Osoyoos Indian Band is working to revitalize forests in its territories that have been ravaged by wildfires — turning them into fire-resistant zones full of biodiversity, wildlife and medicinal plants for its members.

Band-owned company Nk’Mip Forestry is planning to revive two woodlands located above the First Nation’s reservation in the highlands between Oliver and Mount Baldy — making up just over 40 hectares combined. The forest tenure where the project is located is approximately 50,000 hectares in size, and is co-managed between the Osoyoos Indian Band and Gorman Bros.

The two forests — a drier Douglas fir ecosystem with ponderosa pine, and a montane spruce ecosystem dominated by dense lodgepole pile further up the hill — were both impacted by the 2021 Nk’Mip Creek wildfire, which is estimated to have burned just over 20,000 hectares.

After the fire, Vernon Louie, an Osoyoos Indian Band member and grounds operation manager with Nk’Mip Forestry, said animals in the area were displaced.  

“Twenty-plus years ago, there used to be deer and elk all over. Lots of moose up here, especially up Baldy you’d see them. Almost one every time you’d go up,” Louie told IndigiNews.

“Now, you’d be lucky to see a deer if you go up.”

These animals, he said, were forced to look for food sources at the valley bottom. Now, after five years, they’re starting to return to the highlands.

“But they need better ground, and more stuff to eat,” he said. “We want them to actually come back up and settle. But you gotta give them the opportunity to do that by clearing this stuff out.”

The first phase of the project’s operations, scheduled for late summer and into the fall, will see the burned, still-standing dead timber removed from both sites, to help make space for the planting of various berry and shrub plants, as well as deciduous and native trees.

“What we’re really doing here is trying to influence a bit of a change in this post-wildfire landscape, to encourage wildfire resiliency and ecosystem resiliency in the future,” project lead Eden Hardcastle, a forester-in-training with Nk’Mip Forestry, told IndigiNews.

“Instead of using the word restoration, I’ve used the term intervention.”

The dead timber will not be salvaged for profit, however. Instead, the trees will be processed into firewood materials for the community.

While both sites have unique planting prescriptions based on their ecosystems, there are prioritized shrub and deciduous tree species that will be planted across both areas.

The prioritized shrub species planned for planting include saskatoon berry, soopolallie (soapberry), huckleberry, thimbleberry and snowberry. Introducing deciduous trees such as birch, cottonwood and trembling aspen to the landscape is also part of the strategy.

“Most deciduous trees and shrubs are going to be really important for a live fire break,” Hardcastle said.“Not only do they retain more moisture, but they’re significantly less flammable, so it can really help slow down a fire.”

Having a diversity of species is critical for ecosystem adaptability, not just wildfire resilience, she said.

“We’re in a changing climate with changing external stimuli. Different trees — well, different plants, in general — can contribute different things to the ecosystem. Having that diversity is important for not only recovery, but long-term resilience in the area.”

Biodiversity in post-wildfire landscapes key to climate resiliency

Although lodgepole pine is a native tree, the species has taken over the site of the montane spruce ecosystem site. Hardcastle attributed its overgrowth to the tree’s serotinus pinecones that spread seeds after a fire sweeps through an area.

“When a fire comes through, that heat catalyzes to drop its seeds. That means that lodgepole pine comes back really fast and really thick after a fire.”

While it is a natural process, Hardcastle noted that it “also creates a bit of a fire hazard in the future, because that stand is really dense and very flammable.”

That’s why reintroducing biodiversity to the forest “is the key,” she added, for it helps with future climate resiliency. 

“It’s not just wildfires that put stress onto our forests. It’s temperature changes; it’s precipitation changes; it’s further human disturbance. Biodiversity helps with all of that. Some species are more resilient to some things than others. It contributes to overall tolerance to change.”

In addition to planting deciduous trees and different shrubs at the montane spruce ecosystem site, larch and douglas fir trees will also be planted there.

“Unfortunately here, we have nothing but lodgepole coming back. That was part of the decision-making there, Hardcastle said. “If we were getting species that we did want to see coming back naturally, we weren’t going to disturb it at all. That’s a process that we’re looking for.”

Once the dead trees have been removed, the plan is to invite Osoyoos Indian Band community members to help plant different trees and shrub species at the sites next spring.

The vision is to remove the dead trees from the forests while retaining the live ones, which will create more space and give shade for different trees and plants to grow, Peter Flett, the head of forestry operations at Nk’Mip Forestry, told IndigiNews. It will also help to attract more wildlife back to the area.

“More shade helps mitigate the heat from climate change. It keeps moisture in the soil. It helps shade-tolerant plants grow.”

The hope is to offer an abundance of food and cultural experiences for community members: more animals to hunt and a greater selection of berries and medicines to harvest.

Restoration project offers hope for community and future initiatives

Hardcastle said the project can act as a model for future similar initiatives and demonstrate how it can be applied on a larger scale. The project is being funded by Environment and Climate Change Canada, through their Climate-Smart Forestry grant, which is being administered by the Sustainable Forestry Initiative.

“Hopefully, in doing this, we can determine what that actual cost looks like for the future,” she said.

Hardcastle emphasized that the purpose of the restoration and intervention work is for the betterment of the Osoyoos Indian Band community.

“It’s for the environment, but this forested area is part of [Osoyoos Indian Band’s] culture,” she said.

“We also wanted to make sure that it was road-accessible, because we want this area to be usable as a foraging site for some of the shrubs that we’re planting. Like, for berries and other culturally significant plants.”

Louie said that Elders in the community have berry-picking spots across the two sites, and have given “all thumbs-up” for this project.

“This work is definitely needed. They want to see it restored. To restore it, you gotta take out the old stuff.”

“Berry picking, hunting, gathering, is really important.  Some of these areas are close to existing roads — the easier access for Elders, the better.”

Following the intervention, Hardcastle said she hopes to see an improvement in species composition, to show more biodiversity across the two sites, within the next five years.

“It would be great to see more wildlife up here,” she said.

“That short term is going to be really telling for what we did right and what we did wrong. Long term, I just hope it’s beneficial for the environment and the community: create a fire break, and create a pocket of diversity in an area that has very little diversity.”

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In 2014, Ontario Power Generation made history by ending all coal burning for electricity, in a move it called “North America’s single largest climate change initiative.”

A decade later, amid calls to do away with natural gas, Ontario reporter Fatima Syed wondered: what would it take for the province to do the seemingly impossible — again?

“For years, person after person in Ontario’s energy industry constantly reminded me of this incredible past,” Fatima said. “As we stare down an uncertain future, looking to lessons from history isn’t just good journalism, it’s a dare to readers to also see opportunity, and even hope.”

Fatima combed through archives and spoke with the former premier and others who were in the boardrooms and control rooms all those years ago to piece together an immersive feature about the lessons of the transition away from coal. It was brought to life with illustrations by Kevin Ilango, creative direction by Shawn Parkinson and editing by Elaine Anselmi.

The story recently took third place in the multimedia category at the annual Solutions Journalism Network awards.

The Solutions Journalism Network is a global organization that promotes rigorous reporting on responses to problems. This year’s winners were selected among more than 900 submissions spanning six continents.

“Reporting on solutions is about so much more than celebrating successes,” Fatima said. “Broadly, it’s any effort to investigate a response to a problem, and tease out what’s working and what’s not working. It asks where lessons can be applied elsewhere — and where they can’t.”

Ending coal power in Ontario wasn’t easy, but it was possible.

“So often, when I talk to people about moving away from fossil fuels, there’s a deep-seated feeling of paralysis and futility,” Fatima said. “It’s easy to dwell on those feelings, and harder to figure out how to move towards action. At The Narwhal, we try to help bridge the gap through stories like these.”

Including this most recent accolade, The Narwhal’s deep reporting on the natural world in Canada has won eight awards from national and international programs this year.

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

Dear Leslie, 

I’m a young adult trying to figure out what I’m doing with my life. It feels really hard to plan for my future given the uncertainty climate change produces, and sometimes I feel like my degree, which I’m passionate about, will be useless “when the apocalypse comes.” How can I plan well for my future when I don’t know what the world will look like in 10 years, let alone 50? 

— Scared Student

Dear Scared Student,

You’re asking one of the most significant questions of your generation, and it’s one that I’m hearing more and more from young people who are tuned into the rapid shifts occurring on our planet. Anyone who claims to know exactly what our changing world will look like in 50 years is deceiving themselves. It takes courage to sit with that uncertainty rather than push it away, so let’s start there: give yourself credit for remaining aware of both the realities and the unknowns.

That said, the word “apocalypse” doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for possibility. It’s hard to believe that anything matters if the end of times is a foregone conclusion. I think it’s worth breaking that down into two inquiries: what might actually happen, and how the uncertainty is affecting your ability to move forward.

Serious disruptions are taking place already and are essentially a guarantee — including in whatever field you’re training for. I don’t want to minimize the real fear underlying your question. Planning for a future that feels unstable is a genuine challenge. Let yourself feel the weight of that before reaching for solutions. Whatever our future does hold, we can be certain it will look different from the world we know today — perhaps in some wonderful ways, and likely in some bad. Feeling the loss is part of staying whole — neither turning away from what worries you, nor losing sight of what you can still shape. 

But collapsing all of our possible futures into a single worst-case scenario tends to make us freeze, and freezing helps neither us nor the communities and ecosystems depending on our action. 

Unfreezing, then, is not about pretending that everything will be fine: it’s about developing a skillful agility that allows you to shift as circumstances change.

The skills, relationships, ways of thinking and capacity for meaning-making that you cultivate when pursuing work you’re passionate about can translate into a wide range of scenarios. They’re not locked inside a single job title. The question isn’t whether your degree will survive in the future; it’s how you can show up with depth and flexibility and continue to seek out the next useful contribution, both personally and professionally.

It can help to shift from long-range certainty-seeking to values-based navigation. Instead of asking, “Will this matter in 50 years?” try asking, “What matters to me now, and how can I build a life that honours that?” This is a core insight from acceptance-based approaches to anxiety. When we loosen our grip on specific outcomes and orient ourselves toward what we value, we can become more resilient and sustain our motivation. Values travel with us, and they’re what allow us to keep pivoting as circumstances change.

No one can plan for a fixed future. Such a thing doesn’t exist. You’re developing yourself and your work in a very dynamic world that will challenge you to use your creative power as you pursue your goals. Your passion isn’t a liability. Today and in the future, whatever transpires, the paramount need is for people who care deeply. 

With you in this,Leslie

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Summary

• In Simpcw First Nation, women are continuing traditions practiced by generations of women before them, including animal-hide tanning. 
• Tiffany Bowser and Roberta Haller are Secwe̓pemc women who grew up immersed in their culture and now teach others who want to learn through community workshops.
• While women have always tanned deer hide in B.C.’s interior, a smaller number practice the skill today, making the workshops hosted by Bowser and Haller a powerful assertion of Indigenous Rights.

Working with animal hides can be a messy process — and children in Tiffany Bowser’s community of Simpcw First Nation “absolutely love it.”

“They love scraping the hide. They love stretching it,” she shares.

“I don’t know why, but brain water is one of their favourite things,” she adds, laughing. “I’m like okay, just don’t get it in your mouth.”

Bowser hosts hide-tanning workshops in her First Nation, come-and-go style, so people with different needs can attend. Her workshops are also hosted during the school day, so children and youth from the Secwe̓pemc community — located north of Kamloops — are able to participate.

From hunting the animal, to skinning and tanning the hide, it is a lengthy, expensive and labour-intensive process that many people struggle to make time for. And finding people who carry the knowledge about how to properly tan an animal hide is becoming rare.

Despite those challenges, the tradition lives on in the Simpcw First Nation. In Secwe̓pemc culture, women are typically tasked with preparing animal hides — a responsibility that Bowser takes seriously.

“There’s not too many people on the reserve who know how to tan a hide,” Roberta Haller, who also teaches hide tanning in the community, says. “I feel very proud that I’m one of them.”

“I’ve been hunting since I was about three years old,” Bowser told The Narwhal.

“Some of my earliest memories are sitting on my dad’s shoulders, packing a handful of gophers around and fishing. It’s just something I grew up doing.”

This year, she hosted a 10-day workshop, calling her mentor Haller over the phone for advice each day. Haller was mentored by the late Virginia Donald, her aunt, who was known in the area for her tanned deer hides. 

“I’m probably pretty biased, but she was one of the best hide tanners out there. Her deer hides came out white and perfect,” Bowser says. 

Following the tradition of women who came before and taught them, Bowser and Haller support one another, teaching the next generation of hide tanners in their community how it’s done.

Hide tanning process and usage

While methods to prepare animal hides vary from person to person and community to community, Bowser and Haller follow the methods passed down to them from generations of Secwe̓pemc women. 

After harvesting and skinning the animal, Haller explains, the hide gets soaked in water. After it’s soaked, the hair is cut and scraped off the hide before it’s carefully placed on a frame. 

This part can be tricky: experienced tanners know where to cut holes to properly stretch the hide on the frame, without ruining it by piercing in the wrong places. 

Once on the frame, the hide is pounded and stretched, over a gentle heat source. “Not too hot, so it doesn’t try out too fast,” she says. 

After that, the hide is taken off of the rack and smoked, which adds colour, prevents stiffness and makes the fabric not water-resistant, but washable.

The next step is the brain water. 

“We take the brains from the deer and then we dissolve it in warm water so it becomes a milky liquid, in there we soak the hide again. As we’re soaking, we’re stretching it out again … then you put it back on the frame, pound it out again and start the whole process over again,” Haller says. All of this takes days, weeks or months, depending on the animal size, and what outcome the tanner is going for.

But if the steps aren’t completed properly, the whole process must be started over. Smaller game animals can take weeks to complete, while larger animals like moose can take up to a year. 

It takes time, commitment, muscles and know-how to make it all happen.

Passing the tradition through generations

Haller started working with animal hide in her 30s, wanting to pass the tradition onto her children. And since tanning was so intensive, she wanted to help her mentor Virginia continue the practice as she aged, while learning the practice from her. 

“Auntie Virginia didn’t like to take any shortcuts,” Haller tells The Narwhal. That meant skipping modern tools including pressure washers and trimmers to remove animal hair during the tanning process, which weren’t available back in her day.

“She just liked to do it the way she was taught, she didn’t try any other way. She knew one way would work, and that’s how she taught me, and that’s what we still do.”

Since learning from her auntie, Haller has mentored Bowser and anyone else who wants to learn at the community workshops in Simpcw First Nation. Though they focus on involving youth, anyone from the general community is also welcome to attend, as long as they are respectful of the animal hide.

One of those community participants is Fred Fortier, a Simpcw member who has attended many hide-tanning workshops hosted by Bowser and Haller. 

Fortier grew up connected to the land. After recovering from cancer five years ago, animal hide workshops have become a more accessible way for him to practice culture, although he still goes hunting sometimes. 

Visiting, speaking Secwepemctsín, sharing meals, telling hunting stories and laughing together at the workshops are “just a lot of fun,” Fortier says. 

Watching his grandchildren participate in the workshops is exciting. “I think that’s a really important component, our kids wanting to learn and not feeling ashamed to learn our cultural ways … for them to keep their head up and be proud,” he says.

He encourages hunters in the nation to keep the hide, bones and brains in mind when harvesting deer to be in alignment with Secwe̓pemc culture. 

“We have a lot of women in our community who have stepped forward to teach people our cultural ways,” he says. 

“For those people like Tiffany and Roberta, and all of the women who have stepped forward … I think they are the backbone of our community.”

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Summary

• The Montreal-based tech firm Deep Sky is proposing to build a direct air carbon capture facility in southern Manitoba, and documents obtained by The Narwhal show the company has garnered support from First Nations, rural municipalities and at least one bank.
• Direct air carbon capture involves sucking carbon out of the atmosphere and then burying it deep underground. Deep Sky says its technology is “viable,” but critics have expressed skepticism.
• If built, the facility will require 15 megawatts of electricity to run — which is about enough to power 10,000 homes. Deep Sky hopes to connect to Manitoba’s electrical grid to obtain that energy.

A direct air carbon capture facility proposed for southwestern Manitoba has been shoring up allies in local and Indigenous governments and large corporations, as Montreal-based Deep Sky aims to convince the provincial government its project is ready to launch.

The venture-capital-backed tech firm sent the province a package of support letters late last year encouraging the government to provide the regulatory support and electric power supply needed for Deep Sky’s Manitoba facility to move forward, according to documents obtained by the Free Press and The Narwhal.

“Deep Sky Manitoba is not a speculative concept,” the company wrote in a December letter. 

“It is a commercially viable infrastructure project that is backed by real market demand and presents an economic opportunity for Manitoba on a global scale.”

Deep Sky is proposing a 145-acre facility in the agriculture and oil-dominant southwestern region that will scrub 30,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide directly from the atmosphere each year and inject it into porous rock formations 1,000 metres below ground. The company says it will use technology first tested at its existing accelerator in Innisfail, Alta., and will finance the $200-million Manitoba project by selling carbon credits.

Deep Sky will need up to 15 megawatts of power — roughly the power draw of 10,000 homes — for the first stage of the project, CEO Alex Petre told The Narwhal and Free Press in December. 

The package included term sheets and letters of intent from five customers and investors, as well as support from local communities. 

While some of the documents are redacted under a section of the freedom of information act that protects corporate privacy, The Narwhal and the Free Press obtained copies of letters from the Dakota Grand Council, the rural municipalities of Pipestone and Two Borders, Frontier and the Bank of Montreal. 

“These documents illustrate that this project is ready to break ground,” the company wrote. 

“We have the customers and the support to bring this investment to the province. We are simply waiting for the final regulatory framework and the confirmation of power supply to unlock this investment.”

Direct air carbon capture: big promises, yet to be proven

Deep Sky’s proposal has been met with skepticism from area residents and climate action groups, who have posed questions about the safety, affordability and long-term impacts of direct air carbon capture. 

While oil and gas companies and some climate experts view the technology as a useful tool to help achieve global net-zero targets, critics say it is prohibitively expensive and not guaranteed to work.

Despite energy agencies, including the Canada Energy Regulator and Manitoba Hydro, predicting direct air capture will sequester millions of tonnes of emissions annually by 2050, facilities aren’t yet keeping pace. The two dozen facilities currently operating worldwide capture less than 10,000 tonnes per year.

But Deep Sky maintains its project will be able to succeed given Manitoba’s “natural advantages,” including suitable geologic conditions, a low-cost hydroelectric grid and a local workforce familiar with oil and gas operations.

The company recently sold North America’s first verified carbon removal credits after successfully storing carbon at its Innisfail facility, according to a press release Monday.

According to the December letter, it has now also secured “strong local buy-in” after hosting information sessions through the fall and winter. 

“Over the past year, we’ve engaged with Indigenous communities, municipalities, provincial partners and regional stakeholders across Manitoba to better understand local priorities and explore how this industry can create lasting economic opportunities for Manitoba,” Jason Vanderheyden, Deep Sky’s vice-president of government affairs and public policy said in an emailed statement. 

“All of these conversations continue to inform our approach as the project advances.”

Deep Sky points to First Nations support for proposed facility

Vanderheyden noted the company’s partnership with the Dakota Grand Council, a collaborative organization representing Manitoba’s Dakota nations.

In a letter to the province dated Dec. 5, 2025, Dakota Chiefs Dennis Pashe and Raymond Brown expressed “strong support for the Deep Sky Manitoba project,” noting it presents an opportunity to reverse “decades of economic exclusion in the region.” 

The project is anticipated to create between 750 and 1,000 jobs during construction, with around 100 permanent positions during operation. The Dakota council said it is working with Deep Sky to ensure its members are prioritized for these roles, and will explore equity opportunities through the relationship agreement. 

“Deep Sky’s Manitoba executive team engaged with us early, right from the start of the project and we found them to be extremely transparent,” Pashe said in an emailed statement. 

“They were also very informative when explaining the project and carbon removal technology, which is important when communities consider something new.”

The company will still need to complete impact and benefit agreements to receive consent from the Dakota Nation, he added.

Local rural governments come out in support of Deep Sky project

The package also included resolutions passed by the rural municipalities of Pipestone and Two Borders in early 2025 declaring support for carbon capture and storage projects, including the Deep Sky initiative, and urging Manitoba to amend its carbon storage rules in collaboration with the company.

Manitoba passed the Captured Carbon Storage Act in May 2024, outlining the legal framework for such projects. The accompanying regulations, which will outline the finer details of a company’s responsibilities when storing captured carbon, were initially expected this spring, according to a December interview with Manitoba’s Business, Mining, Trade and Economic Development Minister Jamie Moses.

It’s not yet clear when the regulations will be finalized.

In response to detailed questions from The Narwhal and the Free Press regarding the province’s support for Deep Sky’s proposal, progress on carbon storage regulations and the company’s power supply request, Moses’ office said in a three-sentence reply, “any decisions regarding that project will be communicated in the coming months” and consultation will continue to take place with affected communities.

Deep Sky looks for connection to provincial grid and hydroelectric power

Alongside local support, Deep Sky has the backing of several large corporations in the technology and finance sectors. 

Frontier is an advanced market commitment group representing some of the world’s largest tech and financial companies — including Stripe, Google, Shopify and Anthropic — in an effort to stimulate the carbon storage industry. 

The company is “actively evaluating Deep Sky for future offtake agreements and are encouraged by the pace of their technical progress,” according to a letter included in the Deep Sky package.

“However, to unlock this global market demand for Manitoba,” the company states, “two critical enablers are required: the allocation of hydroelectric power and a finalized regulatory framework.”

Bank of Montreal executive Grégoire Baillargeon, who serves as a board member for Carbon Removal Canada, wrote a similar letter of support urging the province to “grant the project a high-priority hydro allocation so that construction can begin and Manitoba can secure a leadership position in this emerging market.” 

Neither company responded to follow-up questions.

Any facility needing to draw more than five megawatts must submit a large power supply application, according to Manitoba Hydro (Deep Sky will need up to 15 megawatts of power in its first phase). In an email, media relations officer Peter Chura explained Hydro reviews applications thoroughly to determine feasibility, then forwards requests to the province for review and prioritization. 

Chura said Hydro could not confirm whether it had received a request for power from Deep Sky, as the Crown utility does not publicly discuss customers, applications or proposed developments. He confirmed Hydro has not received any directives from the Manitoba government regarding the Deep Sky proposal.

Julia-Simone Rutgers is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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At 7:30 a.m. on June 28, 2021, Ryan Ackerman sat down for a daily meeting. A paramedic and manager with BC Emergency Health Services, Ackerman had attended these meetings nearly every day since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. They had become routine. This one was different.

“A manager in the dispatch centre popped in very briefly and just said, ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay, things really got out of control overnight,’ ” Ackerman says.

Extreme heat was blanketing the province, and the vast majority of B.C.’s population was under public health heat warnings.

Overnight, calls flooded into 911. By morning, dispatchers were already backed up. Ackerman’s colleague told him there were hundreds of genuine emergencies, without enough teams to respond. 

“They need all hands on deck,” he remembers the colleague saying. So Ackerman decided to leave his desk and jump into an ambulance.

“I don’t think the scale of what we were walking into was really clear until we hit the button to go on the air to make ourselves available,” he says. “Immediately, a call came in, I listened to the radio and I heard all of the other units that were also on their way to cardiac arrest calls. It suddenly sank in: this is different, this is reaching natural disaster levels.”

The call Ackerman received was one of 11,970 emergency calls made by people in British Columbia that day, more than double the average number.

Ackerman saw the strain on his colleagues, as he watched them coming and going from the hospital. “They were exhausted, they were hot, they’d been through the heat themselves and they just kept going back out and doing more calls.”

The heat dome lasted eight days and claimed 619 lives in the province. Sarah Henderson, scientific director of Environmental Health Service at the BC Centre for Disease Control, called it “the most deadly weather event in Canadian history.” 

It pushed the ambulance service to the brink, but it also sparked action. In the five years since the heat dome, the province has invested millions to increase the number of paramedics and ambulances. They’ve built new departments and procedures for responding to extreme weather and even increased the scope of medications and treatments that first responders can use to save lives.

According to Ackerman, it’s a reflection of how the heat dome “fundamentally changed how we look at disaster and emergency management.” 

But those changes have yet to be tested by another heat dome of that scale. And as B.C. braces for another summer of extreme temperatures and dry conditions, some are wondering if we’ve gone far enough.

An ‘endless avalanche’ of cardiac arrests

For most paramedics in Vancouver, shift change happens around 6:00 am, as the night crew leaves and the day shift takes over. It’s usually cool, especially in Vancouver, where the ocean breeze helps moderate the temperatures. But on June 28, 2021, it was already 22 C and rising when Jayne Hamilton started her shift.

“I knew it was going to be hot, I knew it was going to be miserable,” she explains. “I didn’t, even with that, have an understanding of how hot it was going to be.”Like Ackerman, Hamilton was immediately dispatched to a cardiac arrest. By the time she cleared from that one, she was sent to another. 

“Somewhere between the second and third one, we started commenting out loud that ‘this is not normal,’ ” she says. “When you’ve made it to three cardiac arrests before 10 o’clock in the morning, it’s odd.” Hamilton is an advanced care paramedic. A specialist dispatched to the most serious emergencies, she has more training than the primary care paramedics who make up the bulk of the ambulance service. But even with that focus, Hamilton says “a heavy week of cardiac arrests” would be three in a four-day work block. But on June 28, she says she responded to 11 of the 27 that came across her dispatch computer. 

“It seemed endless, like just an endless avalanche,” she says.

When bodies heat up, they normally cool down by sweating and dilating the blood vessels near our skin. But extreme heat and exertion can stress these systems. When someone is exposed to these stressors for too long, their body gets overwhelmed. Heat cramps show up, then heat exhaustion, with profuse sweating, nausea and dizziness. Those can be stopped by cooling someone down, but if that doesn’t happen the condition can progress to heat-stroke, a life-threatening problem where organs start to shut down. Heat can also impact how medications work and compound existing health problems, especially related to the heart and kidneys. 

These are all things that paramedics like Hamilton learn in school. But outside of the classroom, heat emergencies are rare. 

“[Extreme heat] wasn’t something that organizations or the paramedics at large were really focused on,” she says, explaining that most heat emergencies happened at worksites or events, like races and summer festivals.

And it wasn’t just paramedics seeing a massive uptick in heat-related illnesses.

“I was working during the heat dome and I saw more cases of heat illness than I ever had in my entire career,” Vancouver-based family physician and president of the Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment, Melissa Lem says. 

“It affected so many people … If you didn’t have indoor cooling, you could not escape from the heat; it was everywhere.”

Unhoused and low-income communities impacted more by extreme heat, heat dome

The heat dome was experienced by people throughout B.C., but it didn’t impact everyone equally. In 2022, the BC Coroners Service released a report about this period which found “the elderly, persons with chronic health conditions, persons living alone, those with no access to cooling and those in particular geographic areas were more impacted by the heat.”It was a reality explored by the Union Gospel Mission in their 2024 report Unhoused Under Pressure, looking at how climate change is impacting unhoused people in the Downtown Eastside. It looked at flooding, cold, wildfire smoke and extreme heat, with a focus on how the heat dome hit the community.

“Vancouver’s 2021 heat dome lives vividly in the collective memory of Downtown Eastside residents,” the report explained. While the BC Coroners Service’s report didn’t break down deaths by neighbourhood, it did find that “material deprivation” and “social deprivation” were major contributors to heat-related deaths. So too was the lack of access to air conditioning or indoor cooling spaces, all problems, Wells explains, common in the Downtown Eastside.

“Heat is more harmful and prevalent in the Downtown Eastside because there are fewer plants, less shade and little to no access to air conditioning,” Nick Wells, a spokesperson with Union Gospel Mission, explains.

“The Downtown Eastside can get as hot as 49 degrees Celsius, and that’s incredibly dangerous,” Wells adds. “While you’re dealing with this heat, you’re also dealing with other kinds of comorbidities or issues, such as entrenched homelessness, systemic poverty, mental health issues, substance use and addiction. All these factors play in.”

‘You were in a natural disaster’

First responders train for natural disasters. They call them mass-casualty incidents and have systems to manage staff, triage patients and ensure resources get where they’re needed. But extreme heat doesn’t look like other disasters.

“What we worked through during the heat dome, in the truest sense of the word, was a natural disaster — no different than floods, earthquakes, that kind of thing,” Hamilton says. In addition to her work as a paramedic, Hamilton serves on Canada Task Force 1, a Vancouver-based search-and-rescue team deployed to natural disasters across Canada. “It was that scale of a disaster, [but] at the time, I don’t think, when we were in it, that we recognized it.”

Ackerman remembers “feeling just awful about the way the day had gone.” So much so that he brought it up with his supervisor.  

“He told me, ‘You were in a natural disaster, we just didn’t tell you [that] you were,” Ackerman says.

For some, that feelings of grief, exhaustion and frustration turned into anger when Darlene Mackinnon, then BC Emergency Health Services’ chief operating officer, told Global News that, in her eyes, the service had done “a really good job” responding to the heat dome.

A petition calling for Mackinnon’s firing was initiated, calling out BC Emergency Health Services for failing to prepare for the heat dome by staffing ambulances or dispatch centres appropriately, leaving some patients to wait hours for help. 

“I have never seen paramedics and dispatchers as angry as they are right now,” one paramedic, speaking anonymously to Global News, said in reply. “Everyone is absolutely livid and disgusted with the response.”

The petition calling for Mackinnon’s firing gathered thousands of signatures in a matter of days. The Ambulance Paramedics of British Columbia, the union representing paramedics and emergency dispatchers, later learned that Mackinnon was placed on leave. By December 2021, she moved on to a new role within the provincial health authority.

On July 14, Adrian Dix, then the province’s health minister, held a press conference announcing the hiring of Leanne Heppell to the new post of chief ambulance officer, and pledged millions of dollars to hire 85 new full-time paramedics and 30 full-time dispatchers. There was also money to buy 22 new ambulances and convert 22 rural ambulance stations from part-time, on-call service to full-time.

A year later, in 2022, the province announced $148 million in new funding to expand the ambulance service and hire new paramedics. They budgeted $2.1 billion for climate disaster preparedness, including funding for the Disaster Risk Reduction and Resilience team. According to the government, by 2024, the BC Emergency Health Services budget was nearly $1 billion, an increase of more than $475 million since 2017. 

“It’s one of those events where we recognize, as an organization, that it shouldn’t have taken a tragedy like that to lead to improvements,” Ackerman says. But it has led to improvements. After the heat dome, Ackerman became a director of the disaster risk reduction and resilience department, a team he says he oversaw grow from two staff to more than 30.

“The immediate response was [that] we need to have an early warning system, we need to have proper preparation, we need to have a proper response [and] we need to have a proper recovery phase,” he explains. “That was the impetus for five years of iterative improvement to try and make sure that we are prepared well in advance of any event.”

Those preparations include what Ackerman calls an “operational readiness team” of paramedics who monitor forecasts from organizations such as Environment Canada and BC Wildfire Service. Ackerman says they use this data to produce daily risk scores for the service for categories of environmental issues, such as floods, wildfires and extreme temperatures.

These scores trigger a range of responses. It could be increasing staffing levels or moving ambulance crews to high-risk areas. There might be staff-wide warnings about travel conditions or how temperature extremes impact medications. Sometimes it requires out-of-the-box thinking, like when dozens of ambulances were deployed to the Vancouver airport to meet planes evacuating critically ill patients during the 2023 wildfires in the Northwest Territories.

The province also created something called the BC HEAT Committee after the heat dome. A multi-agency coordinating body housed in the BC Centre for Disease Control, Ackerman describes it as a heat alert and response system “that just didn’t exist before the heat dome.” 

“We’re able to respond well in advance and be prepared for these things and not get caught after it’s already escalated,” he says. 

There are also efforts to reduce the strain that heat events put on emergency services. For example, specialized paramedics will respond to non-life-threatening emergencies, helping move people to cooling centres and freeing up ambulances for Code 3 responses.

Climate change is a ‘prominent source of occupational stress’ for paramedics

Getting the ambulance service to understand the connections between climate change and medical emergencies was a focus for David Hollingworth before the heat dome ever hit. A primary care paramedic and the director of the Ambulance Paramedics of BC’s environment and climate change committee, he had spent years trying to make the link. While some supervisors supported him, he says that the higher ranks of the service didn’t seem interested.

“Seeing these [natural disaster] events and not seeing the link to climate change being made was infuriating,” he says.

But something changed after the heat dome. The death toll was one part, but so was the strain of working under extreme temperatures.

“I was making little bags of ice from the ice machine in the hospital,” Hollingworth recalls. “I was putting them in my breast pockets and moving them around to different pockets in my body, just to try to cool down.”

After the heat dome, he had a moment where he felt “a sense of this is what I’ve been talking about.”

“Health-care professionals now recognize that human health is interdependent on planetary health and the environment,” he explains. “By not doing anything about it, we’re just making our work more difficult and more dangerous, so it’s in all of our self-interest to do it.”

It’s an argument that resonates with Shannon Sherk. Now a paramedic, Sherk was a student at the University of Victoria when the heat dome hit. She was broadly interested in the connections between human health, the environment and health-care, but the events of 2021 sharpened that focus onto climate change and paramedics.

“I realized that no one had really looked into the relationship between paramedicine and environmental hazards,” she says. “Which seems a little bit ironic to me, considering it’s the facet of health-care that interacts the most [with people] outside of clinical settings.”

Sherk dug in, surveying over 100 paramedics from across the province about how climate change was impacting their work for a paper that was published in the June 2026 issue of the Journal of Disaster and Emergency Medicine.

“The big overarching conclusion is that paramedics are seeing environmental hazards impact both their patients and themselves,” she explains. “Patient outcomes are worse when you have extreme hazards, transport times or your time to get to patients is longer, and call volumes are higher.”

But while Sherk says that those are all pretty well understood realities, there’s less clarity around how paramedics are affected by events like extreme heat, wildfire smoke and atmospheric rivers — particularly when they’re already at their limit. 

“If you have a workforce that is operating at over 100 per cent capacity on a good day, what plans are there when you do have those additional stressors and there’s not really any extra resources or staff you can pull upon?” she asks. 

Her research found that climate impacts are a “prominent source of occupational stress” among paramedics. 

“The combination of a high call volume, higher acuity calls and an overstretched workforce creates optimal conditions for critical incident stress,” the report explains.

In August 2025, the Ambulance Paramedics of BC published a press release raising the alarm over a simmering mental health crisis within the service. Nine paramedics had already died in seven months prior to the release of the statement.

“While a majority of these deaths were due to health issues or accidents, many of these members died by suicide,” the statement explained. “Deaths that are very likely connected to the immense stressors of their jobs.”It noted 30 per cent of the 6,000-plus paramedics in the province were either off work for mental health reasons or working while dealing with a mental health issue.

When the CBC asked Nicki Ropp, a mental health and wellness coordinator for the union about why they were seeing this spike, she cited multiple factors, including impacts from climate change and extreme weather.“With the ongoing opioid crisis that continues to take up a lot of our call volume, the pandemic, the flooding, the heat dome, our staffing shortages, wildfires, everything. This is all compounding things,” she says.

Sherk worries that these issues are only going to worsen with the climate crisis. 

“You have all of these overlapping factors,” she says. “It’s hard to rally folks around figuring out what you do when there’s another really bad heat event, because we’re so focused on how to deal with how bad things are now.”

It’s a question of when, not if, we’ll experience another heat event. And it might not even take something as extreme as the heat dome. According to research published by Sarah Henderson in June 2025, “the risk of death spikes when people are exposed to both elevated levels of fine particulate matter from wildfire smoke and temperatures above 26 C.” 

That’s something we could easily see this summer. Environment Canada is forecasting a hot, dry summer for British Columbia. In late May, Weather Network meteorologists doubled down on that, predicting that the arrival of an El Niño pattern would lock in warmer summer temperatures for the province and contribute to elevated wildfire risk.That could mean increased strain on health-care and emergency services, because while heat and smoke are both dangerous on their own, they’re even more deadly together. That worries Lem, not only because of the health implications, but because she thinks that both the provincial and federal governments are rolling back climate action and forgetting the lessons of the heat dome. 

“It’s recency bias. … Our brains are wired to focus on what’s in front of us right now,” she says. “This summer is projected to be one of the hottest in history. If we have another deadly heat wave, they’re going to be talking about climate investments again. It’s unfortunately our short-term views that prevent us from acting longer-term.”

Still, Ackerman thinks that the ambulance service is much better prepared to respond to future climate events than it was back in 2021. He points to the increased staffing, better pay, the preparation from his disaster readiness team and even the expanding scope of practice as examples. 

But Sherk isn’t as confident. She’s had conversations with Ackerman’s department and thinks they’re doing “amazing” work in preparing for disaster events. And while she agrees that conditions within the ambulance service have improved through things like better pay and increased staffing levels, many of the external factors driving increased call volumes haven’t.“So much of the workforce is putting out fires and dealing with ongoing crises,” Sherk explains. “You have all of these overlapping factors — like the opioid crisis, the housing crisis, the impact of COVID-19 and terrible responder well-being — that it’s hard to rally folks around figuring out what you do when there’s another really bad heat event. We’re so focused on how we deal with how bad things are now.”For Sherk, it raises questions about whether disaster response plans will work when they depend on having excess resources. Her research suggests that many paramedics are still overworked and burned out, and if they’re already stretched to the limit, she’s worried that even the best- laid plans won’t be enough. 

“If you’re trying to identify what resources you can pull in during a heat event, it’s hard to imagine what that looks like when all available resources are being used all the time.”

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Summary

• Grade 7 students Veda Nair and Latavia Douglas discovered their school and community no longer had access to recycling services after Ontario shifted responsibility for blue box collection to a producer-run system.
• Although the First Nation is eligible to join Ontario’s Blue Box Program, it has not registered due to logistical concerns.
• Nair and Douglas continue to advocate for recycling in their community, arguing they should have the same opportunity to protect the environment as anyone else.

In September 2025, Veda Nair and Latavia Douglas set out to start a recycling program at their school.

The Grade 7 students attend Mamawmatawa Holistic Education Centre, locally known as MHEC, in Constance Lake First Nation, about 500 kilometres northeast of Thunder Bay, Ont. They planned to encourage their classmates to sort paper, plastic and other recyclables through a student-led initiative called Project Z.E.R.O.

Project Z.E.R.O. stands for “zero mistakes, engage everyone, recycle and one school, one goal,” Nair said. 

But the project quickly became complicated. 

“When we first started, we just hoped that this would be a little project where we would just buy some recycling bins and everyone would recycle, but it evolved into a lot more,” Nair said.

For one thing, they learned there were no longer recycling services available in Constance Lake — not for their school, or the roughly 200 homes in the community. Any recycling they collected and sorted had nowhere to go.

Up until 2023, Ontario municipalities were responsible for their own recycling programs. Then, the Ontario government decided to make a major change, shifting that responsibility over to Circular Materials, a not-for-profit organization run and funded by the major producers of recyclables, like plastic and cardboard.

Municipalities and First Nations have gradually transitioned over to the new program — but not all of them, at least not yet. Constance Lake’s recycling had been handled through an agreement with the nearby Town of Hearst, Ont., but now, like more than 100 other First Nations, it is lacking that service.

“We were unable to continue it because the Town of Hearst isn’t responsible for the recycling anymore,” Nair said. 

Constance Lake is located about 32 kilometres by road northwest of Hearst. After the First Nation’s landfill site was closed in 2018, a solid waste and waste diversion service agreement was signed and the town provided recycling services for the First Nation, which has about 900 members living on reserve. According to the agreement dated March 28, 2020, Hearst would accept the First Nation’s waste and recycling material at the municipal landfill site in exchange for a service fee.

But that changed a few years later, according to Éric Picard, the chief administrative officer for the Town of Hearst, to prepare for Ontario’s new recycling regime, the Blue Box Program. Lillian Sutherland, infrastructure and public works manager for Constance Lake First Nation, said the community has not received any recycling services since around 2022, when the provincial program was ramping up.

The First Nation’s waste is still handled by the town, but the recyclable materials are no longer accepted under the renewed agreement because blue box services are now administered by the province and producer-led organization.

That has left Nair and Douglas trying to figure out where their school’s recyclables could go.

Why doesn’t Constance Lake First Nation have a recycling program?  

Ontario’s Blue Box Program recycles printed paper and packaging, including plastics, paper, glass, aluminum and steel. It is regulated by the provincial government and managed by Circular Materials. Its recycling services are largely contracted out to GFL Environmental Inc.

The Doug Ford government finalized its Blue Box Regulation in June 2021 and began transitioning responsibility for residential recycling from municipalities and First Nations to Circular Materials. The new system officially launched in July 2023. Under the regulation, all participating communities were to be included in the new system by Dec. 31, 2025.

Ontario’s Blue Box Regulation defines an eligible community as a local municipality, local services board area or First Nations reserve south of the Far North region of Ontario — but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re participating.

Constance Lake, for example, is eligible for the program, according to a spokesperson for the Resource Productivity and Recovery Authority, the regulator mandated by the Ontario government to enforce the province’s recycling law. But it hasn’t signed up — and it’s not alone.

As of Jan. 1, 2026, only 12 First Nations out of 102 residing south of the Far North border had transitioned over to the new program. 

Eligible First Nations must first register and submit information about their community and existing waste collection services. That information is then shared with Circular Materials. Once a First Nation is registered, Circular Materials is required to provide an offer of collection services or funding on behalf of the producers that finance the system.

Constance Lake First Nation Chief Richard Allen told The Narwhal the community did not apply to be a part of Ontario’s Blue Box Program due to logistical concerns — the cost of transportation to and from the community and concerns GFL would not service it because the reserve is on federal Crown land.

Part of the challenge facing Project Z.E.R.O. is that students and school staff have received conflicting information about why recycling services through GFL Environmental are unavailable in the community, and if it’s related to being on federal lands.

“We were a little panicked because, what would we do if the only company that was responsible for our recycling cannot help us with recycling?” Douglas said.

The Narwhal reached out to GFL Environmental Inc., but the company declined to comment, explaining that it is a contracted service provider, and referred questions to Circular Materials.

In an emailed statement to The Narwhal, Circular Materials wrote it is not currently engaged in any discussions about providing recycling service to Constance Lake First Nation and not in the position to comment on operations or any possible third-party private contract negotiations. It further wrote eligibility is determined by Ontario’s Blue Box Regulation.

“Circular Materials is committed to supporting First Nations communities with their needs and requirements around the blue box transition, in alignment with Ontario’s Blue Box Regulation,” Jennifer Kerr, a spokesperson for Circular Materials, wrote.

“Communities’ eligibility for participation in the Blue Box Program is determined by the Blue Box Regulation.”

‘It just seems a bit absurd’

Nair and Douglas began working on the project through their school’s enrichment program, a project-based learning class led by Cameron Straughan, who teaches science, technology, engineering and mathematics — or STEM.

Since learning about the lack of recycling service, the students have written letters to Kapuskasing-Timmins-Mushkegowuk MP Gaétan Malette, federal Environment Minister Julie Dabrusin and Indigenous Services Minister Mandy Gull-Masty, asking for advice and help.

“We recently did surveys at our school, and the results show that we have a lot of students and staff who are dedicated to recycling,” they wrote in the letter.

The students wrote that it “feels wrong” for paper and plastic to go into the garbage just because of where the community is located and that they have the support of their school to put a program in place, but need help to “find the right path.”

Nair said only Dabrusin’s office responded.

“And the funny thing is that they told us that they would transfer this to another person who is the Minister of Indigenous Services of Canada and we already sent them a letter,” she said.

Straughan said he was surprised by the limited response.

“I thought being students, a student-led project at a First Nation school, I thought that there’d be more response by far,” he said.

Indigenous Services Canada told The Narwhal the community has received $222,000 annually for their solid waste management needs since 2020-2021, which can cover recycling, garbage and compost.

The Narwhal reached out to Malette and Ontario’s Ministry of the Environment, Conservation and Parks, which oversees the blue box legislation, but did not receive a response before publication.

Mushkegowuk-James Bay MPP Guy Bourgouin declined to comment, but a spokesperson at his office said additional information is still being gathered and the situation continues to be reviewed.

Straughan said the situation is frustrating because Hearst is only about a 30-minute drive from Constance Lake First Nation. He knows because he lives there and drives to the school every weekday.

“It seems a bit absurd to me that [GFL] cannot send a recycling truck to pick up recycling for this community,” he said.

“And yet they do pick up garbage. They do have a garbage truck in Constance Lake. Garbage is delivered to the dump in Hearst, but not recycling.”

Straughan understands the issue is complicated, but believes the students have exposed a real problem.

“It just seems absurd that we’re tied by red tape, our hands are tied by red tape that we can’t get that recycling truck to deliver,” he said.

Straughan said he has been impressed by how Nair and Douglas handled the complexity of the recycling issue. And the school may still have a path forward. They’re currently looking into the First Nations Waste Management Initiative, a federal program that supports First Nations in developing sustainable waste management systems. Straughan expects to write a proposal over the summer. 

“We have some more work to do ahead of us before we can actually get the recycling program up and running,” he said.

Students want decision-makers to understand that recycling should be available to their school — and community, Nair said. “As an Indigenous school or as any school, students use a lot of paper every day, we should have the rights to recycle and save our environment.”

Rajpreet Sahota is a community and policy reporting fellow. Her position is generously funded by the Canadian Race Relations Foundation. As per The Narwhal’s editorial independence policy, the foundation has no editorial input.

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.

I was arrested while reporting on Wet’suwet’en opposition to the Coastal GasLink pipeline in November, 2021. 

And this year, I’ve spent weeks in court as The Narwhal and I pursue our press freedom lawsuit against the RCMP. I’ve had good reason to reflect on the fundamental rights we are fighting for. 

It started with a simple pitch — I had asked co-founders Emma Gilchrist and Carol Linnitt: “Any interest in partnering to do some reporting out there?” I’d been documenting the RCMP sending officers to enforce Coastal GasLink’s injunction for years, once even for The New York Times. 

I sent that pitch because I knew The Narwhal would be the publication to really get it. They agreed to fund my trip, and I was grateful. I had no idea how lucky I was to be working with a team who would go on to support me through some of the worst moments of my life.

That support hasn’t faded — and neither has my faith in The Narwhal. We can only keep telling critical stories about resource extraction in Canada because more than 7,400 members regularly pitch in to support this work. Today, I hope you will join them.I knew that trip would be difficult. I had no idea it would end with me staring down the barrel of a police gun, let alone being arrested and kept in custody for four days, or to become a headline myself. I could not have known we would still be wrestling with the effects nearly five years later. 

Police filmed my arrest as they took my cameras, then my notebook, my audio recorder and my credentials. With my hands tied, I could not do my work. I felt helpless and unheard. 

But Narwhals (both staff and readers like you) leapt into action. Carol and Emma jumped to get me and my urgent reporting out of jail. Reporter Matt Simmons drove to the RCMP station to advocate for me — and also made the long trip to Prince George to pick me up and dust me off, days later. 

I was shaken. At the same time, I was buoyed by the response from so many Narwhal readers. We needed that community of support then — and we need it now, too. Will you help The Narwhal keep sending journalists to cover the most important stories affecting the natural world in Canada?

Wet’suwet’en opposition was not the first clash between industrial aspirations and Indigenous relationship to land — and it won’t be the last. Today, Prime Minister Mark Carney’s government is clearing the way for more major infrastructure in the name of sovereignty, including a potential new pipeline across British Columbia.

These issues, and the urgent need to be able to report completely on them, could not be more timely. 

The Narwhal is invested in following stories from the halls of power in Ottawa and across the nation to the forests, mountain ranges and coastlines where communities feel the impacts.

Photojournalism requires physical presence. As the eyes and ears for the public, my job is to help you better understand what it’s like to be there — accurately, before it can become anyone’s spin. To get the time I needed to do this work, I’ve had to be scrappy. The Narwhal, as a non-profit, is scrappy too.

And, as one of our newest members put it: “I think reporters deserve to work without being arrested for doing their jobs.” 

As a longtime freelancer I’ve gotten a peek into many different newsrooms, and felt the pinch of seemingly ever-shrinking budgets. The Narwhal is a rare and special breed, for its willingness to pursue gritty journalism — and genuinely support the journalists who do the work.

Today, I’m asking you to become a member so we can keep fighting for a free press, and keep publishing on-the-ground stories just like this. From experience, I know just how much your support matters — and it matters now, more than ever. 

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 Department of National Defence and City of North Bay have been working to clean up decades-old per- and polyfluoroalkyl, or PFAS, contamination, first announced to the public in 2017. 
• Residents have proposed a class-action lawsuit over the contamination and consequent loss of property value — though environmental and health hazards of the contamination aren’t a part of the case.
• An international company called Industrial Plastics Canada is among the 10 major importers of a Teflon-like subgroup of PFAS to Canada, and they opened a factory in North Bay in 2023.

Gathered in an arena in North Bay, Ont., in summer 2024, federal officials told hundreds of concerned citizens how they planned to remediate longstanding contamination of the city’s waterways left behind by the Department of National Defence. A few months later, officials gave a similar presentation to a packed hotel conference room.

For nearly a decade now, residents have known about the contamination. Some have been told not to drink the water from their own wells, and everyone in the city has been warned not to drink water or eat fish from a creek outside town.

The creek is part of a system of waterways where carcinogenic “forever chemicals” run downstream from a military base, emptying into Trout Lake, the source of the city’s drinking water. It sits at nearly double Health Canada’s guideline for PFAS in drinking water, measured in nanograms per litre. 

Health Canada published an “objective” level of 30 nanograms per litre in August 2024 for 25 chemicals in the PFAS family. That’s less than half of what Ontario currently recommends: 70 nanograms per litre, pertaining to just 11 PFAS chemicals. And that’s just a suggestion, not a binding regulation. 

The city did not reply to The Narwhal’s detailed questions regarding the current state of the drinking water supply, but CBC reported in February 2026 that Trout Lake contained around 58 nanograms of PFAS per litre of water.  

Thousands of substances classified as per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances, known as PFAS, are used to make everything from medical equipment to waterproof clothing. They can generate hazardous waste which, if not disposed of carefully, contaminates air, water and soil — where it can remain for 1,000 years, hence their other nickname, “forever chemicals.”

Statistics Canada reports almost all Canadians already have PFAS in their bodies, including in remote regions such as the Arctic and subarctic. 

In North Bay, the issue is top of mind, with a class-action lawsuit, a lengthy and expensive remediation plan and a new factory importing chemicals from the Teflon-like subgroup of PFAS, called PTFE. And the company behind that factory, Industrial Plastics Canada, is one of the 10 major importers of PTFE in Canada.

While PFAS have been making global headlines for years as an emerging threat to the environment and our bodies, North Bay knows the issue intimately; citizens fear for their water as politicians try to clean up the mess.

Here’s everything you need to know about PFAS in North Bay.

1. North Bay’s PFAS contamination comes from firefighting foam 

From the early 1970s to the mid-1990s, the Department of National Defence used a fire suppression foam containing PFAS to train firefighters across Canada, including near the North Bay Jack Garland Airport. In 2016, after the North Bay Parry Sound District Health Unit learned PFAS had been identified by the Department of National Defence in waterways around the city, it commissioned consulting firm Stantec to assess the impacts on soil and groundwater.

It’s the invisible nature of these chemicals that are part of what makes them so insidious; you can’t see them or smell them, so you don’t know they’re there without testing. 

“When you look at a mine, for example, you can see it and say, ‘That’s obviously disruptive to our ecosystem.’” North Bay-based environmental anthropologist Carly Dokis previously told The Narwhal. “But these things are invisible pollutants, which then tend to attract less public awareness.”

Stantec found PFAS from the foam had contaminated soil, bedrock, groundwater, private wells and several waterways in the region including Trout Lake, Lake Nipissing and Lees, Dorlan, Chippewa and La Vase creeks and surrounding areas.

In 2025, reporting by the Investigative Journalism Bureau surfaced a report by the Royal Military College showing the Department of National Defence found elevated PFAS levels around the base as far back as 2012. That means the department knew about the contamination for five years before revealing it to the City of North Bay in 2016, and the public in 2017.

2.  PFAS impacts health, environment and property values. Residents are seeking recompense

In late 2025, North Bay citizens filed a proposed class-action lawsuit asking for remediation, safe drinking water and $105 million in damages for residents living within a three-kilometre radius of the 22 Wing Canadian Forces Base and Jack Garland Airport. Some of the people who live closest to the contamination have been receiving bottled water from the government for years, but have had no other opportunity for recourse.

The proposed lawsuit, if certified by the court, would be against the City of North Bay and the Attorney General of Canada, on behalf of the Department of National Defence, focusing on the loss of property value and remediation costs. The case is also seeking punitive damages, contending that National Defence was aware of the contamination long before warning residents.

Not mentioned in the suit is the long list of health concerns associated with “forever chemicals.”

The United States Environmental Protection Agency lists potential health risks of exposure to PFAS, including reproductive problems like infertility, developmental effects in children, increased risk of certain cancers and weakening of the body’s immune system, including reduced vaccine response. The Canadian government says PFAS can be transferred through the placenta during pregnancy, and infants can be exposed through human milk. 

Ecosystems are affected, too. Studies have shown exposure to per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances can stunt plant growth and cause reduced seed germination and ability to photosynthesize. The chemicals can build up in the organs of living creatures throughout the food chain. In the district of Nipissing, that poses a risk to people who hunt, fish and harvest from the land.

“These industrial areas are often surrounded by lower-income buildings and peoples and communities,” Curtis Avery, environment department manager with Nipissing First Nation, told The Narwhal in summer 2023. “We’re the most vulnerable group of people that utilize our lands — the lands are our grocery stores. … If these are being impacted, we need to know.”

3. Cost of North Bay clean-up grew five-fold, to more than $100 million

In 2021, the City of North Bay announced plans to begin remediation under a “shared responsibility” agreement between the Department of National Defence and the city. The federal department would cover 97 per cent of the costs, or $19.4 million, and the city would cover the remaining three per cent, at $600,000. But costs have ballooned since then; in December 2025, National Defence announced it would contribute another nearly $100 million to the remediation, with the city’s share rising to more than $3.6 million. The total for the cleanup project has risen to more than $122 million.

The remediation, which began on the ground in 2024, includes excavating and disposing of about 26,000 tonnes of PFAS-impacted soil; injecting activated carbon material into particularly dense patches of PFAS to stop the underground plume from spreading; and installing a filtration system to treat water leaving the site.

“We remain committed to addressing and managing the operational legacy of the Canadian Armed Forces responsibly,” Minister of National Defence David J. McGuinty said in a news release.

As part of the process, a notice went up on the federal Impact Assessment Agency registry on April 28, inviting the public to comment up until June 5 on a proposal to install a 250-metre permeable barrier in the ground to help filter impacted groundwater. A spokesperson for the agency said its role in the project is to offer advice on determining its environmental effects, as well as providing the opportunity to post the project on the registry.

Local organizations, including the environmental group Northwatch, said in a press release that they were concerned about “very limited public engagement over the last ten years since the public disclosure of the contamination,” counting only the two forums in 2024 and 2025, where there was “limited opportunities for the public to ask questions.” 

Northwatch’s project coordinator Brennain Lloyd told The Narwhal about the public notice period, which she said her organization only learned of in a daily bulletin from the Impact Assessment Agency listing multiple assessment notices from across the country.

“To the best of our knowledge there were no local announcements or invitations to comment issued to the many residents and organizations who have identified their interest in this program,” a release from Northwatch reads.

The Department of National Defence did not respond to questions from The Narwhal. 

4. North Bay’s not alone: contaminated military bases affect communities across Canada

Contamination on federal sites is an issue across Canada. There are thousands of contaminated sites listed on the federal contaminated sites inventory, and PFAS are found on more than 100 of them. These include at least 26 National Defence sites including bases in Trenton, Ont., Gagetown, N.B., and Moose Jaw, Sask.

And contaminants don’t stop at the fenceline. Health Canada says some contaminants can travel long distances through soil, water and air: “PFAS can be found in fresh water and drinking water in areas that are far away from where they entered the environment,” according to the department’s website.

5. Industry is still importing PFAS-class chemicals into North Bay

While the Canadian government no longer uses firefighting foam that contains PFAS, industry continues to bring these substances into the country. In 2023, The Narwhal reported on an international plastics conglomerate that opened its first Canadian location, Industrial Plastics Canada, in North Bay. The company has a presence across Europe as well as in India and China, billing itself as one of the “largest worldwide manufacturers of PTFE products.” 

PTFE, or polytetrafluoroethylene, is a Teflon-like product in a subgroup of PFAS known as fluoropolymers, or fluoroplastics. A company spokesperson previously told The Narwhal the use of PTFE at the factory will not produce waste and poses “no risk.” The company also says fluoropolymers aren’t as dangerous as other PFAS and are “considered safe, non-bioaccumulative and non-toxic.” 

But fluoropolymers have been found to be dangerous to human health, according to research published in the peer-reviewed journal Environmental Science & Technology and others.

In 2023, Health Canada released a draft assessment of the state of PFAS in Canada to help decide how to regulate the class of chemicals. In it, the agency cited an industry-funded study that said fluoropolymers should be considered separately from other PFAS as “polymers of low concern.” A Health Canada spokesperson said the agency, along with Environment and Climate Change Canada, “examined information from a wide range of sources,” including scientific journals and reports while preparing the state of PFAS report.

The substances were ultimately excluded from the final report, released in March 2025, in which Health Canada proposed classifying the remaining PFAS chemicals as toxic substances under the Canadian Environmental Protection Act.

The Health Canada spokesperson said in an email that fluoropolymers “have specific properties that differentiates them from other PFAS,” which led to their exclusion from the final report. They added that the exclusion “should not be interpreted as meaning they are or are not of concern,” and that a separate fluoropolymer assessment is currently underway.

The exclusion of PTFE from that classification was a major priority for industry, Rémy Alexandre, toxics project lead at environmental law non-profit EcoJustice, told The Narwhal.

According to data collected by Alexandre, who studied Industrial Plastics Canada’s imports to North Bay, the company brought in almost 207,000 kilograms of PTFE from India and China from July 2025 to May 2026.

This puts the facility on the list of the 10 major importers of PTFE in Canada, alongside U.S.-based chemicals company Chemours, a spinoff of Dupont that has been arguing that the European Union should exempt fluoropolymers from their regulations, too. 

“The decision to site this plant in a community that is an existing hotspot for PFAS raises concerns,” Alexandre told The Narwhal. “And so does the selection of a jurisdiction that isn’t regulating fluoropolymers.”

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The winding drive northward from Vancouver along the Sea to Sky Highway is a series of postcard moments — lush coastal rainforest, glimmering ocean and approaching mountain ranges. It’s easy to miss the closed Britannia mine nestled into the jagged northwest slopes.

The site, in Squamish Nation territory, was once a steep rockface sloping into the Pacific Ocean. In 1904, the Britannia mine opened and would grow to be one of the largest copper mines in the British Empire by the 1920s and ’30s. Little attention was paid to the environmental impacts of mining at the time. By the late ’90s, it became one of the most contaminated industrial sites in North America.

The mine shut down in 1974 and by 1975, the local historical society opened what’s now known as the Britannia Mine Museum. 

On a recent Saturday night this Pride Month, another evolution was underway, with 14 drag kings, queens and things strutting, lip-syncing and sashaying through the century-old Mill No. 3.

The Britannia mine had to transform to continue to exist, drag queen Dust Cwaine says, sitting on a giant tire and staring out at a rusty piece of discarded mining equipment. “When we look around, all you see is history.” 

The venue for tonight’s drag show, “Old Town, New Queens,” is the historic 20-storey mill, which once used gravity to help process ore, rock that contains minerals, dug up from the over 200 kilometres of tunnels inside the mountain. Large pieces would tumble down from the top of the mill, to be crushed, grinded and processed into the consistency of sand. A mixture of that powdered ore, water, aromatic oils and bubbles became a cakey copper concentrate, to later be sent out and processed with high heat and purified into copper.

From 1904 to 1974, the Britannia mine produced more than 45 million tonnes of ore. Tonight, the booming sounds of rock being crushed and grinded are far in the past, replaced by drag king Kyle Wiley turning it out to AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.

Britannia’s copper mill could have been left to “rust and rot” like others across the country, Derek A. Jang, the museum’s director of programs and guest experience, says before the show. His radio beeps and crackles as staff prepare for the evening and try to grab his attention.

Typically, when a mine in B.C. is closed or decommissioned, plans focus on returning the area back to what it was. The local community doesn’t always get a say.

Some closed mines have been remodelled in unique ways. The Sunken Garden in Victoria’s famous Butchart Gardens was once a limestone quarry. There’s an old silver mine in northern Ontario that has lived many lives including a bookstore, flower shop, grocery store and now a tea room. In Pennsylvania, an abandoned limestone mine has become a resort where visitors can ride all-terrain and other recreational vehicles through the darkness of underground tunnels.

The community of Britannia Beach shared its vision to turn the mine into a museum years before the last shift whistle blew on November 1, 1974, Jang says. The opening of the museum the next year was thanks to intentional efforts by a number of groups, including the Britannia Beach Historical Society.

Tonight, the old mine likely looks very different from what the founders ever imagined.

Community groups like Queer People in Mining, Sea 2 Sky Allies and Pride Squamish have booths set up in the gravel courtyard outside the mill. Rainbow hearts and balloons direct the crowd. Inside, there’s an archway — much like the one Madonna danced through in her iconic video Express Yourself — next to a sound system, smoke machine and stage lights.

“As a member of the 2SLGBTQ+ community myself, I don’t always feel seen when I go to different museum attractions,” Jang says, adding that Britannia exhibits have been dominated by images and stories of working white men. “This event, in some ways, is a bold way of saying ‘Let’s change that.’ ”

It took years of relationship building with the local 2SLGBTQ+ community for the museum to see the mine go from tunnels to tutus. Trevor Wulff, president of Pride Squamish, says the nearby town he grew up in wasn’t always a welcoming place. “It’s really amazing because it’s all about community … everyone deserves a sense of belonging,” Wulff says, looking around as a crowd of many ages and genders slowly grows.

It was important to think about how to make the event welcoming for young people, Jang says. He heard from community groups that youth “have very few opportunities to see queerness in action.”

Drag artists played with themes of tech advancements, “Giants at Werk,” a nod to Britannia Museum’s summer exhibit on big machinery and the mine’s legacy of pollution.

“We’re adding to a new history while honouring and respecting the past,” Dust Cwaine says in an interview during intermission, as performers Homo Hardware and Peter Packer prepare for their acts.

Decades ago, when the Britannia mine was operational, its lights illuminated the nights of Howe Sound. The night of the drag show, sunset slowly seeped in through the mill’s 14,416 panes of glass adding to the dramatic glow of Homo Hardware’s iridescent, shimmering wings.

Drag is “a vehicle for self expression,” Homo Hardware explained on a phone call before the show. “There are so many different ways that people can use that, whether that’s a more direct, literal message about a cause, or something a bit more abstract.” What makes drag so effective, they said, is the energy and connection that comes from being in a live performance space.

In the second act, drag thing Rose Butch lip synced to Hillary Duff’s Come Clean. The lyrics hit a bit differently than usual, invoking the environmental impacts of mining. Duff’s voice reverberates through the rafters — “I’m shedding, shedding every color / Tryna find a pigment of truth beneath my skin” — as Rose Butch parts through bubbles floating across the stage.

In one far corner of the mill, bright blue streaks of copper reacting with water shine bright. Rose Butch moves up and down hidden in a star-speckled cloud, holding an umbrella dripping with tinsel until their big reveal: the clouds part into a dress draping them in sequined bright blue skies.

The mine was once called “the single worst point source of metal pollution on the North American continent,” causing devastating effects to marine life in Howe Sound. Acidic water containing heavy metals leaked into nearby waterways for decades. Water leaving the site has to be treated at an estimated cost of $3.7 million per year, according to an email from the Ministry of Water, Land and Resource Stewardship. That treatment process has to happen in perpetuity — meaning the public will foot that bill for the foreseeable future.

That history isn’t lost on the organizers of the event. We’re all here because of the continuous efforts to keep the land clean, Dust Cwaine says. Work continues today to ensure “this place doesn’t poison our waters and poison our nature … It has this complicated existence … I think putting drag in it is this incredible juxtaposition.”

Just a few hours ago, Jang was wearing a plain black Britannia Mine Museum polo shirt, as he prepared for the show. Now, he’s on stage with a flashy new look, sharing another evolution of the mine — and a hope for more to come. The waters surrounding the mine site were once severely damaged, he tells the crowd, but there’s been incredible work done to bring back aquatic life and restore the ecosystem. 

“In the 2010s spawning salmon returned to Britannia Creek, for the first time, in what we suspect to be over 100 years,” he says to an eruption of cheers, through which Jang continues. 

“I worry [young people] think they’re inheriting a broken world that is beyond help … I hope that in some way Britannia Mine Museum can play a role in inspiring the next generation of great thinkers to remember that work is going to be hard, but solutions can be in reach.”

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Summary

• B.C. is a world-leading mushroom producer with much of the provincial crop being exported to the United States.
• Recently, the United States Department of Commerce added tariffs to Canadian-grown mushrooms on the grounds they receive unfair government subsidies.
• One B.C.-based mushroom farm is fighting the tariffs, but more could be coming by the end of the year.

Mushrooms may not be the first crop that comes to mind when you think of high-tech agriculture. But in B.C., Agaricus bisporus — the fungal species sold in grocery stores as button mushrooms, creminis and portobellos — are grown using cutting-edge techniques.

“If you go back 10 or 15 years, you would travel to Holland to find the most productive, leading-edge mushroom facilities in the world,” Lewis Macleod, CEO of South Mill Champs Mushrooms, said in an interview with The Narwhal. “Today, you travel to Holland and British Columbia.”

In 2017, Pennsylvania-based South Mill merged with Aldergrove-based Champ’s Mushrooms to form South Mill Champs. The company now supplies more B.C-grown mushrooms to the U.S. market than any other, around 22,675 tonnes per year. 

Before B.C.’s mushroom tech boom, farms often mimicked more natural growing conditions. Modern B.C. farms use what’s called the Dutch method: metal shelves heaped with a mixture of manure and straw to cultivate their crops. The mushrooms are grown in air-tight facilities that are closely controlled for temperature and humidity. Unlike other indoor crops, mushrooms don’t need much light to grow. The buildings are dim, the opposite of brightly lit commercial greenhouses. This method results in faster growing, better quality mushrooms and fewer pests, according to Macleod. But it’s not as common in the U.S.

Nearly all Canadian mushroom exports — 98 per cent in 2024 — are sold in the U.S. As B.C.’s technologically advanced mushroom industry has grown into a global leader, some American producers have accused Canadian growers of benefiting from unfair government subsidies. It’s set off a trade dispute that could reshape the cross-border market.

B.C. mushroom trade sparks U.S. concerns

If you ask B.C. Agriculture Minister Lana Popham, mushrooms are among the most unique of the province’s commercial crops.

“They have to be harvested 24 hours a day and they grow in the dark,” Popham said in an interview. “There’s been a lot of technology that’s been coming around, a lot of innovation that is allowing for different types of harvesting [and] different types of lighting conditions.”

This innovation may be part of what sparked a trade complaint from a group of U.S. mushroom producers last year.

A September 2025 petition to the U.S. Department of Commerce from the Fresh Mushrooms Fair Trade Coalition argued fresh Canadian mushrooms are being “unfairly” subsidized by government programs.

“Canadian producers are exporting fresh mushrooms to the United States at prices below fair value and are benefiting from countervailable subsidies provided by the government of Canada,” the petition says. “These practices have resulted in significant negative impacts on U.S. mushroom growers and packers, including lost sales, depressed prices and declining profitability.” 

In fact, none of the subsidies provided by Canadian governments specifically target the mushroom industry and are instead directed at farmers generally.

But in May, the Commerce Department agreed with the U.S. petitioners and applied duties on some Canadian mushroom producers. The preliminary decision concluded Canadian governments do unfairly subsidize mushroom production. 

For now, about two dozen Canadian mushroom producers are facing a 2.84 per cent tariff on the mushrooms they sell in the U.S.

South Mill Champs is contesting the Commerce Department’s decision, which Mushrooms Canada, the national trade association representing Canadian mushroom growers, called “deeply flawed.”

“It’s using regulatory tactics to stifle healthy competition,” Macleod said.

Champ’s Mushrooms was handed a 1.62 per cent tariff by the Commerce Department. 

The Commerce Department has yet to decide on whether to hit Canadian mushrooms with anti-dumping duties, a type of tariff applied to imported goods that are being sold at lower prices, as a way to protect domestic producers.

Government subsidies aren’t specific to mushrooms — and U.S. growers get them too

There’s no denying Canadian mushroom growers receive support from the government. B.C. producers do not have to pay provincial sales tax on equipment for their businesses and can also access grant programs that support agricultural operations.

The province also offers funding to help farms cover the cost of adopting new technologies, but Popham pointed out none of the province’s programs are targeted specifically at bolstering B.C. mushrooms.

“It’s not specific at all to the mushroom industry,” Popham said. “It’s just the way we support farmers in B.C.”

And that means the Fresh Mushrooms Fair Trade Coalition’s complaint lacks merit under U.S. trade law, according to Mushrooms Canada CEO Ryan Koeslag.

“It is difficult to reconcile Commerce’s preliminary approach with the fact that comparable agricultural tax treatment exists in the United States,” Koeslag said in a statement after the Commerce Department’s preliminary duties were announced. “Canadian mushroom growers are not receiving special treatment. They are operating under ordinary rules that apply to farmers.”

The Commerce Department did not respond to questions about these criticisms of its decision and whether it will assess tax exemptions available to U.S. mushroom farmers before reaching its final decision on the tariffs. The Narwhal also contacted Giorgio Fresh Co., one of the U.S. companies that formed the Fresh Mushrooms Fair Trade Coalition, for comment but did not receive a response.

Macleod doesn’t believe the trade complaint is really about subsidy programs at all.

“This case is not about the U.S. versus Canada — it’s about companies who have invested in new infrastructure and those who haven’t invested in new infrastructure,” he said.

Most Canadian-grown mushrooms are grown using the Dutch method, Macleod explained. This technique gives growers large, reliable yields quickly, he added, while also reducing pest pressures and creating mushrooms that consumers prefer.

In the U.S., the majority of mushrooms are grown on wood shelves, an older technique that isn’t as efficient as the Dutch method.

Growing mushrooms on wood makes it “very hard to consistently produce a fine-looking mushroom and ensure disease doesn’t at times of the year really damage the crop,” Macleod said.

South Mill Champs’ U.S. operations have learned a lot about the benefits of modern mushroom growing from their Canadian counterparts, he added.

Switching from wood-based cultivation to the Dutch method isn’t cheap, though government grant programs and tax exemptions can help take the edge off the costs. Macleod said it takes years for a mushroom farm to see a return on investment into a whole new cultivation set-up. But the new technology can reduce ongoing costs, increase revenue and open the door to further technological innovation, he added. 

With new cultivation systems in place, Popham said some B.C. farms are introducing robots to harvest their mushrooms.

“Technology is taking over what I would call mundane tasks,” she said, adding human workers are still needed to oversee the machines.

“They don’t expect, as they bring in technology, to see displacement of labour. It’s adding to a better quality of workplace, which is really cool.”

Robots can’t harvest mushrooms grown using wood-based shelving, Macleod said, potentially putting old-style producers at even more of a disadvantage.

“If you don’t have new infrastructure, you have to build from scratch,” he said.

Final decision on additional cross-border costs for B.C. mushroom growers could take months

While additional duties on Canadian mushrooms could be announced within weeks, a final determination by the U.S. Department of Commerce may not come for months. Macleod is hopeful the final determination will be that Canadian-grown mushrooms do not harm U.S. producers.

“I really do not think less mushrooms will be exported from Canada into the U.S.,” he said. “Duties paid will mean ultimately the consumer pays more for mushrooms, which is bad for the consumer and the industry.”

Popham believes that B.C.-grown mushrooms are popular because of the industry’s embrace of innovation and its proximity to the U.S. market.

“I hope that what results from this most recent challenge is that there’s an acknowledgement that we’re just doing it really, really well,” she said.

At a time when many British Columbians want to support locally grown food, mushrooms are a perfect choice, she added.

“When we talk about being more resilient and growing more at home, mushrooms have been there the whole time,”Popham said. “I think that when consumers understand how big of an industry it is here and I think that this is another feather in our cap.”

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