused on the science of dating trees by their rings — at Mount Allison University, agreed to take a look.

Phillips was initially skeptical. Only about half a per cent of the forest in New Brunswick is old growth, he says, and most of that is found in inaccessible areas.

But examining the cores under a microscope, Phillips was astonished. 

In the oldest sample, Phillips counted 388 rings, meaning the tree was likely more than 400 years old, as it would have taken more than 12 years to get to the point from which the rings were counted. Other samples showed trees that were more than 300 years old, and many over 200 years — an age distribution typical of an old-growth forest. “[Old growth] is a mixed age, multi-storied stand that’s got lots of diversity in it,” he says. “This fit that exactly.”

The forest at Lorneville is likely the third-oldest forest in the province, Phillips says. Yet there’s no guarantee it will be spared. “These global pressures from big tech firms and AI and data centres and tariffs … are winning out against old-growth forest because we do not have a policy in place to protect it.”

The mayor of Saint John, Donna Reardon, has said she supports saving individual old trees, but declined an interview request for this story. The site for the data centre is specifically adjacent to, and partially overlapping, the industrial park expansion area, and wouldn’t flatten some of the oldest trees Watson found. But a more recent environmental assessment for the data centre itself stated that approximately 3.5 hectares of old-growth forest would be lost as “a long-term, irreversible, adverse effect of the project.”

The forest isn’t the only ecological concern. Much of the Lorneville area is made up of wetlands, including roughly 27 hectares in the area that would be cleared and infilled to make space for the data centre.

“This is basically the high point of the watershed,” Watson says, inspecting one of those wetlands in April — a peatland bog in the area behind his house. At the bog’s edge, Watson says he’d found trees that were 200 years old, suggesting an ecosystem that has been evolving for centuries. “What’s going to happen when all that freshwater flow is removed from this area?”

Roxanne MacKinnon, executive director of ACAP Saint John, an environmental non-profit organization, says the development of wetlands throughout Saint John already causes localized flooding.

“Wetlands are a very important part of our ecosystem,” she says. “From our perspective, the degradation of habitat, and particularly where all that water is going to go that is being contained within these wetlands currently, [is] a concern.”

For residents, there’s also the question of what the loss of wetlands will mean for their wells.

The initial expansion area for the industrial park would have infilled dozens of hectares of wetlands. A 2025 email from provincial engineer and hydrogeologist Gerard Souma to a New Brunswick environmental impact assessment specialist, obtained by residents through access to information legislation, noted this could affect the community’s older wells. Souma wrote, “It is my opinion that any owner having a well tapping their water supply from the surficial aquifer should be concern [sic] with 44 ha of wetland infilling by the project.”

Watson worries that the wetland infilling for the data centre could also affect downstream wetlands like the significant saltmarsh by his house, by changing the way water flows on the landscape.

In a statement, Lauren Armstrong, Beacon’s vice-president of corporate affairs, wrote that the wetlands at the site of the data centre have been assessed and categorized through the impact assessment, and that “the overall approach is to minimize the footprint, avoid the most sensitive areas and manage remaining effects.”

New Brunswick’s Regional Development Corporation referred a request for an interview to Saint John Industrial Parks.

If built, Saint John data centre would be one of the largest emitters and power users in the province

While the project stands to raze local forests and wetlands, it may also have broader impacts across the province. 

The proposed data centre is a 390-megawatt operation. Once built, it would also generate roughly 6.6 per cent of emissions in the province.

Part of the data centre’s energy is meant to come from an on-site natural gas-powered generation facility, built by Houston-based VoltaGrid, with the other 200 megawatts coming from New Brunswick’s grid. This demand could surpass 10 per cent of New Brunswick’s mean energy demands, where peak daily demand for electricity ranges from around 1,500 megawatts on a summer morning to roughly 3,030 megawatts on a cold winter’s day.

Beacon submitted a feasibility assessment for that grid demand in November 2024. In May 2025, emails from municipal and provincial officials displayed frustration with NB Power’s slow response. “This has not been the best first impression to say the least,” wrote Saint John Industrial Parks general manager Ian MacKinnon, to officials from Opportunities NB and Envision Saint John, the city’s business development group. “Nothing will proceed without a response and a commitment for power.” MacKinnon did not respond to a request for an interview.

Meanwhile, Opportunities NB wrote a letter to NB Power asking about the feasibility review, saying Beacon is “ready to progress their project in Saint John but can’t commit to anything without a path forward with NB Power.”

At that same time, NB Power and the U.S. company ProEnergy were putting forward an application for a controversial 500-megawatt, 10-turbine natural gas and diesel power plant in Tantramar, in southwest New Brunswick, to cope with rising electricity demand. 

That power plant, which was just approved by the province’s Energy and Utilities Board, would produce around 900,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide a year, according to its environmental assessment.

VoltaGrid has said its gas plant on the data centre site is not at all related to the larger ProEnergy plant. NB Power put out the request for proposals for the gas plant in 2024, a year before the data centre plan was announced, though the same year Beacon submitted its feasibility application to the provincial utility. 

Still, advocates say the potential data centre has bearing on decisions about power generation. 

David Coon, leader of the Green Party of New Brunswick, says from his perspective, the projects are connected insofar as powering the data centre requires the ProEnergy gas plant. “There isn’t an extra 200 megawatts of capacity available on the grid to carry that load,” he says. “So it’s got to come from somewhere and that means they’ve got to build it.”

Watson wonders why officials were asking for grid approval of an energy-intensive facility at the same time the utility was forecasting an energy deficit by 2028 due to population growth. 

Meanwhile, VoltaGrid’s 190-megawatt natural gas-generating facility would produce roughly 750,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide annually, making it one of the province’s most prolific emitters, behind the Irving Oil Refinery and the Belledune coal-fired generating station.

VoltaGrid CEO Nathan Ough did not respond to a request for an interview, but Lauren Armstrong, with Beacon Data Centers, said in a statement that “the project is being designed with a combination of measures to reduce and manage emissions intensity over time. These include high-efficiency generation technologies, operational optimization, and the ability to integrate lower-carbon energy sources as they become available.”

Given the potential effects on power rates, on the province’s emissions targets and on the community, Coon is calling for a moratorium on data centre development until legislation can be developed for the industry. “The concern that everyone has, including me, is the costs will far outweigh the benefits of this, the way it’s being pursued.”

In a statement, Luke Randall, the minister responsible for Opportunities NB, said that projects like the data centre have the potential to contribute to the provincial economy by creating jobs and revenue for public services. These projects “will only proceed if they deliver clear economic value, align with environmental expectations and contribute meaningfully to the province’s long-term development.”

Randall also stated that Opportunities NB is “aware of the broader discussions regarding electricity supply and future demand. That is precisely why projects like this are subject to rigorous review, including technical analysis, environmental assessment and regulatory oversight.” 

In return, Saint John residents are being pitched an economic windfall in jobs and tax revenue, though of the advertised 1,200 jobs, most are in construction, and the figure also includes indirect jobs, which are service and supply-chain jobs created as a result of the data centre project. Just 210 jobs would be permanent, according to the company’s projections.

Lorneville residents say it’s unclear that the loss of wetlands and forest, and the increase in emissions, would be worth it. 

For now, they’re hoping to have the expansion of the industrial park reversed; residents have filed for a judicial review of the area’s rezoning, on the grounds that the city council’s decision was biased. In May, Lorneville resident Sherri Colwell-McCavour, who’s been vocally opposed to the project, was elected to Saint John City Council  — days after a protest in downtown Saint John, at which dozens of people called for a halt to the data centre.

If residents can’t stop the project, they say they intend to continue doing what they can to minimize the effects.

A data centre in the neighbourhood

After touring the wetlands and forest in the data centre footprint, Watson and Wilkins make their way to the road. A few minutes later, Wilkins’ wife, Leah Alexander, rolls along to pick them up. 

Alexander’s family has been in Lorneville for six generations. She has spent her whole life there, and she and Wilkins live just a few houses down from the one she grew up in.

She has vivid early memories of being taken door to door by her mother to advocate against the dump, she says. Now, the threat of the data centre has her strapping her baby to her chest to go to council meetings, and bringing her four-year-old along to hand out flyers.

Alexander has never imagined leaving Lorneville, but the data centre project has her questioning whether it’s a place her family can stay. For now, she’s sad to see the community go through the same struggle it’s faced in the past — and frustrated that they’ve had to do so much work to highlight what’s at risk of being lost: the gnarled and ancient trees, the deep mossy swamps. 

If the systems meant to provide protection are not doing their job, she says, then it leaves residents no choice. 

“People want their children to grow up here,” Alexander says. “They want them to stay here, and what are we leaving them? Like, if we don’t stand up and fight for it, what are we doing?”

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Summary

• Historically, First Nations in B.C. who lived near floodplains respected tides and lived nomadically, until settlers disrupted water flow, creating dikes to pursue agriculture and urban development.
• Xwíʔləm̓nəc, or Addington Point Marsh, has been restored to a wetland after three years of collaboration led by Katzie First Nation.
• Restoring wetlands brings life to countless species and helps restore Indigenous people’s connection to their traditional territories. The marsh is part of Canada’s largest salmon-bearing watershed.

On a late April morning, a group of Katzie First Nation land guardians, conservation workers, government representatives and others trek down to Xwíʔləm̓nəc (Addington Point Marsh).

They gather in the First Nation’s Lower Mainland territory to celebrate the long-awaited completion of a wetland restoration project connecting to the Stó:lō (Fraser River).

Mike Leon leads Katzie’s team of eight guardians, and has been involved with the marsh restoration project from the beginning. After everyone bypasses a locked gate — there to reduce the risk of bear-human encounters — they stop by the water, and he addresses the group.

“I would really like to raise my hands to all of you, to the hard work and willingness to work with us, to be with us, to be with this land,” he said.

The restoration project was funded by the B.C. government and the federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans, implemented by Katzie First Nation, Resilient Waters, Ducks Unlimited Canada and the Nature Trust of British Columbia, with many helping hands involved.

For three years the partners worked together to reestablish waterflow in the marsh. The wetlands connection to the Pitt River and South Fraser River system was disconnected when early settlers installed a dike, which has since been removed. 

“I love doing the work. I love being on our territory and helping the environment,” Mackenzie Adams, another Katzie guardian, added. Adams monitored the site throughout the project, and collected water and bird surveys to compare data before and after restoration. 

According to the B.C. Wildlife Federation, wetland monitoring is just as important as the initial restoration during a project. “Monitoring, maintenance, and data collection help us evaluate the effectiveness of restoration techniques and improve the performance and function of future projects,” it reads on their website.

Xwíʔləm̓nəc is now letting nature take its course, and with the area being home to one of the country’s largest salmon runs and smallest sandhill crane populations, monitoring the wetland is critical work for Katzie Guardians. 

“I was there one of the first days … comparing the first day to the last day was pretty eye opening because you can already see the differences from the river water coming in. It will be an awesome habitat for all birds and salmon fry,” Adams said. 

While the exact impact is currently unknown, wetland restoration benefits are well documented. Leon’s team will be on top of that data, working with partners to restore and conserve native plants and animals in the area.

Relationships between Katzie Guardians and partners in the project have flourished. A local property owner who attended the celebration shared their initial concerns after seeing excavation equipment clearing a path to the dike, and their relief after learning more about the endeavour. Beyond its environmental impacts, the project has brought people together from all walks of life who want to see salmon and wildlife in and around the Fraser River thrive.

Restoration project had many partners, but Katzie had final say

Dan Straker, the manager for the Resilient Waters project, was a lead organizer under the direction of Katzie Guardians and leadership. 

“With Katzie First Nation, it was determined early on they would have final decision making and be informing the project along the way. All the partners fell in line with that idea and thinking,” Straker told the Narwhal. 

“What we ended up with was this really nice blended way of doing things, from a more two-eyed seeing approach.” 

Leon added that, throughout the endeavour, Katzie brought in their customs, culture and laws.

“It’s really important and special to us to know our place names in our territory. When we have our guardians come out, we’re honored to be on those place names such as Xwíʔləm̓nəc,” Leon said. 

It’s a sentiment shared by Katzie’s guardian coordinator April Pierre. In a quiet moment of emotion in the circle, she addressed a reality shared by many First Nations people: growing up away from her homelands.

The Xwíʔləm̓nəc restoration project gave Pierre an opportunity to spend time on land she had never been to — the land of her ancestors. It’s one emotional moment of many that were shared during the celebration, as others reflected on the marine and wildlife already making appearances in the marsh.

Dikes were built to create flat land for agriculture in the area since the late 1800s. Restoring the marsh’s connection to the river has immense ecological benefits and cultural benefits for local First Nations.

“Conservation organizations in previous decades had a different approach to conservation land management that I think sometimes excluded other organizations and nations,” Ducks Unlimited senior restoration biologist, Eric Balke, said.

“I think we are learning new and better ways of moving forward, more collaborative ways, and this project is a great example of that.”

Balke has been involved with restoring Xwíʔləm̓nəc since brainstorming and planning days, eventually passing the reins to his colleague Alison Martin.

“What excites me about this project is it’s all about restoring relationships,” he said. “You’re restoring the relationship between the river and these wetlands that were formerly alienated by dikes. You’re restoring the relationship between Xwíʔləm̓nəc and juvenile salmon that previously were prevented from accessing the site … it’s also restoring the relationship between Katzie and their kin.”

Wetland restoration benefits salmon

In the Pacific Northwest, both people and the ecosystem know how important salmon is. Xwíʔləm̓nəc is connected to Canada’s largest salmon-bearing watershed, the Fraser River. 

According to the Pacific Salmon Foundation, “floodplains provide critical, food-rich habitat for juvenile salmon. These low-lying areas adjacent to stream channels allow young salmon to grow healthy and strong before their journey to the ocean.”

But dikes disrupt the river’s connection to the marsh, blocking valuable nutrients and harming the salmon and other species.

“Wetlands, such as tidal marshes, help to collect sediment that build up the marsh platform, helping to protect our communities from flooding,” Balke said.

“This land that settlers found is super valuable for farming and agriculture, it was valuable because of the sediment that was delivered, because of the nutrients that were delivered by the river,” he said.

“When we construct dikes we disconnect the river from its floodplain. The river can no longer deliver those critical ingredients.”

A huge benefit of restoring tidal marshes is that they are one of the most effective ways of capturing and storing carbon, contaminants and pollutants that flow downstream. 

Further, Xwíʔləm̓nəc is home to wapoto and tule, two traditional plants for Katzie First Nation that have been impacted from dikes. Restoring the wetland is giving members of the nation hope that these plants can be harvested for food and mat-making once again.

The marsh is also home to sandhill cranes, whose local population has hovered around 30 to 35 birds for decades, Myles Lamont told the Narwhal. He was brought into the project by Katzie as a sandhill crane consultant.

“The remaining birds seem to nest in golf courses and some very small regional parks … Unfortunately they’ve been getting struck by golf balls. Quite commonly over the last 10 to 15 years, I’ve had to rescue a few birds that have had broken legs or injuries as a result of golf ball strikes, particularly in Richmond,” Lamont said. 

He is hopeful that restoring Xwíʔləm̓nəc to a wetland will bring in enough water to create a nesting habitat for the birds, drawing them away from golf courses. As folks went around the sharing circle, Lamont spotted one overhead, calling out, “Crane!” 

“It’s really cool being a part of it. Just knowing that we’re making a difference, I’m making a difference,” Adams said.“The salmon habitat has a place to go throughout the winter and so do the sandhill cranes and birds. It’s a good feeling … I feel accomplished.”

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It’s been five years since an atmospheric river dropped a month’s worth of rain on Princeton, British Columbia, in a matter of days. But even with a herculean recovery and rebuilding effort, the impacts of those 2021 floods still mar the landscape. 

Hills are scarred by landslides, and buildings are abandoned. Sun-bleached logs sit far from the river as a reminder of how far the water spread. Then, there’s the old train bridge. 

Part of the Kettle Valley Rail Trail, a 500-kilometre abandoned rail line turned multi-use trail between Hope and Midway, B.C., the bridge was one of more than 60 locations where the 2021 floods washed out the trail. About 20 metres of steel, concrete and timber on its eastern end were swept away by the surging waters. Today, the Tulameen River flows beneath the gap between Princeton and what’s left, with a faded, graffiti-covered “trail closed” sign standing on the shore. 

For years, many Princeton locals were hopeful the bridge and trail would be rebuilt. But in early February, they learned the province was planning to not only scrap the bridge, but to decommission the entire 67-kilometre stretch of trail connecting Princeton to the Coquihalla Highway. 

In an announcement, the province said repairing that segment “would cost an estimated $60 million,” while “the cost of decommissioning the damaged Princeton section is estimated at $20 million.”

“The decision to decommission a section of the Kettle Valley Rail Trail near Princeton exemplifies the harsh realities of climate-impacted management,” the Ministry of Environment and Parks explained. 

It’s a decision that’s left locals and outsiders who care about the Trans Canada Trail reeling. 

At more than 29,000 kilometres, the Trans Canada Trail is the longest multi-use trail network on the planet. In 2017, it was officially “connected” across the entire country, making it possible to traverse Canada by a combination of foot and paddling trails. The decommissioning of the Kettle Valley segment will be the first permanent break in that connection. That’s a big part of why Stacey Dakin, the Trans Canada Trail’s chief program officer, thinks there has been concern about this decision outside of Princeton.

“With the Trans Canada Trail, there’s a sense of national pride and unity,” Dakin says. “We’ve heard more and more that people are connecting to each other just because they’re on the trail.

To Dakin, the Kettle Valley decision was “shocking.” But it reflects the growing risk that climate change poses to trails across the country, as jurisdictions must weigh the cost of repairs against the likelihood of future disasters.

More than just a trail

For Princeton mayor Spencer Coyne, the town at the confluence of the Tulameen and Similkameen rivers has always been home. A member of the Upper Similkameen Indian Band, he remembers when trains still ran on the Kettle Valley line.

“There was a dirt bike and bicycle trail beside the tracks,” he says. “We would ride our bikes out to Tulameen and go swimming in the summer. It’s just a part of who we are.”

Coyne, who was first elected in 2018, decided to run for mayor after a massive 2017 wildfire opened his eyes to just how vulnerable Princeton was to climate change.

“We’ve been in a state of emergency every single year since,” Coyne explains. “The trail is kind of a microcosm.”

The decommissioning decision stunned Coyne. Especially given all of the work the community was doing to rebuild and recover after the 2021 floods.

“[I was] super disappointed in the way that unrolled … It took a bunch of people by surprise.”

One of those people is Todd Davidson, manager of the Princeton Museum.

“When the news about decommissioning the Kettle Valley Rail Trail first came out, we were all kind of surprised and shocked,” he says.

He describes the trail as a tourist draw, with visitors using it for day trips and multi-day expeditions. In winter, he says, locals relied on it as a snowmobile route to get supplies from town. He also thinks the trail should be preserved for historical reasons, as the remnants of a rail line that moved minerals, timber and people between the coast and the Interior for nearly a century.

It’s a history that still lives in people like Tom Reichert. He worked on the line for the decade before it was shut down in 1989. Today, he and his wife, Kelly, own Reichert Sales & Service, an off-road vehicle shop in Tulameen. “The closure has definitely had an impact on our business,” he says. “It’s impacted both sales and service.”

They’ve also shut down an off-road vehicle rental program they estimate brought in around $30,000 a year before the floods. 

But beyond the business impact, the Reicherts worry what losing the trail will mean for the community. They remember when the trail was busy with hikers, cyclists and all-terrain vehicle users. It’s a big part of why they’ve gotten involved in efforts to oppose decommissioning. Now, there’s a large sign on the front door of Reichert Sales & Service promoting a “Save the KVR” Facebook group and a petition that, as of writing, has more than 12,000 signatures.

The Reicherts, Coyne and Davidson all point out that many of those petition signers have never even been to Princeton, but care because the Kettle Valley is part of the Trans Canada Trail.

Managed retreat

Most of the time, the Vedder River is a calm, azure blue ribbon that flows from Chilliwack into the Fraser River. But when it rises, it transforms into a raging torrent, a pale brown rush of water that inundates the forest and ravages the trails that run along its banks.

“We had three 50-year storms within four months, back to back to back,” Drew Pilling says. “Which really took a toll on our system.”

Pilling, the senior parks and trails operations technician for the City of Chilliwack, is talking about three atmospheric rivers that hit Chilliwack between December 2025 and March 2026, with each one damaging the same stretch of the Vedder Rotary Loop Trail.

“It’s quite a cost,” says Pilling. “It’s a lot of gravel that comes back in, it’s a lot of machine time, a lot of man-hours.” 

This wasn’t the first time this trail had washed away. The same 2021 storm that ripped through the Kettle Valley trail also ravaged the Vedder Rotary Loop Trail. And although Chilliwack has so far been willing to bear the cost of repairs, Pilling thinks there may come a point where, year after year, flooding and trail repair become an issue.

“That’s for sure gonna be a topic of conversation with the council and the mayor,” he says. “Depending on their decisions, it might change the nature of the trails.” 

This changing nature is top of mind for Thomas Schoen. The chief executive officer of First Journey Trails, Schoen has been building trails across British Columbia since 1998. But it wasn’t until 2017, when a cross-country mountain bike trail he helped build connecting Williams Lake First Nation to the local trail network burned in a wildfire, that the situation really hit him.

“It was a multi-year project,” Schoen says. “We started by training Indigenous trail builders and trail maintenance crews. It was a really successful project.” 

For a few years, the trail’s popularity grew, with both locals and visitors from further afield. Then it was engulfed by a wildfire that Schoen says “absolutely destroyed that trail.” 

He and others tried to rebuild it, but the landscape was fundamentally different.

“You had tens of thousands of burnt, standing dead trees along this open trail corridor,” he explains. “The amount of tree falls on this trail was, and still is, so significant that it’s almost impossible with volunteer efforts to keep this trail open.”

Losing that trail was “extremely emotional” for Schoen, and changed the way he thinks about trails and climate change. 

“Some trails can’t be revived,” he says. “Some trails, we just don’t have the manpower or the financial power to rebuild them or open them back up again.”

Climate policy experts might categorize Schoen’s comments and the province’s decision to abandon the Kettle Valley trail as “managed retreat.” 

It’s a strategy for dealing with climate change impacts that a provincial planning document describes as the “strategic relocation of people and structures out of harm’s way, often accompanied by ecological restoration and a permanent change in land use.”

But when done properly, it’s a strategy developed with communities, not for them. 

“These decisions cannot just be made by the government or by one ministry,” Schoen says. “[They] need to be made in partnerships between many different groups … First Nations at the table with trail user clubs.” 

Hundreds of thousands of kilometres of trails

For Ryan Stuart, community engagement lead with the Outdoor Recreation Council of BC, the biggest issue with the Kettle Valley trail decision was the voices that were left out. 

“Where was the conversation beforehand?” he asks. Conversations that he argues are even more important given the growing challenge of maintaining trails in a changing climate. 

And the province has a lot of trails to maintain. According to the province’s 2013 trail strategy, the province has at least 30,000 kilometres of formally recognized trails and “hundreds of thousands of kilometres” of informal trails.

And while the strategy didn’t discuss climate change, a 2020 progress report on it listed an “increase in climate-related events such as wildfires and flooding, which can damage the trail systems,” as a top challenge. It’s a sentiment echoed by another 2025 report by Climate Data Canada exploring how climate change impacts trails across the country. 

Stuart worries that the cost and effort issues are particularly challenging due to long-standing issues with trail funding in the province.  

Among applications to the Outdoor Recreation Fund of BC, a $10-million, multi-year grant to support trail building and maintenance overseen by the Outdoor Recreation Council, he says “lots of the funding requests are for rehabilitation of damaged infrastructure from fires or floods.” 

And the fund just isn’t big enough to support everything. Earlier this year, the council described the fund as “heavily oversubscribed” and able to “support only about 15 per cent of grant requests.” 

And it’s not like the province isn’t aware of the challenges.

“Many of British Columbia’s provincial parks, recreation sites and trails are experiencing a climate-driven transformation,” the Ministry of Environment and Parks wrote in a statement to The Narwhal.“As extreme weather events like the 2021 and 2024 atmospheric rivers become more frequent, the province is navigating a difficult balance between preserving historic recreation opportunities and ensuring long-term environmental and fiscal sustainability.”

Stuart understands “the provincial government is in tough financial shape and needs to look at everything,” but thinks there still needs to be more transparency in how decisions are being made. He points out that the government spent millions rebuilding both the Berg Lake Trail in Mount Robson Provincial Park and the Juan de Fuca Trail on Vancouver Island, while abandoning the Kettle Valley.  

“I’ve heard members of the Outdoor Recreation Council ask, ‘How was that decision made?’ ” he says.

The ministry didn’t directly answer questions about those decisions. Instead, they called Berg Lake “a blueprint for ‘building back better.’ ”

“Following catastrophic weather damage, the trail’s multi-phase reopening has a climate resilience focus,” the ministry statement explained. That focus involved moving trails out of vulnerable flood-plains, relocating bridges to places better able to “withstand heavy flow,” and hardening tent pads. 

They also said the Juan de Fuca trail would need some of “these same resilient engineering strategies.”

‘No new trails’

How the Kettle Valley decision was made also frustrates people in Princeton.

“What they want to do here is just throw in the towel,” Todd Davidson says. “We feel really quite ignored.” 

It’s a sentiment that Coyne understands all too well.

“The fact that the three … main municipalities that were impacted in 2021 didn’t get a lick of funding from the province or from the [federal government] speaks volumes,” he says, referring to Abbotsford and Merritt, which like Princeton were denied support from the federal Disaster Mitigation and Adaptation Fund.

He sees the Kettle Valley decision as a “mirror image of what we’re trying to deal with” around broader flood recovery and climate adaptation. And while he understands the idea of managed retreat, he questions how it’s being applied.

“Ultimately, would we like to look at putting the river back to a more natural state? Of course, but nobody wants to pay for it,” he says. In 2022, Coyne applied for $55 million in federal funding to support a new diking plan for the town. Two years later, that application was rejected.

“Nobody’s coming to help us with that,” he says.

That lack of funding also worries Pilling. While Chilliwack was able to access some funding to rebuild after 2021, he’s not sure this latest round of trail work will qualify. 

“A lot of that funding is for infrastructure that is deemed necessary,” he says. And while trail advocates will argue that trails are necessary, providing benefits for physical and mental health, serving as travel corridors and, in some cases, being used for wildfire resilience, Pilling thinks most of the costs of trail repairs will “end up on the city’s bill.” 

For Coyne, this comes with an added sting. While he’s been fighting to try to reverse the decommissioning decision, he’s also been in meetings about marketing Princeton’s outdoor recreation. 

“We have a branch of the province actively marketing this entire trail network, and we have other departments that are cutting the funding and cutting the feet out from under them,” he says.

The province released its Tourism Sector Action Plan in March. The plan promised to grow B.C.’s outdoor recreation economy, which it claimed “generates approximately $17 billion annually in participation-based revenue, contributing $4.8 billion to provincial GDP.”But the strategy didn’t include any new funding for trails or recreation infrastructure. That’s a problem not just because of the new challenges posed by climate change, but also because of the province’s long-standing maintenance backlog.

In 2015, BC Parks estimated they had “approximately $700 million of investment in infrastructure that requires maintenance.” The province hasn’t updated this number since it was released, but the ministry did say they have further invested “approximately $200 million in campground expansions, accessibility upgrades and improvements to trails, parking and facilities since 2017.”

For Schoen, this calls for a radical rethink of how we approach trail building.“My philosophy is no new trails, period,” he says. “It’s unbelievable how much money we need for trail maintenance, and that money simply isn’t there.”

An uncertain future for the Kettle Valley

When it comes to the future of the Kettle Valley trail, Coyne is torn. He understands the threat that climate change poses to the region, but he also knows how important the trail is to his community. That’s why he keeps fighting for it, and after multiple meetings with the province, he’s starting to see a path forward.

“We’re not going to get everything we’re asking for, we’re not going to get a total rebuild of the trail,” he says.

But in early April, the Regional District of Okanagan-Similkameen passed a motion supporting a new regional trails strategy. 

What the province will say is yet to be seen, but Coyne feels clear on one thing: if the community wants to keep the trail, the onus will be on them to make it happen.

“At the end of the day, if local government or regional government isn’t willing to shoulder this burden, then your trail is probably going to go away,” he says. 

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Nine-year-old John Smithers cradles a tiny burrowing owl in his hands, preparing to release it into the grasslands of Upper Nicola Band territory.

Like other young syilx people, he’s grown up hearing stories about the small birds of prey that have nearly disappeared from his Thompson-Okanagan homelands in the last century or so.

The owls – known in syilx culture as guardians, guides or messengers – were “once a common element” in landscapes stretching from the southern Interior of B.C. all the way to Manitoba, according to Canada’s Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife. 

Now, burrowing owl sightings are rare. In 2003, the Government of Canada listed the burrowing owl as endangered under the federal Species At Risk Act. According to the Burrowing Owl Alliance, the bird’s population in the country has declined by over 96 per cent since 1987. Experts link the bird’s decline to the gradual loss of its grassland habitats over the last century. 

“Lots of animals can come and get them,” Smithers said about the lack of protective habitat for the burrowing owl. 

Aware of the owls’ importance and decline, earlier this year Smithers became N’kwala School’s annual student ambassador to a regional burrowing owl recovery program that’s being led by the First Nation. 

As ambassador, he was invited to be the first person of the year to release a captive-born burrowing owl into the wild on April 22, in his home community of spax̌mn (Douglas Lake) in B.C.’s Nicola Valley.

The release, which coincided with Earth Day, marked 10 years since Upper Nicola Band began releasing captive-born burrowing owls onto their homelands.

In return, those captive-raised owls have produced 125 “wild-born” baby owls — or fledglings — since being released from the community’s restoration site.  

Despite high winds and the risk of ticks, dozens of excited people from all age groups turned out in high spirits for the release. 

Students, nature enthusiasts and Elders alike shared laughs and smiles at the sight of the precious birds, with their round heads, short stature and long legs.

Framed by grassy hills, Smithers released the owl under the warm sunshine with the help of Dawn Brodie, one of the main field technicians who has been involved in the program since its inception.

The nervous bird nearly escaped from his grasp and into the open air. But thanks to the quick reflexes of the adults around him, helping hands connect the captive-born owl back to the land and down an artificial nesting burrow that had been prepared by the Upper Nicola Band stewardship department.

“Soft” is the word Smithers used to describe the feeling of holding the owl. 

Soon after, several guests in attendance – from program partners to youth and Elders – were invited by the field technicians to release an owl down different burrows that were created by the recovery program and its partners.

Some of the owls wore amusingly bewildered expressions as they waited in the gentle grasp of human hands before being placed into a burrow.

In total, 11 captive-born owls — six males and five females — were released into five of the site’s 35 artificial burrows that day. They are all just under one year old.

“The program has exceeded all our expectations,” Loretta Holmes, an Upper Nicola Band member and senior resource technician with the band’s stewardship department, said.

“The owls, which we call sq̓əq̓axʷ, have responded better than we dared to hope ten years ago. And community interest and involvement has been strong since the start.”

Owls released into artificial burrows filled with frozen mice

The tiny burrows are connected through a network of underground tunnels hidden under the grassland hills above spax̌mn. 

Each artificial burrow consists of a small, corrugated tube in the ground that serves as its entrance, which feeds into the larger network of tunnels. The entry points are camouflaged in the field by grass and large rocks. 

Before any captive-raised owls are released, handfuls of frozen mice are inserted into the burrows and tunnels.

“That helps them not have to go as far to hunt as often. It encourages them to lay more eggs, and helps them rear their young ones when they’re hatched,” Holmes said.

Once released, the burrow entrances are closed off for a few days, explained Chris Gill, a project biologist with the band’s Species-At-Risk program.

“It’s to let them acclimatize and calm down, basically. And potentially bond with the mate that’s in there,” Gill said.

Breeding gets underway as soon as two owls choose each other as mates, and Gill said that eggs are laid in June.

The burrow tunnels, which protect the owls from predators, are connected to a nest box. The nest box has an opening at ground level, allowing technicians to observe how many eggs have been laid and monitor activity. 

Technicians also attach leg bands to the newly-hatched birds here, to track future migration.

Mice are also delivered to the burrows two to three times a week. Holmes said that this type of care results in nests that carry nine to 10 eggs — more than the average of six to eight laid by burrowing owls in the wild.

The mice are “giving them a big head start and maximizing the chances of producing healthy fledglings, and healthy parents as well,” Gill said.

The owls stay in the site’s burrow network anywhere from four days to up to a week, depending on weather conditions, and are then free to fly around in the open air.

“They mostly stick at the site, even after you release them out of the burrow, because they’re now used to the site,” Gill said.

“They may have paired up, or they may choose another mate from the site.”

By July, fledglings will start to emerge from the burrows, and the owls usually start to migrate south in September and October. They’ll return to the breeding sites next April.

Tracked migration data from burrowing owls who left the site in previous years revealed that the birds travel as far as San Jose, California.

“It’s just so amazing that they went all the way somewhere, wintered in those conditions and came back,” Holmes said. 

“It’s wonderful.”

Owl recovery “one piece of a larger puzzle” in restoring ecosystem health

In the last decade, more than 100 burrowing owls have been raised in captivity at the Kamloops Wildlife Park by the Burrowing Owl Conservation Society, before being released at spax̌mn. There’s a site in Oliver that supports the program as well.

The captive-raised owls all come with identification tags on their legs, which are documented by field technicians before they are released into the burrows.

Many of the 120-plus wild-born owls have left the Upper Nicola Band site and returned, including four who came back this spring; two males and two females, three of which were born at the site last year.

While the conservation efforts are helping to re-populate the burrowing owl species in this part of the country, Upper Nicola Band views this work as only one piece of the larger puzzle of how to protect the community’s rare and sensitive grassland ecosystem habitats. 

By stewarding these ecosystems — and restoring and supporting the biodiversity that has been depleted — it’s also an act by the band to protect their cultural identity and fulfill generational responsibilities around caring for the land and for all living things.

“Conserving a species at risk, like a burrowing owl, it’s about far more than a single bird or species. It’s about upholding relationships, responsibilities and balance with the living world,” Holmes said.

Animals like the burrowing owl are part of an interconnected system that has sustained Indigenous Peoples for generations, she said.

“If one species declines, it signals that the relationship between people and the land is out of balance. Conservation becomes an act of restoring harmony and respect in that system,” she said.

“Protecting species at risk aligns with Indigenous laws that emphasize caretaking. Conservation efforts honour the principle that decisions made today must ensure the healthy lands and wildlife for our relatives yet to come.”

It’s just one of many projects under the community’s stewardship department’s larger Species-At-Risk program, which is designed to protect and restore endangered species populations on their lands.

The program also looks at restoration efforts for species including the American badger, Lewis’s woodpecker and Great Basin spadefoot — all of which have been federally recognized as threatened or at-risk. 

Penticton Indian Band — a fellow syilx community that’s under the Okanagan Nation Alliance (ONA) along with Upper Nicola Band — also released burrowing owls through their own similar program that same week.

“In British Columbia, burrowing owls are extirpated. That means that they’re not actually existing on the landscape without reintroduction programs, like the Upper Nicola Band’s,” Gill said. 

But Traditional Ecological Knowledge gathered from Elders and advisors confirmed that burrowing owls historically existed on the spax̌mn landscape.

In 2015, a year before the burrowing owl recovery program launched, the Species-At-Risk team conducted surveys on reserve lands to determine a suitable habitat for the birds. 

They settled on the grasslands above the Upper Nicola Band community as the reintroduction program’s site.

“We found suitable habitat for burrowing owls — but no burrowing owls present,” said Gill.

The birds traditionally nested in the underground burrows that were dug and abandoned by different animals, from badgers to marmots and coyotes, he said.

But because of a lack of badgers, there weren’t any natural burrows out on the land.

“That’s why the Upper Nicola Band put in these artificial burrows,” he said.

“There are actually badgers on that reserve, but there are very few — and far in-between — so we can’t rely on a burrowing owl finding a badger burrow.”

According to the province, “several small” burrowing owl nesting sites were identified in the Okanagan and Thompson valleys from 1900 to 1928. 

Historical nesting areas include Osoyoos, Oliver, Penticton, White Lake, Lower Similkameen Valley, Vernon, Kamloops and Douglas Lake.

But between 1928 and 1980, only four nesting sites were recorded.

The federal government attributed the “conversion of grassland to cropland” as the “ultimate factor responsible for the decline in burrowing owls.” It estimates that the species experienced a 90 per cent population decline from 1990 to 2000.

Also contributing to the owl’s population decline is the “gauntlet” of issues they face on their migration route, Holmes said.

This includes fatalities occurring from collisions with wind turbine farms and motor vehicles. Pesticides targeting insects and rodents that the birds feed upon indirectly poison them as well. 

In 2004, the estimated population of burrowing owls in Canada was recorded at 795 mature individuals. In 2015, it had plunged to approximately 270. 

Burrowing owl populations are “in a nose dive,” Gill said.

He called the burrowing owl “a canary in a coal mine” in measuring the state of ecosystem health.

“A badger, a burrowing owl — those species are the indicator species. If they’re not doing well, then that’s a sign of something bigger that’s not doing well,” he said.

Upper Nicola Band’s grassland ecosystem is “incredibly resilient,” but grasslands across Canada are critically endangered 

Along with Holmes and Brodie, Gill helped initiate the burrowing owl reintroduction program 10 years ago. He called the two women “the work horses” of the program.

“We monitor the owls, and write really good data collection on it,” said Brodie, a veterinary technician who supports the program as a burrowing owl consultant.

The program has been a success, Gill said, not just because of the region’s “great grasslands.”

“But it’s also the stewardship that’s going on with these owls,” he said.

“It’s one of the most productive sites in B.C. for releasing our fledging owls.”

In the wild, burrowing owls can live anywhere from four to six years, according to Lauren Meads, the executive director of the Burrowing Owl Conservation Society of BC. 

Meads, who was joined at the release event by the society’s 11-year-old educational burrowing owl, Pluto, added that in captivity they can live up to 15 years.

According to the Government of B.C., grasslands made up less than one percent of the province’s land area in 2004, adding that “only a small percentage of our grasslands are protected.”

But grasslands surrounding the Upper Nicola landscape are “some of the most intact and incredibly resilient grasslands” Gill has observed, he said.

“Grasslands are one of the most endangered ecosystems in Canada. … They’re very, very rare. It looks like we have a lot, but this is one little spot,” he said.

Holmes added that protecting grasslands also protects the burrowing owls. 

“That’s their home. It works hand-in-hand,” she said.

Owl conservation, protection is a cultural responsibility 

Holmes said that the burrowing owl’s population decline and status as an endangered species is not just an ecological matter, but a cultural issue as well. 

sq̓əq̓axʷ are a “symbol of our cultural identity,” she said.

“Owls can be messengers, teachers or indicators in an Indigenous knowledge system. They’re often associated with observation, protections and indicators of change.”

The loss of burrowing owls “erodes the stories, the teachings and our ways of understanding the land that has been passed down through generations,” she added.

Upper Nicola Chief Dan Manuel said in a statement that burrowing owls are deeply woven into syilx culture.

“For our people, the cultural, spiritual and environmental importance of sq̓əq̓axʷ are one,” Manuel said.

“Our culture is rooted in co-existence with the world around us. We have a responsibility to care for the land and the beings on it. We must help rebuild what has been lost, and it will continue to support us.”

Holmes said that having a dedicated conservation program fulfills those duties that are owed to the land and to all living beings. 

“It treats our relatives with respect,” she said.

“The land, the animals, the plants — everything that’s there — provides us with sustenance. So it’s our responsibility to take care of them as well. We see all those things as our relatives.”

She emphasized that Indigenous Peoples have inherent responsibilities as stewards of their territories — responsibilities that originate in syilx laws, teachings and oral traditions, also known as captikʷł. 

“That predates colonial conservation frameworks,” she said.

Upper Nicola Band Elder Casey Holmes thanked all the staff and volunteers involved in the community’s stewardship program, especially for their work in supporting the restoration of the burrowing owl population.

“People are making a difference. Even if it doesn’t look like a difference, they made a difference today, to make this a success – to make this a part of history that we’re not losing,” said Casey.

When the community loses a tmixʷ (all living things) relative, Casey said that “we lose a part of history.”

“Bringing back this, is regaining back that history,” he said.

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Summary

• Indigenous women in B.C. are leading projects and organizations committed to mitigating wildfire risk and restoring traditional practices. 
• Cultural burns are making a comeback in the province, thanks to years of advocacy from Indigenous firekeepers.
• First Nations women in the province’s Interior are decolonizing fire management through their work.

In 2017 Jaci Gilbert was 12 years old when she was evacuated from Tsq’escen’ First Nation because of a wildfire. Four years later, more wildfires impacted her community, located in B.C.’s central interior, prompting some Elders to be evacuated to the Lower Mainland.

Gilbert, who is Secwépemc and Tsilhqot’in, volunteered both at the emergency operations centre during the partial evacuation in 2021, and as a fire camp logistics assistant near 100 Mile House during those fires.

“After being involved in the emergency operations centre I caught the bug of wanting to do emergency and wildfire management,” Gilbert told The Narwhal.

Gilbert works for First Nations Emergency Services Society as a cultural and prescribed fire specialist. She is part of a cohort of First Nations women in B.C. who are leading the way in wildfire management in their communities — demonstrating leadership and stewardship as blazes continue each year.

Being a young person, and a woman, Gilbert struggled to get into the field of emergency management, but reaching out to organizations and women in the field is a good place to start, she said.

“Youth have been managing emergencies in their personal lives for a long time, especially Indigenous youth, so using these skills I developed on reserve I’m able to handle [emergencies] well, whereas with a typical office or customer service job I don’t handle [those] very well,” Gilbert said.

“We’re seeing a shift in dynamics. I’m noticing a lot more Indigenous women in fire research and in the fire community.”

Indigenous firefighters bring cultural knowledge to their work

Sheresa Brown, a Nlaka’pamux woman from Lytton First Nation, has been involved with fire since firefighting in high school. Brown works as a field technician and archaeological monitor with Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council, specializing in protecting cultural heritage values.

After her hometown Lytton, B.C., was devastated by fire in 2021, Brown evacuated to Merritt and was looking for a job when she called her former boss from the BC Wildfire Service. 

Back on the frontlines, Brown noticed a crew member cut down a culturally modified tree in Vernon, commonly referred to as a CMT, to clear a pathway for a hose. 

“[First Nations] make that [symbol on the tree] so they can come back to harvest the sap, they can use it to make different types of medicines. And it was a very utilized tree that just got cut down,” Brown told The Narwhal.

She recommended scanning for culturally modified trees before clearing to her crew lead, who received it well. A year later Brown was deployed on another fire near Lytton, teaching BC Wildfire Service crews about the land’s cultural values.

She said she’s willing to take people on the land if they are willing to learn and be respectful, noting that sometimes people do not know they are in a culturally significant area, especially when firefighters are deployed from another province or country. 

“I know if a man can do it, I can do it too, and probably even better,” Brown said, reflecting on her experience being a First Nations woman in the fire industry.

Bringing back cultural burns

Brown and Gilbert are carrying the torch lit by trailblazers in the field like Leona Antoine, who has 30 years of experience. Antoine is a Nlaka’pamux woman who is no stranger to cultural burning or firefighting. 

She practices traditional burning, is a registered forest technologist, a Type 1 (or first-response) firefighter with the BC Wildfire Service, and is a board director and chair of the Salish Fire Keepers Society. 

When Antoine’s firefighting journey with the BC Wildfire Service began in the early 2000s, she was one of few women on a 20-person unit crew. 

“Because there were no women on the crews before, they didn’t know how to have a woman around,” Antoine told The Narwhal.  

“It took probably about a month for the crew to get used to women being on the crew. You know, putting all the women’s posters and magazines away,” she said. 

Although men on the crew were initially uncomfortable around women, and had to be taught boundaries, “I broke those barriers,” she said. 

Another barrier at the time was getting the province and general public to see the value of cultural burning. B.C. was the first province in Canada to ban the practice in 1874.

After a year of devastating fire in 2017, and following the release of a report Addressing the New Normal: 21st Century Disaster Management in British Columbia in 2018, cultural burns started being taken more seriously by the province, with official amendments to the Wildfire Act in B.C. to support the practice taking effect in 2024.

This is work that the Salish Fire Keepers Society has been advocating for since its inception in 2016. The non-profit is made up of Interior Salish nations who experience some of Canada’s hottest wildfires, and promotes the restoration of cultural burning practices.

Gilbert contributed to a cultural burning guide, Workbook to Create a Cultural Burn Pathway, made in partnership with the Indigenous Leadership Initiative. 

“As I’ve become more involved with emergency and wildfire management, cultural burning comes up a lot, especially as an Indigenous person that’s interested in Indigenous solutions to modern problems,” she said. 

First Nations Emergency Services Society is an emergency management non-profit organization in B.C. “We were initially created as a result of a lot of Indigenous deaths related to structural fires,” Gilbert said during her presentation at the Salish Fire Keepers Society gathering in Kamloops on Mar. 17. 

The workbook guides readers through different considerations when planning a cultural burn, and was created through a series of community interviews by Amy Cardinal Christianson and Natasha Caverley.

“My role in [its] creation has been trying to make sure that it’s accessible for First Nations. I’m not much on the technical side, I’m … looking at the art and how that can help tell the story for people without strong English backgrounds,” she said.

During the March 2026 gathering, Antoine and the rest of the society’s board gifted each guest speaker with sweetgrass and sage, two traditional medicines among many First Nation cultures across Canada. 

There were many women in attendance, underscoring how things are beginning to shift.

This is an initiative she championed. “We are taught by our Elders when you ask for information or stories, you validate their teachings and what … they have taught. You honour them with medicine,” she said.

Prioritizing traditional protocols, ceremony, and medicine at this year’s fire gathering is an example of how Antoine brings balance to the fire space.

Not only has she broken down barriers for women to come after her, she also creates opportunities for those in the fire industry to connect, heal, and share knowledge – work that can be forgotten for those in the heat of fire. 

Antoine said “we’re in fire dependent ecosystems, the land needs fire.”

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Summary

• A recent gathering of the Salish Fire Keepers Society brought together over 100 experts and community members to discuss the role of fire on Indigenous territories in Interior B.C.
• Over a century of fire suppression practices have left Interior B.C. vulnerable to catastrophic wildfires, like the one that destroyed Lytton in 2021.
• Indigenous firekeepers advocate for the use of cultural and prescribed fire to manage risks and restore balance to ecosystems.

In 2022, one year after wildfire tore through the Village of Lytton, a blaze broke out at the nearby Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage Provincial Park.

The site, co-managed by Lytton First Nation and the B.C. government,  contains pictographs, petroglyphs and culturally modified trees, along with more important cultural sites.

So the BC Wildfire Service called in Sheresa Brown, a 31-year-old Lytton First Nation member who works as a field technician and archaeology monitor with the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council. When fires happen near registered archaeological sites, Brown works with BC Wildfire Service crews and structural protection specialists to safeguard cultural heritage. 

“I was all for it,” Brown says. “But I wanted to do it in the right way.”

To avoid the pictographs washing away from firefighting efforts, Brown outlined a 75- to 100-metre buffer zone around the cultural site. 

Sprinklers were set up around the buffer zone, and crews watched as the sprinklers stopped the flames from reaching the pictographs.

“That really helped me confirm that this was a good idea,” she said.

In other wildfires, she has helped to determine which registered archaeological sites are within a fire’s boundaries and are along its projected path, directing crews where to work. For example, she will advise where heli-pads can be constructed to avoid cutting down culturally modified trees, and will guide where hoses can be laid to protect artifacts — such as arrowheads — on the ground.

“We make sure that everything is done in a very respectful way,” she said.

Brown was one of more than a dozen experts and technicians drawn from the realm of Indigenous fire stewardship — from researchers to Indigenous land managers and fire practitioners — who gave panel talks at the Salish Fire Keepers Society “Reigniting The Land” spring assembly on March 17 and 18. Around 100 people attended in-person in Tk’emlúps (also known as Kamloops, B.C.) in Secwepemcúl’ecw, with more tuning in virtually.

The panel discussions ranged from protecting cultural heritage sites and values in the event of wildfire, to the experiences of youth engaged in cultural burning and different approaches to land management post-wildfire. 

While honouring the work of their ancestors and the efforts by Indigenous firekeepers in recent decades, the gathering also gave insight into the role that Indigenous youth are having in the future of fire stewardship and emergency response.

Resources around building capacity for community-based fire stewardship and emergency response initiatives were also highlighted, and there was dialogue in bridging opportunity gaps between the BC Wildfire Service and Indigenous communities.

“We need to collaborate with our people. We need to share. We gotta look at those imaginary lines and get rid of those, and work together,” George Campbell, a Nlaka’pamux Nation member from the Boothroyd Indian Band, said. Campbell is a wildfire officer for the Fraser Fire Zone with the BC Wildfire Service.

Fire Keepers Society brings Indigenous nations together to share knowledge, experiences

Comprised of Elders, youth, Knowledge Holders and firekeepers from Salish communities — including the Nlakaʼpamux, syilx, Secwepemc and Stʼatʼimc Nations — the Fire Keepers Society is a grassroots initiative that started in 2016 as a means to promote awareness around culturally prescribed burns throughout the province.

The society annually hosts a spring and fall gathering, where they aim to build connections between Indigenous nations by sharing knowledge, and promoting and supporting fire stewardship opportunities in different communities.

“We as nations, need to be working together,” Tiffany Traverse, a Secwepemc Nation member who serves as one of the society’s board of directors, said.

“We have shared territories. We have shared family members and family lineages.”

Fellow board director Darian Edwards, a Stʼatʼimc Nation member from Tsʼkwʼaylaxw First Nation, said that the society is looking to build support and create opportunities for Indigenous youth around fire stewardship initiatives in their respective communities.

“Youth are going to be taking over the work. They are going to be stewarding our lands after us,” Edwards said.

A century of fire suppression

Before settler colonialism outlawed the use of fire on the land through legislation such as the provincial Bush Fire Act of 1874, Interior Salish Nations had been prescribing fire to the land for thousands of years. 

Burn cycles were designed to nurture certain landscapes and ecosystems, often to sustain diversity for hunting areas and to promote the growth of berries and medicinal plants — which all supported various ceremonial purposes.

This work of regular burning ultimately helped to maintain the ecological health of the land by limiting overgrowth and mitigating fuels.

However, settlers and their rapid fire suppression practices effectively removed fire from the ecosystem in the last century. This has resulted in the spread of trees across landscapes that were not historically forested, all of which has led to the accumulation of wildfire fuels and debris across landscapes.

“Those managing forestry are not aware of the historical ecology of our lands and how they were changed through a century of fire suppression and how they were afforested,” Jennifer Grenz, a Lytton First Nation member who is a restoration ecologist and assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, said.

In the past, she noted, “so much of our territories didn’t have trees all over them.”

“They were not meant to be these high-density, single or two-species tree plantations that they were transformed into,” she said.

Grenz made the comments during her panel presentation on the restoration work she conducted following the 2021 McKay Creek wildfire that broke out near Lilloet in St’at’imc territory.

Last summer, four years after the fire, she and a team of researchers found that burned landscapes are at risk of invasion by fast-growing, fire-prone invasive species of grasses.

However, they also identified historic berry-gathering areas that had once been cultivated and maintained by Indigenous people. 

These sites were sprouting in locations that were impacted by the fire, and did not see any human intervention efforts post-fire.

“Several areas have managed to survive being forested for tree plantations and these mega-fires to remind us of these very large areas that people created — that our people created,” she said.

While many of these areas are recovering on their own post-fire, she noted that “those are the first places that we’re seeing tree planting occurring.”

“The provincial government is going in and planting on top of these areas,” she said.

“This is where I really feel like there’s a really important piece for us to take back greater territorial land management, and find these areas and assert them, as these are our historic berry-gathering areas, food areas. And we don’t want to find trees planted on top of them.”

Grenz said that Indigenous communities know that the mega-fires of today “are not our fires.”

“This is just a totally different level of trying to figure out what to do next,” she said.

‘It’s really important to expose our youth to this work in a good way’

During a panel discussion led by three Indigenous youth, Skuppah Indian Band member Amber Wilber from the Nlaka’pamux Nation said that there’s a lot of trauma in her community around fire, especially among youth.

Skuppah Indian Band is located just two kilometres south of the Village of Lytton, which was the site of a devastating wildfire that swept through the area in 2021 and burned down 90 per cent of the village. Nearly five years after the fire, communities in the area, such as Lytton First Nation, are still in the process of rebuilding their homes and infrastructure.

“I’d love to see that fear of fire shift to a respect for fire — learning that fire can be a tool that we can use to manage our land, and help bring balance to it, instead of something to be feared,” Wilber, who is in her second year working with BC Wildfire Service, said.

Wilber said growing up, she used to watch from inside her family home as her dad and grandpa burned patches of land outside to support berry harvesting. She would later help her uncle with fuel management work — it was her uncle who taught her that the practice is “an important tool that brings balance to the ecosystem.”

“Not only when it comes to fire prevention and fire management, but also, creating balance in an ecosystem for birds, for elk as well, in our local area. Making way for them to travel through our forests, and giving birds good nesting places,” Wilber explained.

“We also use fuel management and cultural burning in our area as a way to knock down the tick population, because they can be quite pesty in the spring.”

She described this experience as a young person practising and revitalizing fire stewardship knowledge in her community as “eye-opening.”

“It’s really ignited a connection to the land in a way that I don’t think I ever would’ve gotten anywhere else,” she said. 

“It’s very unique, and it makes me have a lot of appreciation for traditions and cultures. It makes me feel connected to my ancestors in a big way.”

She advised Indigenous youth to get involved in cultural burning “in any way you can” — from listening to family members, to seeking out firekeepers in their communities. 

For the more seasoned firekeepers in the room, she encouraged them to involve their youth in burns, no matter the size of the fire. 

“Bring them out, even if it’s just a small job,” she said. 

“It’s really important to expose our youth to this work in a good way. And let them see your mistakes as well. … Later on, they’ll have that experience, too. They’ll have more grace for you and understanding. It’ll help them feel a little more humanized as well.”

A workbook to educate on cultural burns

Last summer, the First Nations’ Emergency Services Society (FNESS) and the Indigenous Leadership Initiative (ILI) released their “Worksheets To Create A Cultural Burn Pathway” workbook, which is both a physical and digital resource designed to guide Indigenous Nations in creating cultural burn programs within their community.

The workbook is the product of multi-years of community based-research, where more than 50 Elders and Knowledge Keepers were consulted, with additional input coming from gatherings and workshops.

Jaci Gilbert, a prescribed fire specialist with FNESS from the Secwépemc and Tsilhqot’in Nations, contributed to the workbook and gave a presentation about it during the Fire Keepers’ gathering.

“The aim of the workbook is to help nations navigate cultural burning with the impacts of climate change. We are not seeing the indicators that we’re used to, or seeing them at different times that don’t align with our burn windows,” Gilbert said.

“We hope that this workbook will help nations do burning in this new time.”

The workbook is divided into seven worksheets. The ILI, however, recognizes on their website that, “cultural fire is culture and location specific. So instead of a prescriptive approach, each worksheet poses a set of questions and prompts that can be answered collectively.”

Amy Cardinal Christianson, a Cree-Métis senior fire advisor for the Indigenous Leadership Initiative, helped lead the development of the workbook. 

She appeared virtually at the gathering, and said that the workbook has been used by Indigenous land guardian programs, such as the Kainai Nation’s (Blood Tribe) fire guardian program.

“It’s a really easy resource to use for communities. It also talks a lot about the importance of governance,” Christianson said.

She said that Indigenous fire stewardship is not just limited to culturally prescribed burns.

“Yes, culturally burning — but it can also be firefighting, emergency response, post-fire recovery,” she said.

“It’s any activity where Indigenous people are asserting their jurisdiction and exercising their rights related to fire on the land.”

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Summary

• Every three years, the Labrador Winter Games draws athletes from communities across the region to Happy Valley-Goose Bay to compete in events that reflect Labrador’s distinct culture and history, like snowshoe biathlon and dog team races.
• Several athletes in the 2026 games found increasingly volatile winter conditions — which swung between severe cold and sudden warmth — are impacting how they train.
• A climatologist at Environment and Climate Change Canada says climate change is a contributing factor in unpredictable winter temperatures.

Sherri Wolfrey has competed in the Labrador Winter Games for 10 times now — but this winter, she says extreme weather made training difficult. An experienced athlete training in her hometown of Rigolet, Nunatsiavut, she endured some weeks of temperatures plunging below -30 C with high winds. 

“Practicing was really hard on the lungs, like trying to chisel a hole [in the ice], and you gotta be fully dressed in extra layers,” Wolfrey, who competes the Labrathon, snowshoe biathlon and target shooting, says. But the following week might be too warm. 

“We had a few mild days when [the snow] was almost too sticky to go with snowshoes on, because it will stick to your moose hides,” Wolfrey explains. 

The Labrador Winter Games, held every three years, took place between March 8 and 14 in Happy Valley-Goose Bay. Events like snowshoe races, skiing and dog team races are all games that require athletes to compete in Labrador’s winter elements. But athletes from all across Labrador are voicing their concerns about the conditions they trained in leading up to the 2026 games. 

Wolfrey is a school secretary and mother to four children in Rigolet, located on the north coast about 160 kilometres from Happy Valley-Goose Bay. And she was also one of many athletes that experienced the cancellation of the Labrathon at the 2023 Labrador Winter Games. 

The E.J. Broomfield Memorial Labrathon is one of the main events that athletes and spectators look forward to. The race tests athletes’ ability to live like trappers once did, as they race in snowshoes while pulling a toboggan. Along the course, they must light a fire to boil a kettle, shoot five targets, set a trap and saw a log of wood and chisel a hole through the ice, before racing to the finish line with their toboggan full of tools.

But the board of directors for the 2023 games cancelled the Labrathon due to “unprecedented weather conditions” that raised safety issues.

Wolfrey says that the cancellation of the 2023 Labrathon was “so disappointing, especially after all that training.” She and a few other athletes participated in their own Labrathon to prove that it could be done in the weather. 

Athletes experience extreme temperature changes and high winds while training

Jessica Roberts, a returning athlete from Labrador City near the Quebec border, says she believes the adverse weather that impacted her training for the 2026 Labrador Winter Games was caused by climate change.

“This year was a bit challenging as we had temperatures over -20 to -25 degrees Celsius, with wind gusts up to 50 and 80 kilometres an hour,” Roberts says. “The last two weeks [before the games] most of us haven’t been able to train at all.”

Roberts competed in outdoor games such as the snowshoe relay race and individual female snowshoe race this year, and previously competed in the 2019 games. 

She’s used to Labrador winters, but the high winds were the culprit in stopping her from training for the 2026 games multiple times. 

“I can handle the cold, and you can dress for the cold, but like the wind — it just takes the absolute breath completely from you,” Roberts says. She adds the temperature changes were also challenging. “Sometimes you’d get -14 and then the next week you’d have like -43,” she says.

While Roberts experienced difficulty training in the weather for the outdoor games, she and her team won gold in the snowshoe relay race, and she finished fourth overall in the individual female snowshoe race.

With the harsher temperatures and high winds, Shane Winters, from the north coast community of Makkovik, Nunatsiavut, trained indoors on a treadmill, without snowshoes, for the running part of the snowshoe race. 

“It’s the hardest part about it,” Winters says. “It’s easy to run a fast 1.2 kilometre without snowshoes, but certainly when you put the snowshoes on, it’s 10 times harder.”

He previously competed in the 2023 Labrador Winter Games, and says recent winters have been highly variable, with some delivering little snow and others bringing too much snow. “It was hard to get a good track, hard to get a good routine” to train for the 2026 Labrador Winter Games, he says. 

But his team from Makkovik still brought home silver medals in the snowshoe relay race. 

The science behind the extreme weather changes

Bob Whitewood, a climatologist at Environment and Climate Change Canada, says climate change is contributing to the weather variability that Labrador Winter Games athletes have faced in recent years.

Whitewood’s work focuses on historical trends in temperatures and precipitation compared to recent climate data. 

“The major change that you’ll see is average temperatures going up, but what happens when average temperatures go up, there is this band of high winds that go across the northern part of the country,” he explains, which in turn pulls frigid cold air down from the Arctic. 

These are Rossby waves, or planetary waves: huge oceanic and atmospheric waves that occur naturally due to Earth’s rotation. Rossby waves affect the climate and weather. 

“If you have a lot of differential between temperatures in high north and lower latitudes, this jet stream of air is pretty straight across the country. But as the temperature goes up in the north, and kind of gets closer to the temperatures that you’re seeing in the south, that straight line becomes kind of a wavy line,” Whitewood says. 

As a result,the Rossby waves’ jet stream “pulls cold air from the Arctic, and then as this loop goes past you, it pulls warm air up from the south,” which Whitewood says creates a fluctuation in temperature, as Labradorian athletes experienced while training this past winter. 

Across Canada, Whitewood says, temperatures are generally getting warmer over time due to climate change. But in northern regions, like Labrador, the temperatures are changing more rapidly. Compared to historic winter temperatures over a 78-year reference period, Whitewood says the Labrador region was around three and a half degrees warmer than average. He predicts that the next winter will be warmer than average as well.

Snowmelt impacting Labrador Winter Games training

“We tried to train in all of the weather, it was just a bit more blustery this year than other years,” Nikki Brown-Dyson, a returning athlete from Cartwright, says. “There was a lot more water on the ice and everything at home.” 

Brown-Dyson is a mother of four and a paramedic. Her community of Cartwright is about 225 kilometres east of Happy Valley-Goose Bay, on the south coast of Labrador.

While she was training for the ice-chiselling part of the Labrathon, the snow would melt in unseasonably warm temperatures.

“Some people like the chisel hole with the water,” Brown-Dyson says. “I do not. I find it harder to see where you’re chiselling.”

Despite the challenges of training, she took home the gold medal for the 2026 Labrador Winter Games women’s Labrathon for the second straight time after her gold medal win in 2019.

Still, the 2023 cancellation of the Labrathon was in the back of Brown-Dyson’s mind while training for this year’s Labrador Winter Games. “I think it was just a fear [that] because it was cancelled before, it was gonna happen again.”

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

Summary

• Directional gatherings hosted by Indigenous Clean Energy strengthen relationships for Indigenous energy leaders across Canada.
• Indigenous communities are central to Canada’s energy transition, and renewable projects on reserves and traditional territories quadrupled between 2009 and 2020.
• Five gatherings hosted across Canada brought approximately 200 people together in different regions.

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When most people think of an energy conference in Canada, they probably imagine people dressed in suits, seated in rows of chairs under fluorescent lighting, looking at a PowerPoint presentation. 

Well, not this gathering. 

Indigenous Clean Energy’s directional gatherings are a special place in the energy industry. They prioritize wellness, time on the land with local Indigenous Elders and connecting with one another outside of panels or breakout sessions.

“For me it’s super important to make sure that we bring [wellness] forward, and make it normal for people when they are attending gatherings,” organizer Danika Crow told The Narwhal.

“With wellness you gotta make sure people are healthy, right? To focus on and build clean energy projects, [wellness] is one of our goals out of these gatherings,” she said.

Crow, who is from Big Grassy River First Nation in northwestern Ontario, is the wellness and gatherings manager for Indigenous Clean Energy, a non-profit organization that delivers capacity-building programs for Indigenous people and communities across Canada who are looking to develop energy projects.

“Past cohorts wanted more connection to the land, and more culture, so I think that’s what we brought them with the directional gatherings. Taking the whole day to … build connections with each other on the land, and to learn about the different territories we’re on and their culture,” Crow said.

Indigenous Clean Energy has hosted gatherings in five directions: Iqaluit, representing the north, Fredericton, representing the east, Manitoulin Island, Ont., representing the south, Nanaimo, B.C., representing the west, and Whitecap Dakota First Nation in Saskatchewan representing central Canada.

The gatherings reflect the growing visibility of Indigenous people in Canada’s energy transition. More than 90 per cent of privately owned clean energy projects in B.C., known as independent power producer projects, have Indigenous participation, either through full ownership, as equity partners or through royalty agreements.

And B.C. is not alone.

On its website, the federal government says “renewable energy projects on traditional Indigenous territory or reserve lands increased steadily since the 1970s, and more than quadrupled from 2009 to 2020.” 

Indigenous values a core part of directional gatherings, programming

At the Nanaimo gathering in late February, the days began with a smudging ceremony, a common practice for First Nations people, where traditional medicines are burned to create smoke that cleanses the energy of anything it touches. 

Crow says when Indigenous Clean Energy began looking for venues to host directional gatherings, it focused on Indigenous-owned spaces to ensure smudging could be part of programming, as many businesses do not permit smoke inside of their buildings.

Another unique cultural consideration was spending the entire first day of the gathering on the land with local Elder Dave Bodaly.

Bodaly, a member of Snuneymuxw First Nation on Vancouver Island, took participants to old village sites while sharing teachings about the land, traditional medicines and local animals.

“For our participants from the West Coast, [we wanted to] remind them of all the tools they have in their own region,” Crow said, noting that spending time on the land and in community can offer something not found in books. 

That sentiment holds true for Dakota Marsden, a participant at the Nanaimo directional gathering who has attended numerous Indigenous Clean Energy events in the past.

“I saw this program with Indigenous Clean Energy and I didn’t have any idea what to expect. It was called Generation Power. … I was part of the first cohort and started learning about what clean energy could be,” Marsden told The Narwhal. The Generation Power program employs Indigenous youth from across Canada in the energy sector, lasting from three to nine months, and paired with mentors in the field. 

She says what keeps her coming back to these events are the networking opportunities and the heavy emphasis on mentorship. Marsden travels to gatherings with her son Hawk, who turns two years old this month. 

“I find that Indigenous organizations are more open to little ones coming, right? I did start taking Hawk quite young into these spaces: he was two months old.”

“In the beginning I didn’t see any other babies, it was just Hawk. … At this gathering I saw a lot more babies and children. It was very nice to see that they’re being included in these gatherings and capacity-building programs,” she said. 

Participants find community at directional gatherings

Five years after the initial launch of the Generation Power program, Marsden still attends events all over the country with Indigenous Clean Energy, strengthening relationships and creating new ones. At the Nanaimo gathering, her only criticism was that she wanted more dedicated time to hear about everyone’s energy projects.

Marsden is employed as the lands manager in her nation, Pinaymootang First Nation in Manitoba, so she is used to energy projects coming across her desk. 

So far, her nation has installed level three electric-vehicle chargers — the fastest available — and solar panels at the local conference centre. The nation has also submitted a proposal to Manitoba Hydro to answer a call for 600 megawatts of wind-generated power. 

Marsden was initially not sure about clean energy, but the guidance and mentorship provided through Indigenous Clean Energy programming has been crucial in her journey.

She is one example of many who return to and find community at these events, as confirmed by the organization’s director of energy and climate Freddie Campbell, who is Michif from Ktunaxa Kinbasket territory in B.C., with her Métis family name coming from Lac La Biche, Alta. 

“We wanted to offer another opportunity to gather and really open that space for folks to have these conversations about what people are experiencing in their regions in terms of energy needs, gaps and future dreams,” Campbell told The Narwhal, emphasizing the importance of land-based programming. 

“It can be easy to get caught up or distracted in the colonial system that we are existing in, so I think that taking that time on the land really allows us to get back to that space of connection, to come together and dream about systems that are our own,” she said. 

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Dave Armstrong struggles to describe the smell that sometimes wafts onto his property just outside Dawson Creek, B.C. 

“It’s sharp, foul and it’s an oily smell, but not like a refined oil,” Armstrong says. “This has a real foul, strong odour and it’s not nice. It really irritates you fast.”He lives about one kilometre from an oil and gas waste disposal facility. Sometimes, the smell is just an unpleasant annoyance. Other days, he says, it’s much more.

“There are times where it will just be an instant headache when it hits,” Armstrong says. “And if it’s in the summertime and the windows are open in the house … it takes a long time to get that odour out.”

Brenda Delamont lives just down the road from Armstrong. She associates two distinct smells with the facility owned by Calgary-based Secure Waste Infrastructure Corp.

“One is like a burnt chemical and then one is like a sour, noxious smell,” Delamont says. “When the burnt smell is in the air, it doesn’t make your eyes water, but it kind of sticks in your mucous membranes and kind of irritates your throat.”

The facility began operating in 2010, the same year Delamont and her husband moved to their home just outside of Dawson Creek. Secure receives waste produced by the oil and gas industry, including contaminated water, drilling by-products and industrial sludge. The facility is licensed by B.C.’s Ministry of Environment and Parks and the BC Energy Regulator to handle a variety of hazardous waste products. Some waste — including contaminated water — is treated on site before being injected into underground wells. Other materials are sent for disposal at different facilities.

Before construction began, nearby residents say Secure told them smells from the facility wouldn’t be a problem; they’d build a “state of the art vapour collection and recovery system to ensure no fugitive emissions and prevent odours.” A letter Armstrong received from the company in May 2009 states the facility would use the collection and recovery system when receiving “sour liquid loads” — an industry term for liquid waste containing high levels of toxic chemicals. Secure’s letter specifically mentions hydrogen sulfide, a flammable and highly toxic gas that typically smells like rotten eggs.

Armstrong vividly remembers sitting down at his kitchen table with a representative from Secure while the facility was still in the planning stage.

“My concern was offsite odours and they said there would not be any,” he recalls. “And we have found out otherwise.”

Over the years, Armstrong and Delamont say they and their family members have made hundreds of calls to Secure, the Environment Ministry and the energy regulator to report strong chemical smells on their properties. Both say those smells only appear when the wind is blowing from the waste facility toward their homes.

After years of raising concerns, they are frustrated.

“We still don’t know what it’s from,” Delamont says. “We’ve never gotten an answer as to why you smell the smells, what the smells are from and how toxic or noxious they are over the long term or short term.”

After attempts to reach the company by phone went unanswered, The Narwhal sent detailed questions about Delamont and Armstrong’s concerns to Secure via the company’s online contact form and by email. In an emailed response, Secure said it “takes community concerns seriously and works closely” with provincial regulators. The BC Energy Regulator conducted 33 inspections of the facility in 2025, according to the company, and found no compliance issues.

“When concerns are raised, we investigate them and continue working with regulators and nearby residents to address them,” the company said.

In the Peace, oil and gas is ‘a fact of life’ but companies need to be good neighbours

You don’t have to drive far outside the town of Dawson Creek to enter farming country. Last August, combines churned across golden fields, kicking up dust and pulling in cereal crops. The southern slice of British Columbia’s Peace region — named for the Peace River that flows from the Rocky Mountains across the northern prairie and into Alberta — produces the majority of the province’s canola and grain crops. Almost one-third of all the farmland in the province is located in the Peace, where cattle and forage crops are also big business.

Armstrong is one of those farmers. He bought the property just outside of Dawson Creek in 1980 and moved up from the Fraser Valley in 1985 to begin building a hay farming operation from scratch. These days, he sells hay to customers from Alaska to Vancouver Island.

But farming isn’t the only big business in the area. Sprawling summer fields dotted with hay bales and buttressed by grain silos are also criss-crossed by pipelines and studded with well pads serving the oil and gas industry. Tanker trucks regularly traverse the highways that snake past sprawling gas plants with flame-tipped flares and lights that conjure the impression of a city skyline.

The Peace region is home to all of B.C.’s 4,700 active well sites. To receive and process waste products from the industry, the region also hosts 63 active disposal stations permitted by the BC Energy Regulator. Secure operates nine disposal stations in the Peace and another nine facilities permitted by the regulator.

The oil and gas industry and a love for rural life are what brought Delamont to the Peace. Her husband works in the industry and they live on a seven-acre property. She works as a chef at a local seniors’ home and spends much of her free time with her horses.

For many residents of the Peace, rural life and the oil and gas industry coexist quite well.

“It’s just part of living up here,” Delamont says. “Oil and gas is lots of times in your backyard.”

Well drilling can be a noisy business for nearby neighbours, with large vehicles coming and going, creating noise and dust. But once the drilling work is done, “it becomes just a quiet, small square, basically,” Delamont explains.

When issues do arise, she and Armstrong have both found the companies operating nearby wells are usually responsive to complaints.

“They’ve had a few flub-ups, but they deal with it right away,” Armstrong says. “They come and apologize and ask if there’s anything they can do and it usually doesn’t happen again.”

At first, the waste disposal facility operated by Secure seemed like just another aspect of the industry they were used to living with.

“It just didn’t seem like it was going to be that big of a problem,” Delamont says.

Authorities have made ‘feeble attempts’ to address residents’ concerns

When Secure’s waste disposal facility first opened its gate, it was a bright and noisy neighbour but not an especially bothersome one. Vacuum trucks would drive up — sometimes so many they would form a line stretching back to the road — pump out their loads of wastewater and leave. Dust, vehicle noise and the facility’s round-the-clock floodlights were a manageable annoyance.

In 2011, the BC Energy Regulator granted Secure a “major facility expansion,” allowing the company to increase the number of tanks used to store waste products and bring in new equipment to treat waste. The expansion also allowed the facility to build a flare stack, a vertical pipe system used to burn off waste gas. According to the BC Energy Regulator, residents within about three kilometres of the facility were notified of the change.

Odours became an issue a couple of years after the waste disposal facility started operating, according to Delamont and Armstrong. They say calls to Secure haven’t always yielded much of a response.

“Occasionally, Secure will say they are having something going on and that they will remedy it,” Delamont says. “It’ll get better for periods of time, but then the smells come back.” Secure did not directly respond to a question about its response to residents’ concerns.

When calls to the company failed to fix the issue, residents have called the BC Energy Regulator or the Ministry of Environment. But often, odours waft away or the wind direction changes, meaning incidents are over by the time inspectors arrive, residents say.

“We have had a couple of times where [a BC Energy Regulator employee] came out and went, ‘Yep, we can smell it.’ But then we still haven’t heard, what was that that we smelled?” Delamont says.

Armstrong’s calls to the regulators ebb and flow. Sometimes, he calls again and again. Others, the lacklustre or non-existent response gets him so frustrated he stops reporting the incidents at all.

Both he and Delamont have been left feeling that neither the ministry nor the regulator have much ability or interest in enforcing the rules they oversee.

“I get the impression of feeble attempts,” Armstrong says. 

In an email, the ministry reported receiving a total of 36 complaints about Secure’s waste disposal facility since 2017. The BC Energy Regulator says it “has taken sustained and escalating action to manage odour complaints associated with” the facility, including increasing the number of inspections and, in 2024, ordering Secure to identify and mitigate odours associated with its operations. According to the regulator, the company found multiple potential odour sources at its site, including from solid waste, processing and ventilation equipment, and trucks offloading waste products. In an emailed response to The Narwhal, the regulator said Secure’s report in response to the order confirmed “existing engineered and administrative controls are in place” and that the company had taken additional steps to mitigate odours. 

“There’s waste in every industry but how we deal with it is important,” Delamont says. “We like to say that Canadian energy is the cleanest and we have lots of regulations, but then you have a waste facility that seems to not be as regulated as you would expect.”

‘If you’re not being penalized for not following regulations, are you going to change?’

In June 2024, there was an explosion at the Secure facility in which two workers were injured. That October, the company was fined more than $42,000 by WorkSafe BC for failing to take precautions before proceeding with welding work near flammable chemicals. 

In December 2024, the Ministry of Environment and the BC Energy Regulator conducted a joint inspection of Secure’s waste disposal facility to determine whether Secure was complying with its permits and B.C.’s Hazardous Waste Regulation. Several Secure employees, including the facility manager, were on site.

The regulator seemed satisfied, issuing an inspection report in March 2025 that found Secure was complying with the relevant parts of the Energy Activities Act, which governs oil and gas and other energy-related industries.

The Environment Ministry on the other hand, was not as content. The same inspection led it to write a warning letter to the company outlining several compliance failures and incomplete paperwork. 

“Secure is not taking reasonable measures to identify all hazards associated with the hazardous waste” before proceeding with disposal, the Environment Ministry’s letter stated. 

The letter also noted the facility did not have an approved spill containment system or contingency plan and it was unclear if the plan for how to safely close the facility had been approved.

The facility’s groundwater monitoring program “fails to detect potential impacts to groundwater,” according to the letter, which notes issues dating back to 2011. Despite recommendations from the ministry, “Secure has not proposed an alternative program that determines if the groundwater has been affected by leakage or leachate,” putting it out of compliance with the Hazardous Waste Regulation. Since 2020, the facility’s annual reports have stated groundwater monitoring was not done because the wells it used to collect samples were dry, according to the ministry.

Documents show on two occasions, the Secure facility accepted tens of thousands of litres more toxic waste than its licence allowed — more than 50 times the 500-litre maximum. Secure did not respond to a question about these occurrences.

Another item on the warning letter raised questions about whether the company was complying with rules regarding emissions. Secure had decommissioned two pieces of equipment it was permitted to use to treat waste and installed two new boilers not authorized under its permit. The letter says ministry staff could not determine whether the new equipment complied with emissions regulations and directed the company to check and confirm.

The ministry did not issue a fine or other penalty for the equipment lacking permits. 

One year later, it’s unclear what steps the company has taken to bring its facility into compliance with provincial laws and regulations and clear up the murky paperwork. The company did not respond to questions about its response to the warning letter.

“Secure was instructed to verify their permit aligns with Hazardous Waste Regulation emission specifications,” the Environment Ministry said in a statement to The Narwhal. Because of last year’s findings, the facility “will be prioritized for reinspection in the next fiscal year.”

Armstrong can’t understand why provincial authorities have not taken more action to ensure a facility handling toxic waste is complying with all requirements under the law.

“If you’re not being penalized for not following regulations, are you going to change?”

Politicians say there’s no evidence anything is wrong with Secure’s operations

Disappointed and frustrated with the response from regulatory authorities and the company, Delamont, Armstrong and some of their neighbours have contacted their elected representatives about their concerns.

Local MLA Larry Neufeld is the BC Conservative Party’s critic for oil, gas and liquefied natural gas (LNG) and worked in the industry for decades. 

“I have met with the company on numerous occasions, I’ve met with the landowners on numerous occasions and I know that there are significant mitigation efforts and measures in place,” he says. “That being said, I’m not discounting the concerns from the landowners.”

Neufeld called the situation “very unfortunate,” adding that — like Armstrong and Delamont — he has found most companies working in the Peace region’s oil and gas sector are responsive to residents’ concerns.

In its email to The Narwhal, Secure included documents outlining actions “to mitigate odour concerns” at the facility, such as installing additional equipment, filters and deodorizing materials. On June 1, 2025, the company said it installed new infrastructure to capture vapour from part of its site and send it to a unit designed to neutralize odours. After receiving an odour complaint in October 2025, the company said it investigated and concluded the smell was related to a product being used to clean concrete at the site because that work was being done at the time the complaint was made. “Secure immediately acted and switched suppliers of the degreaser to a less odourous product,” the company wrote.

Secure’s efforts to address residents’ concerns also included offering to install an air-quality monitor on Delamont’s property to measure methane, hydrogen sulfide, volatile organic compounds, wind direction and temperature, Neufeld noted — an offer her household declined.Armstrong did accept an air-quality monitor from the company several years ago. He periodically checks the data collected online and doesn’t think it’s been working properly.

“It was not picking up anything other than wind direction,” he told The Narwhal. “The sensors for picking up carbon dioxide and sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide were just flat lines, so I knew they weren’t working.”

Part of the problem, he says, is that it isn’t maintained. After Secure installed it about six years ago, he does not recall it being checked by the company until earlier this year.

“I have worked in the oil field myself and worn personal air monitors and they have to be calibrated and bump-checked every day,” Armstrong says. 

The company did not respond to questions about Armstrong’s concerns about the air quality monitor on his property, but did say that air quality testing conducted by a third party at the facility found concentrations of volatile organic compounds, benzene and hydrogen sulphide were “below applicable regulatory and health-based guidelines.”

Armstrong says he appreciates that Neufeld will listen, even if the conversations have yet to result in much action. He’s less appreciative of the way Energy Minister Adrian Dix responded to a letter he, Delamont and several of their neighbours sent late last year.Dix’s letter acknowledges residents’ concerns, which the minister said he discussed with Neufeld in early December 2025. It also outlines the BC Energy Regulator’s “comprehensive compliance approach” to the facility, which the letter says includes enhanced weekly inspections focused “specifically on odour-related concerns.”

“The province remains committed to ensuring that industrial activity does not compromise public health or rural livelihoods,” Dix wrote. “We will continue working in close collaboration with the BC Energy Regulator to maintain robust oversight and ensure ongoing regulatory compliance.”

“It was a political response, in my opinion — didn’t really say much,” Armstrong says.

The minister’s letter was copied to the regulator’s chief executive officer and commissioner Michelle Carr, with directions to respond to specific issues outlined in the letter from residents. 

“When you’re concerned about something and everybody else around you seems to be like, ‘Well, no, it’s not that big of a deal,’ that causes undue stress,” Delamont says.

‘I don’t know where I would go’

After years of calls and letters, Delamont and Armstrong want B.C. authorities to answer one big question about Secure’s waste disposal operation: What are we smelling?

“It’s frustrating not knowing what’s in those emissions,” Armstrong agrees. “If it gives you a wicked headache, it can’t be good for you, in my opinion.”

While neither has been told to evacuate as a result of Secure’s operations, both Delamont and Armstrong say their families have chosen to leave their homes on occasions where the smells have been especially intense. Both worry about the effect the odours — and whatever chemicals or chemical reactions cause them — may be having on their horses and other animals, which aren’t easy to move.

After receiving an initial response from Secure, The Narwhal followed up with detailed questions, including about what it is that the residents are smelling. Secure did not respond with this information.

“Secure remains committed to responsible operations and to working constructively with regulators and community members regarding the ongoing operation of the facility,” a representative from the company said via email. 

Armstrong has considered leaving the home and business he built from the ground up. “It’s crossed my mind, but the thought of starting over … I don’t know where I would go,” he says. “But you wonder what your health is doing too. I’m torn on that one, and it’s frustrating.”

Delamont and her husband have also considered leaving the property where they once planned to spend their retirement years. Their enjoyment of the wide-open spaces has been marred.

“We’ve thought recently about moving, trying to find somewhere away from Secure that we can relax a little bit more and not worry about our health and surroundings,” she says. “It’s supposed to be, ‘Oh, you live in the country, you get to breathe fresh air!’ Not always.” 

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

Summary

• The Rainbow, Jordan and Frisby valleys in British Columbia’s rare inland temperate rainforest are home to endangered species and ancient trees.
• Two logging companies hold licences to log in the old-growth valleys, while the government agency BC Timber Sales has operating areas there.
• A 2019 proposal to permanently protect 10,500 hectares in the three valleys as a provincial park has gained renewed interest as Revelstoke city council announced in February that it supports increased conservation of the critically endangered inland temperate rainforest.

We’re trying out staff-written summaries. Did you find this useful? YesNo

Toby Spribille trickles water onto a rare dark grey lichen that looks like a crumpled piece of paper someone set on fire and left to smoulder. It’s a bright summer day in the Rainbow Valley rainforest, in British Columbia’s southern interior. Sunbeams slant through ancient cedar trees as tall as 20-storey buildings. Moss unfurls across the forest floor like bright green shag carpet. But the small, shrivelled lichen on a stunted hemlock tree is what Spribille, a scientist, is eager to show us: smoker’s lung lichen. “It looks a little bit like the pictures on the warning packages of cigarettes,” he says with dark humour, noting the lung lichen is perfectly healthy even though it’s almost black.

As Spribille mimics rainy weather with his water bottle, the lichen begins to uncrumple, as if it’s waking up and stretching. Despite its name, smoker’s lung lichen thrives only when the air is pure. Spribille is amazed to find the lichen, which is at risk of extinction in Canada and other countries, so far south. He peers at the lichen’s underside: ashy black with irregular white polka dots. The specimen, he declares, is “utterly spectacular.”

Spribille, who teaches at the University of Alberta in Edmonton, is one of the world’s leading lichenologists. He’s tall and sturdy, with a greyish blonde ponytail, black-rimmed glasses and the authoritative enthusiasm of David Attenborough narrating a film. Late one night in 2017, Spribille had been surfing Google Earth the way some people binge Netflix. For hours, he searched for somewhere he could study lichens in B.C.’s globally rare inland temperate rainforest. Lying in scattered valleys in the Columbia and Rocky mountains, the rainforest is home to trees more than 1,000 years old and harbours an extraordinary diversity of species, including the world’s only deep-snow caribou. 

But all Spribille saw in valley after valley were checkerboards of logging clearcuts and fragments of forest too small to support many sensitive species.

Then his cursor landed on a dark green U-shaped valley about 40 kilometres north of Revelstoke, B.C., a resource and tourism town in the Columbia Mountains. As Spribille zoomed in, he saw the trees had conspicuously large crowns; he guessed they were cedars at least half a century old. Silvery streams meandered through the valley, which had no clearcuts and no roads. “Oh my word, this must be quite the valley,” he remembers thinking. “I just couldn’t believe it.” The valleys on each side, folded into the mountains like green origami, were also unlogged and unloaded, a rarity in a landscape fractured by decades of industrial forestry.

The discovery of three adjacent intact old-growth valleys has led to increasing calls to halt logging and protect the area once and for all. For Spribille and others, it’s clear the valleys are utterly unique.

When Spribille and other biologists took a small motor boat across the Revelstoke hydro-electric reservoir the following year and hiked into two of the valleys, Rainbow and Frisby, they found ancient forests so luxuriant they seemed to be from primeval times. Grove after grove of enormous red cedar trees stretched unbroken for kilometres. Seas of feathery ferns lapped at their waists. Supersized skunk cabbage leaves brushed their chests and thickets of spiky devil’s club towered over their heads.

Streams fed by mountain icefields cooled and moistened the valleys, boosting biological diversity. One mycologist found 112 species of mushrooms in the Frisby Valley — in just five hours. On a single trip, a botanist documented 49 species of mosses and 182 species of vascular plants. Biologists found habitat suitable for two dozen bird, reptile and mammal species at risk of extinction — wolverine, grizzly bear, short-eared owl and western painted turtle among them. 

Spribille and a colleague documented hundreds of lichen species, including rare and at-risk species with evocative names like Methuselah’s beard and cryptic paw. “We also found species new to science,” Spribille says. “They haven’t been named yet.”

Spribille’s latest research trip to the Rainbow Valley, in July 2023, was organized by the Valhalla Wilderness Society, a non-profit group that aims to protect Canada’s vanishing inland temperate rainforest and its wildlife. These incredibly rare rainforests grow far from the ocean and exist in only three places on the planet: Russia’s far east, southern Siberia and here, in British Columbia.

In 2019, Valhalla put together a proposal to permanently protect 10,500 hectares of rare and undisturbed ecosystems in the Rainbow Valley and adjacent Frisby and Jordan valleys as a provincial park. But the inland temperate rainforest valleys, which sit on Crown land, remain unprotected and are open to industrial logging.

Two forestry companies, Downie Timber Ltd. and Stella-Jones Inc., hold operating licences in the valleys, according to the B.C. forests ministry. The provincial government agency BC Timber Sales, which manages about one-fifth of the province’s allowable cut, also has operating areas in the three valleys. 

Neither of the forestry companies responded to The Narwhal’s emails and phone calls, while the B.C. Forests Ministry says there are no plans for BC Timber Sales to log “at this time,” with both private and government-run operations currently avoiding harvesting here. 

But the ministry also says the province has not recommended the three valleys for park protection. That’s led to a renewed push to protect the area. 

“I cannot single-handedly influence British Columbia forest policy,” Spribille says, adding he doesn’t see that as his job as a scientist. “But one of the things I can do is highlight areas where there are jewels still intact.” The Rainbow and Frisby valleys are two such ecological gems, he says. “There’s no reason on earth why we should go in and log.”

Spribille says it’s likely rare and endangered lichens, and possibly species new to science, will also be found in the Jordan Valley. Satellite imagery shows the Jordan Valley has the same attributes as Frisby and Rainbow; it’s cooled by icefields, has large tree tops indicative of ancient trees and is unlogged and almost entirely unroaded. But unlike Rainbow and Frisby, which scientists can easily hike into from the Revelstoke reservoir, the Jordan Valley’s old-growth inland temperate rainforest is hard to access.

While provincial support to protect the region remains elusive, Valhalla’s efforts were recently given a boost by Revelstoke city council, which passed a resolution in February pointing out the inland temperate rainforest is under-represented in protected area networks and saying it supports increased conservation efforts for the Rainbow-Jordan wilderness and the inland temperate rainforest. Ktunaxa Nation council also supports Valhalla’s proposal to protect the three valleys.

Revelstoke council noted local governments throughout B.C. “bear direct responsibility and expense for responding to the downstream impacts of deforestation,” acknowledging old-growth forests provide benefits like climate regulation and mitigation, fresh water and biodiversity conservation — and reduce the risk of hazards such as wildfires, flooding and landslides. At the annual Union of BC Municipalities meeting in September, Revelstoke will ask other municipalities to support increased protection for the Rainbow-Jordan wilderness and the inland temperate rainforest.

B.C. rainforest is home to world’s only deep-snow caribou 

A century ago, Canada was home to an estimated 1.3 million hectares of inland temperate rainforest. Today, less than five per cent of the core, old forest still stands. So little of the ancient rainforest remains that scientists and ecologists warn the ecosystem is close to collapse.

That collapse has already begun. The International Union for Conservation of Nature — the global authority on the status of the natural world and measures necessary to safeguard it — lists B.C.’s inland temperate rainforest as “critically endangered,” posing existential risks to wildlife. Biologists are building fake old-growth trees to save endangered rainforest bats, while pregnant deep-snow caribou are helicoptered to mountain-top pens until their newborn calves are old enough to stand a better chance of survival in the fractured landscape. 

B.C.’s deep-snow caribou get their name because in late winter they eat hair lichens they reach by splaying their feet to walk on top of metres-deep snow. But as Canada’s inland temperate rainforest has disappeared, so have the caribou that depend on the rainforest for shelter and food. “Not enough has been protected,” Amber Peters, a biologist who works for the Valhalla Wilderness Society, tells The Narwhal. Peters, who guides a reporter and photojournalist through the Rainbow Valley, has a no-nonsense attitude and an amiable yet commanding presence. She carries a can of bear spray clipped to the front of her backpack, near a two-way radio and an emergency satellite communication device.

As Peters picks her way through a patch of devil’s club toward a sun-splashed grove of giant cedars, she stoops and peers at something on the ground. “This is some scat that we just found and it looks like caribou poo,” she says as the rest of us catch up. “And that would be amazing.” She sets down her pack and pulls out a clear plastic bag, kneeling on the ground as she gingerly moves aside devil’s club stems lined with tiny spikes as sharp as needles. “It’s my most glamorous scat-collecting moment,” she jokes.

The scat, which resembles chocolate-covered almonds, is well-camouflaged among oat ferns, foam flowers, bunchberry and small clusters of brown needles shed by the cedars. It’s too old to show the grooves that indicate caribou scat; Peters will take it home and freeze it until genetic analysis can be done. “Why is this amazing?” she continues. “Because as far as we know, there are only six [animals] left in the Frisby-Boulder-Queest herd. So to find them in this park proposal area would be really important.” 

Eight deep-snow caribou herds in southeast B.C. have winked out over the past 20 years, including the Frisby-Boulder-Queest herd, which biologists say is too small to survive. The remaining ten herds are on the cusp of extinction.

“A major part of this ecosystem is the deep-snow mountain caribou, which we have nowhere else on earth,” Peters says. “And these animals are showing us what’s happening to the ecosystem with their decline. That’s why we call them an indicator species, or a canary in a coal mine.”

When the group takes a lunch break, Valhalla cofounder and co-director Craig Pettitt lies back contentedly next to an enormous cedar tree, half-hidden by ferns. The vegetation is so dense it muffles sounds; the fluting song of a nearby Swainson’s thrush seems very far away. Pettitt, a former parks ranger, wildland firefighter and ski-touring company owner, has seen large swaths of ancient cedar trees clearcut in the inland temperate rainforest, including in critical habitat for deep-snow caribou herds. “The whole past philosophy has been to cut them all down because they aren’t worth anything for lumber,” he says, referring to old cedars that are often hollow. 

The cedars, which are often used for fence posts and garden mulch, make excellent wildlife habitat when they are left standing or topple over from age or in a windstorm. Bears den in their root bowls, bats roost in crevices in thick, sloughing bark and birds nest in their foliage. When the cedars fall, they become bridges across streams and creeks for animals like bears and bobcats, as well as nurse logs that create microhabitats for insects and plants. Pettitt says the B.C. government’s primary focus on lumber values doesn’t take wildlife into account. “They don’t look at species diversity.”

Logging isn’t imminent, but clear protection plans aren’t either: government  

Despite the BC NDP government’s promise to safeguard old-growth forests at the highest risk of biodiversity loss, Peters says the government’s response to Valhalla’s park proposal has been lukewarm at best. Last September, Peters, Pettitt and two other Valhalla representatives met with B.C. Minister of Water, Land and Resource Stewardship Randene Neill and other government representatives. 

Peters says Neill told them to contact B.C. Forests Minister Ravi Parmar to discuss the park proposal, and that they tried, twice, but were first deferred then ignored. In an emailed response to questions, the Forests Ministry says it is aware of Valhalla’s “rich and unique” proposal for a provincial park and values the group’s work in identifying, mapping and researching the region. The ministry says it looks forward to engaging and partnering with First Nations and other governments and “working with all.” It notes the province has not recommended the three valleys for provincial park protection, saying the government looks forward to engaging and partnering with First Nations and other governments and “working with all” to explore conservation opportunities “as they arise.”

The Sinixt, Ktunaxa, Okanagan (Syilx) and Secwépemc all consider parts of the Rainbow, Frisby and Jordan their territories. “Because of these very complex overlapping First Nations territory claims, we leave that to government-to-government negotiations to resolve,” Peters says. “Our role is to bring the ecological significance of the area to the public.”

In an emailed statement, Ktunaxa Nation council notes Valhalla’s park proposal aligns with the recommendations of B.C.’s old-growth strategic review, saying “conserving rare, old-growth ecosystems is essential to ensure ʔa·kxam̓is q̓api qapsin (all living things) continue to thrive in ʔamakʔis Ktunaxa for generations to come.” Marilyn James, Autonomous Sinixt Smum iem matriarch, says protection “is mandatory to study and preserve what these ancient forests have yet to reveal.” James points to the value of the three valleys for old-growth forests, at-risk species and species new to science. “These are areas that need to be preserved, that are the very root and foundation of not only creating corridors, but critical habitat for very threatened, red-listed species,” she says in an interview.

Jarred-Michael Erickson, chairman of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation and the Sinixt Confederacy, says he will need to have a conversation with his full council before deciding whether to support protection for the three valleys, adding the tribes “tend to support” initiatives to protect caribou and the inland temperate rainforest. The Sinixt Confederacy was created by the confederated tribes following a landmark court decision recognizing the tribes’ rights in Canada. (The Narwhal also reached out to Okanagan and Secwépemc nations, which were not able to respond before publication time.) 

The Rainbow-Jordan wilderness park proposal is one of three park proposals Valhalla has developed to protect important areas of the inland rainforest that remain open to industrial logging and other development. “We’re focusing on the richest remnants that are still intact of this very rare ecosystem type,” Peters explains, “but also on creating landscape connectivity and including these valley bottom, very old and ancient inland temperate rainforests which have almost totally been left out of our parks system.”

Although the B.C. government worked with Valhalla and First Nations to create a large conservancy about 50 kilometres southeast in 2023, that’s not enough to prevent ecosystem collapse, according to Peters and other biologists. The Rainbow, Frisby and Jordan valleys are especially valuable because they represent intact and connected ecosystems, from mountain top to valley bottom, making the area more resilient to the impacts of climate change, Peters says. “There are really steep mountainous areas that mean that you don’t get really hot, beating sun in the valleys. And so they’re cooler, and they maintain a deep snow pack later in the year, and they maintain moisture. They’re incredibly important.” 

In an emailed response to questions, the B.C. Ministry of Water, Land and Resource Stewardship says voluntary old-growth logging deferrals in the valleys “are not permanent protections” and additional planning work is underway to develop long-term solutions. The Rainbow-Jordan park proposal and Valhalla’s other two park proposals are not currently recommended for protections but “may be considered as part of future recommendations,” the ministry says. The ministry also points to a collaborative habitat planning initiative for caribou that includes parts of the inland temperate rainforest. The initiative seeks to identify habitats that could benefit from increased conservation efforts, “ranging from improved management to protection,” the ministry says, noting specific areas have not yet been identified.

Rare and endangered lichens found in three unlogged sister valleys 

Back in the Rainbow Valley, Spribille bounds from lichen to lichen and plant to plant, peering at the lichens through a magnifying lens with an LED light that hangs from his neck on a lanyard. He stops near a shiny, four-leafed plant and announces he’s just found a plant that hasn’t previously been documented in the Frisby and Rainbow valleys. The plant, a herb commonly known as boreal bedstraw or northern wild licorice, is a species of concern in B.C. Until that moment, Spribille says the southernmost known locality of the plant was the Seymour Valley, some 60 kilometres away. 

He pulls out a hammer and chisel from his pack and crouches down beside a large boulder with a thick overcoat of vibrant green mosses. A bare patch of the rock looks like it’s covered in small black dots. With the magnifying glass, Spribille sees “a world of its own,” which he later describes as a “miniature landscape of tiny mosses and lichens that have their own peaks and valleys and fruiting features and a thousand different hues of green.” He chips off a small piece and pops it into one of the brown paper lunch bags he carries for samples, labelling it with the GPS coordinates.

Then Spribille’s eye lands on a cluster of orange tufts on the rock. Magnified, they look like the tops of truffula trees from the Dr. Seuss book The Lorax. The tufts aren’t rare, and they aren’t lichens, Spribille explains. They’re a special group of algae called trentepohlia, or golden hair. Their genomes and the way they replicate DNA — “some of the very basic stuff about how they do life” — is unusual, Spribille says. “They’ve got very, very strange biology.” The golden hairs can photosynthesize — converting sunlight into energy — but they can also feed themselves by breaking down decaying organic matter, the way fungi and bacteria do. No one has ever been able to sequence or annotate their genomes. Spribille chips off a sample to bring back for one of his students to study.

On earlier research expeditions in the Frisby Valley, Spribille found rare greater green moon lichen — which depends on old-growth forests with pristine air quality — and cryptic paw lichen, a federally threatened species strongly associated with old-growth cedar and hemlock forests. Cryptic paw, which has fruiting bodies that face downward like the pads of a dog’s paw, is part of a group of species mostly found in rainforests in the southern hemisphere. In Canada, it grows only in B.C.

In the Frisby Valley, hiking near waterfalls that divide the upper and lower parts of the valley, Spribille and a colleague were stunned to see large colonies of Methuselah’s beard lichen, also known as old man’s beard. The pale green lichen, which drapes from tree branches and shrubs like Christmas tinsel, is threatened or lost from most of its historic range. Only small fragments had previously been found anywhere in the inland temperate rainforest.

After spending time in the Rainbow and Frisby valleys, Spribille sometimes reflects on the 15 years he lived in Europe, where many ancient forests have disappeared. Germany’s Black Forest has become a mythological place, even though many of its habitats are gone. “I went to places that they considered their trophy remaining old-growth forests and they’re so sad. They have been completely, in some cases, reduced to very small, postage stamp sizes, or with the superimposing pollution on them they’ve lost all their lichens of any kind of conservation significance.”

British Columbia still has a chance to protect old-growth rainforests and rare habitats and lichens with conservation significance, Spribille says. He believes there might be species new to science in the three valleys that biologists haven’t had a chance to see. What they’ve found so far on brief research trips continues to astound and excite him. “I feel it’s our responsibility to report back to society about what the public needs to know.”

Without pausing for breath, he says, “there’s some stuff on that rock that I’m gonna grab real quick,” and dashes off.

Updated on March. 3, 2026, at 12:52 p.m. PT: This story has been updated to correct an error in a photo caption that misidentified Valhalla’s cofounder and co-director. He is Craig Pettitt not Craig Peters.

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

Summary

• Synapse Data Centre Inc. has a $10-billion plan to build a sprawling data centre, along with a natural gas power plant to supply the electricity, in rural Alberta.
• Residents of Olds, Alta., have questions about air and water pollution — as well as the plan to use relatively new technology to keep the systems cool using less water. They first learned of the proposal in late January.
• Many of those questions remain unanswered, even as the company races towards its goal to get permits in place and begin construction in March.

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Just past the sign that welcomes drivers to Olds, Alta., sits a parcel of farmland. It’s on the edge of town, across the street from homes and tucked behind the old municipal building, which was sold to the local Co-op two years ago. 

It’s where a developer is proposing to build a $10-billion data centre, along with the second-largest power plant in Alberta, to satisfy the world’s seemingly voracious appetite for data. 

The natural gas facility, proposed by Synapse Data Centre Inc., will produce 1.4 gigawatts of energy each day, solely to power what could become the largest artificial intelligence (AI) data centre in the country. 

That’s equivalent to the daily demand for the entire city of Edmonton.

For some, including a town council wrestling with debt and eager to find new income, it’s a boon. For others, including residents caught off guard by a fast-moving developer, it raises concerns over air and water pollution, noise and more.  

That sort of investment in a town of just under 10,000 is significant.

The developer approached the town last November, and went public near the end of January regarding its plans. Synapse has said it wants to start construction in March — something Mayor Dan Daley calls “pretty optimistic.”

The data centre, if built, would be the biggest project amidst a potential building boom in Alberta, pushed by a provincial data centre strategy launched in 2024 that seeks to attract $100 billion worth of investment to the province. 

It’s also a significant test of the government’s “bring your own energy” part of that strategy, which prioritizes data centre projects that include on-site power generation, separate from the provincial electricity grid.

But closer to home, the project has raised more immediate concerns for residents of Olds.

Janae Johnson, who lives near the proposed facility, worries about how close the data centre will be to homes, but also the wetlands and fields of Olds College, just across the street. She worries about air pollution, water, noise and a project that seems to be moving fast with little public information. 

“We’re talking about the biggest plant, that’s using new technology that hasn’t been proven, that is not typically located right in a residential area,” she says.

Olds AI project announced in January — company wants to start construction in March

The Synapse data centre will actually be ten data centres and ten power plants, cobbled together on the same parcel of land on the edge of Olds, across from the agriculture and technology college. All together, the computer servers alone would eat up a gigawatt of electricity daily. 

The company says it will use a closed-loop water cooling system for both its data centre and the attached power plant, claiming it only needs to pull water to fill the systems once, a relatively new technology for data centres. The power will be produced by natural gas units tapping local reservoirs of gas.

AI data centres are the backbone of plans to dramatically ramp up artificial intelligence use in all aspects of life, from surfing the internet to use in hospitals, military applications and so much more. Data centres themselves are largely unassuming: inside are what look like rows of neatly arranged boxes — servers stacked on what look like bookshelves. 

Sandra Blyth, the economic development manager for the town’s investment agency, Invest Olds, says she signed a non-disclosure agreement with Synapse to protect some of the more detailed information, so she’s limited in what she can reveal about more technical aspects of the plan. 

She says the company approached the town in November and then moved quickly, with the project announced on Jan. 27. The land in question was rezoned to allow the project on Feb. 9 and the company says it wants to start construction in March.

Synapse still has to go through the regulatory process with the Alberta Utilities Commission, the provincial regulator of the electricity grid, and Alberta Environment and Parks, making the March construction start date unlikely. 

“There’s a lot of regulation to get through, and so it’s hard to say, but that’s the target,” Blyth says about the construction timeline. “Targets are good.”

But the speed of that target has caused concern.

Residents concerned about emissions, water contamination and more

Johnson, who lives near the site, says there’s been a lack of clarity on the project and a lack of transparency from council, which doesn’t help convince her of the project’s benefits. She also learned about the development in late January, when three representatives from Synapse knocked on her door. 

“My biggest concern is going to be air pollution, noise pollution,” she says. “We have populations of deer and geese and loons and beavers. What is the impact of this going to be? That has not been addressed whatsoever.”

She’s not alone. Dozens of letters and comments sent to town council in February reveal extensive concern.

“Has there been any consideration of the amount of emissions that the gas-fired power plant will create?” one resident wrote to the town council. 

“How will wastewater be disposed of as it will likely be contaminated?” the same resident asked.

Others wanted to see examples of existing closed-loop systems, remediation plans for the site, clarity on how air quality will be monitored and information on how contraventions would be enforced. 

Standing in the parking lot of the Co-op building, overlooking the site, Peter Grenier says he’s opposed to the project. He lives across the street from the proposed data centre.He thinks the project is too close to homes and is upset with what he sees as late consultation. 

Daley, the mayor of Olds, says he’s sympathetic to residents’ concerns, but there aren’t many answers he can provide. 

“A lot of their questions and concerns that they had directed towards council, we didn’t have answers on yet because these studies and assessments haven’t taken place yet,” he says.

Electricity use of proposed data centres in Alberta would be more than double the province’s average

Jason van Gaal, the president and CEO of Synapse, says the company has submitted applications to the utility regulator and the government, both of which are focused on the power generation aspect of the project. 

He says the company could, “in theory,” start construction on the data centre prior to receiving those approvals.

The natural gas power generation will produce greenhouse gas emissions as well as pollutants including nitrous oxides, something van Gaal says is a focus of provincial regulations.

“What the province wants to see is nitrous oxides below a certain threshold, and other things as well, but the reason they focus on nitrous oxide is because that is, typically, for natural gas plants, the hardest one to be compliant with.”

Van Gaal wasn’t able to provide figures on greenhouse gas emissions from the project. Natural gas produces methane, a potent greenhouse gas. He did say there could be carbon capture on the power plant in the future. 

The Synapse project isn’t the only project of its scale proposed for Alberta. The list of data centres that want to connect to the provincial grid include one project near Red Deer that would reach 1.8 gigawatts, another near Calgary requiring 1.4 gigawatts and several nearing the one-gigawatt mark. 

The province capped the total amount of power that could be drawn from the grid for all data centres at 1.2 gigawatts for the first round of applications. All of that power went to two projects, both near Edmonton, leaving 40 to wait in the queue or build their own power source.

In total, power demand for proposed data centres currently listed by the Alberta Electric System Operator sits at 21.2 gigawatts per day — more than double the average electricity use for the entire province. And that figure doesn’t yet include the Synapse project.

“Someone asked me at one of the meetings, are you okay living beside it? And I said, ‘Sure, no problem.’ The more I’ve gone down this, the less concerned I would be about it,” says van Gaal. “If the community wants me to live beside the natural gas plant myself, I don’t have a problem doing it.”

‘Feeling the pinch’: huge AI investment could help Olds’ finances

The prospect of a multibillion-dollar investment is particularly attractive, as Olds has struggled financially in recent years. Olds lost millions building a local fibre optic network that it recently sold to Telus at a loss, a large cannabis operation pulled up stakes in 2022 and provincial funding for municipalities has dried up. The town has eaten into reserves and cut services as it fights to balance the books.

Mayor Daley says Synapse would be responsible for paying to bring utilities such as water and sewage to the area, a significant investment that could attract more businesses to that currently unserviced area of town. 

“The tax revenue that’s going to come off of that will definitely help,” he says. “As all other municipalities in Alberta, we’re feeling the pinch of the cutbacks to our funding from the provincial government.”

While that funding shrinks, the province is busy promoting data centres as an economic driver. There’s also more than $1 billion from the federal government as part of a data sovereignty strategy. 

That funding, and the enormous amounts of corporate money being dumped into the building boom, mean the dilemma of data centres is something more and more communities will face. 

Grenier, who worries about looking out over the data centre instead of the sunrises he has enjoyed for years, expresses a sort of fatalism about it, especially after Alberta Premier Danielle Smith weighed in with her support, saying on Facebook she’s “thrilled” to welcome the project.

“Once your premier has it on her Facebook page — she’s done, boys,” Grenier says.

Updated on Feb. 23, 2026, at 2:28 p.m. MT: This story has been updated to correct a typo. A previous version of this article stated Synapse Data Centre Inc. could become the largest artificial intelligence data centre in the county. It could be the largest in the country, not the county.

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