Three young hunters laugh by the fire while on a hunt in Lake Babine Nation territory. They are part of a pilot program to bring youth to the land.
“Our hunting values are simple, really. We provide for the family, we provide for different families. We do the best we can to provide for anybody that needs it,” Jordan Williams, a hunter from Lake Babine Nation, says.
Jordan is part of a pilot program led by Lake Babine Nation to bring youth on the land to learn to hunt. The program connects youth who have never hunted before to those with experience, under the guidance of seasoned older hunters like Jordan.
The program launched in fall 2023 with a hunt that brought about a dozen youth on the land for three days. This year, they are planning a bigger hunt that will last about three weeks. The youth will learn practical skills like firearm safety, along with the culture and values around hunting. The nation is fully funding the program and they hope to make it a long-term annual trip.
The initiative is gaining steam with the recent launch of Lake Babine’s Guardians program in April. Indigenous Guardians patrol, monitor and steward lands and waters according to their own governance and community priorities and values. The Lake Babine initiatives are oriented to the same goal — fostering connections between people and the land.
Steven Bayes, a hunter who played a big role coordinating the inaugural hunt, says the youth started out shy but by the end of the few days, “the bond they all had formed was amazing.”
Lyle Michell teaches one of the youth about using a firearm. The team plans to bring back the same youth for a second hunt to build their skills so they can teach others.
“I shot my first grouse,” Jesse Heron says. “I shot a gun for the first time.” In two words, he summarized the week as “fun” and “cold.”
For young hunter Thomas Williams, making the nightly fires was his favourite part, and the trip helped him break out of his shell.
Steven (left) smudges the group on a cold fall evening. “Mother Nature really helps you find your natural stability,” he says. “That sense of accomplishment when you fell a tree, or start a campfire with a flint striker without using accelerants or lighter or match. Just that sense of accomplishment that you see in the kids — the sense of excitement and happiness — that’s the highlight for me.”Jordan wants to use the time on the hunts to share history and stories about “how great their ancestors were,” like his own mother, who would tan multiple moose hides at once by herself. A wet moose hide typically weighs over 100 pounds, and takes weeks on end to process. It’s so labour-intensive that people often work on moose hides in small groups. “She was the shortest lady in Burns Lake but she was strong,” he says.The sun rises over Lake Babine territory as the group begins looking for game. Lake Babine Nation is the third largest band in the province, and their vast territory extends through the Bulkley-Nechako region and Skeena Valley.“It’s a huge territory that we live on — I want them to utilize the stuff that’s out there. It’s a big world out there,” Jordan says.Lyle (centre) says hunting “feels like meditating,” especially when done solo. “You see things differently when you’re out there by yourself. It makes you more open to listening,” he says. “Then when you harvest something and get what you need — it’s really good, it makes the people happy that they have food for the year.”They were hoping to find moose, which hold cultural significance and are essential for food security but have declined in the territory in recent years. The group didn’t encounter any, but were happy to harvest some grouse. Lyle says he most often hunts for people who can’t hunt or are too old to hunt but still crave game. “They’re even happy if you just bring them grouse,” he says.To restore habitat and moose populations, Lake Babine Nation is working with forestry licensees to improve logging practices in the region, including by widening buffer zones around wetlands and reducing cutblock sizes. Steven says the Guardians are launching grizzly and wolf monitoring projects this year to keep an eye on the population, and will use the data to inform predator reduction efforts. He would also like to see temporary pauses on moose hunting, closing off sections of the territory for five years at a time. “We want to start giving the moose a fair chance at repopulating in those areas,” he says.“I love the youth. They keep me young,” Jordan says with a chuckle. Nedut’en was Jordan’s first language, but he says today there are no fluent speakers under 40 years old. He wants to teach youth everything he can about their Carrier ways. “They need it,” he says.Steven says mental health is a huge component of what he wants to teach youth through the hunts. He says less youth have gotten the early experience of hunting due to residential schools, which prevented knowledge being passed down and caused intergenerational trauma. Indigenous men are often “taught to not show emotion, not show excitement,” he says. “That’s the biggest thing that I’m trying to break through — not just in youth but in adults too. They need to know it’s okay, you can show emotion, you can show tears — it’s okay to hurt.” For Steven, the bush is “the safest place” to embody your full self.Steven’s dream is for the youth to build a hunting cabin on Babine Lake one day — “for youth, by youth.”Jordan says imparting language, skills and culture to the young people of the nation is integral. “These youth are our future,” he says. “They are our vital source of survival.”
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Three young hunters laugh by the fire while on a hunt in Lake Babine Nation territory. They are part of a pilot program to bring youth to the land.
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When those boxes of heavily redacted documents start to pile in, reporters at The Narwhal waste no time in looking for kernels of news that matter the most. Just ask our Prairies reporter Drew Anderson, who gleefully scanned through freedom of information files like a kid in a candy store, leading to pretty damning revelations in Alberta. Long story short: the government wasn’t being forthright when it claimed its pause on new renewable energy projects wasn’t political. Just like that, our small team was again leading the charge on a pretty big story.
In an oil-rich province like Alberta, that kind of reporting is crucial. But look at our investigative work on TC Energy’s Coastal GasLink pipeline to the west, or our Greenbelt reporting out in Ontario. They all highlight one thing: those with power over our shared natural world don’t want you to know how — or why — they call the shots. And we try to disrupt that.
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