This is an excerpt from The Narwhal This Week, a behind-the-scenes look at our reporting on the natural world in Canada. Subscribe to get it in your inbox.

The assignment was straightforward. It was almost the 10th anniversary of the catastrophic incident near the the Haíɫzaqv village of Q​’vúqvai, on the B.C. coast, when the Nathan E. Stewart tugboat ran aground. Eight hours after it hit the rocks, it sank, spilling more than 100,000 litres of diesel and other pollutants. It was a major environmental and cultural disaster.

I wanted to know how the people and marine life were doing a decade later. Reporter Matt Simmons was keen to find out.

Matt and I have a long history of working together. I trust his instincts, and gave him room to follow them. Sometimes, that’s where the best stories begin.

His first call was to ​’Cúagilákv Jess Housty, a Haíɫzaqv writer and parent who leads programming at Kvai, a camp for local youth. Much has been done since the spill to protect Haíɫzaqv lands and waters from another tragedy, ​’Cúagilákv told Matt. While others are working on the policy side, ​’Cúagilákv has a different approach.

“I’m going to deepen my commitment to land-based youth programming so every kid in the community loves the territory and wants to protect it — and eventually they’ll be the system,” they explained.

This summer, Matt was invited to attend the 20th anniversary of the opening of a Haíɫzaqv Big House, called λáλix̌sístala, which means “complete the circle.” He and his daughter joined around 300 community members and guests, spending time in a place where knowledge, language, songs and ceremony are shared across generations.

“I had no plans for what the story might be. Instead, I asked: what story is needed? When I returned home, my heart was full but my pages were empty,” Matt writes, reflecting on the experience. “I’ve been leaning into participatory journalism as a means of getting closer to stories that centre and prioritize the Indigenous communities where I’ve been welcomed and trusted, letting respect and reciprocity be my guides.”

The result is a beautiful, deeply considered feature about Haíɫzaqv knowledge, belonging and the work of caring for the land by teaching the next generation. It’s a story told through the people, places and teachings which create a future beyond the legacy of a devastating spill. And it’s accompanied by a stunning collection of photographs and a separate behind-the-scenes story.

Matt and I first started talking about this story in April. Seven months later, I’m grateful to share what grew from trusting this process.

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