Scotiabank is the fifth bank in Canada to publicly refuse to bankroll industrial development in Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, the institution announced in a new policy released Monday.

“Scotiabank will not provide direct financing or project-specific financial and advisory services for activities that are directly related to the exploration, development or production of oil and gas within the Arctic Circle, including the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge,” the bank said in a statement.

Scotiabank joins the rest of Canada’s major financial institutions, including Royal Bank of Canada (RBC), Toronto Dominion (TD), Bank of Montreal (BMO) and Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce (CIBC), in vowing not finance development in a roughly 1.6 million-acre oil-rich parcel of the refuge known as the coastal plain. 

The largest national wildlife refuge in the United States, the protected area is home to myriad sensitive species, including polar bears and the Porcupine caribou, a culturally sacred animal to the Gwich’in Nation and transboundary herd that undertakes one of the largest land mammal migrations on Earth.

The banks’ commitment comes as the Trump administration moves ahead with controversial plans to sell off oil leases in the development area early next month before president-elect Joe Biden takes office on Jan. 20, 2021. Biden campaigned on a pledge to permanently protect the refuge, calling Trump’s move to open the area to oil and gas development an “attack on federal lands and waters.”

All of Canada’s major financial institutions have now vowed not to finance development in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

That all major Canadian financial institutions have agreed to not fund oil and gas drilling in the refuge is a testament to advocacy work by First Nations and conservation organizations, Dana Tizya-Tramm, Chief of the Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, told The Narwhal.

“Scotiabank is respecting our people’s vision, you know, RBC is listening to my Elders, Bank of Montreal values our children growing up on caribou,” he said. “They see the value in this iconic herd.”

“I think the financial institutions have sent a very large signal to the rest of the world,” Tizya-Tramm said.

And while many are embracing the banks’ Arctic pledges, observers continue to note that Canada’s  banks remain heavily invested in fossil fuels. A report by the Rainforest Action Network released earlier this year, for instance, found Canada’s five major banks were among the world’s top financial backers of fossil fuel development.

Major U.S. banks pledged not to fund oil and gas drilling in refuge

The Gwich’in Steering Committee, which represents Gwich’in in the U.S. and Canada, spearheaded efforts to pressure U.S. banks against funding development in the refuge in 2018. 

Earlier this year, five major U.S. banks, including Goldman Sachs, Wells Fargo and J.P. Morgan Chase, pledged to not finance development in the refuge.

That likely influenced Canadian banks, said Malkolm Boothroyd, campaigns coordinator with the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society (CPAWS), which has been calling on Canadian institutions to drop funding for oil and gas development in the refuge since December 2019.

The announcements from Canadian banks comes on the heels of similar pledges from five major U.S. financial institutions, including Goldman Sachs, Wells Fargo and J.P. Morgan Chase. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

“There are so many reasons for oil companies to be wary of pursuing leases in the Arctic refuge,” he said, noting the high costs of doing business in the remote region and skepticism over whether there’s actually enough oil available to warrant industry incursion. 

Every time a bank comes out with a new policy to avoid funding development, that adds yet another reason for companies to steer clear of the refuge, Boothroyd said.

In October, RBC, the largest bank in Canada, became the first financial institution to refuse to fund development in the refuge.

“Due to its particular ecological and social significance and vulnerability, RBC will not provide direct financing for any project or transaction that involves exploration or development in the ANWR,” RBC’s updated policy guideline states.

These announcements should act as a warning to companies regardless of the politics of the day, Boothroyd said.

“The financial world is lining up and saying that they wouldn’t provide a dime to these kinds of projects, so hopefully that will make any company think twice,” he said.

‘They’re respecting our human rights as Indigenous people’

To Bernadette Demientieff, executive director of the Gwich’in Steering Committee, the message from Canadian banks is clear: “It shows that more and more people are listening to the Indigenous voices, that they’re respecting our human rights as Indigenous people,” she said.

However, the fight to protect the refuge is far from over, she added.

Map showing overlap of 1002 area lands and the Porcupine caribou herd range. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Indigenous leaders are increasingly shifting their focus to insurers, Demientieff said. Without the support of insurance companies, prospective companies would have no safeguards in place should they encounter financial pitfalls.

Ensuring that Biden makes good on his promise to permanently protect the refuge is another priority for the committee, she added.

Biden made several campaign commitments to increase protections for the Arctic, including a moratorium on offshore drilling in the Arctic Ocean and prioritizing climate change at the Arctic Council, an intergovernmental body that seeks to address problems faced by people who live in the area. 

There are also several lawsuits fighting the Department of the Interior’s handling of the environmental assessment process. CPAWS Yukon, along with 12 others, allege that the Department of the Interior “broke the law by disregarding the refuge’s original purposes and failing to safeguard those purposes through the design of its oil and gas leasing program.”

Porcupine caribou cover the valley of the Hulahula river in the Brooks range mountains of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

The National Audubon Society and the Center for Biological Diversity, among other U.S. groups, also launched a lawsuit against David Bernhardt, the secretary of the Department of Interior, who signed off on the record of decision.

And in September, attorneys general of 15 states sued the Trump administration, saying the move to open up part of the refuge to development “fails to fully evaluate and consider the devastating environmental impacts.”

“We’re not giving up, we’re gonna keep pushing,” Demientieff said. 

“This isn’t a job for us. We can’t go home at 5 o’clock and turn it off. This is our way of life. This is our identity. This is our food security, and we are spiritually and culturally connected to our lands, water and animals.”

“We are up against a very tough battle,” she continued. “We are up against a lot of money, but I really truly believe in my heart what I’m fighting for and I’m a strong believer in the power of prayer and I do believe we are going to stop this.”

‘We don’t want another Standing Rock’: Chief

Tizya-Tramm said his nation’s decision to bring advocacy efforts to financial institutions and corporate boardrooms was, in part, to keep citizens safe.

The refuge provides crucial habitat to the Porcupine caribou, a culturally important herd to the Gwich’in, who have relied on them for subsistence purposes from time immemorial. The Gwich’in, who live in Yukon, Northwest Territories and Alaska, refer to the refuge as “the sacred place where life begins.”

“I do not want to see our people having to go out onto the highways, set up picket lines and block machinery from going into this area,” Tizya-Tramm said. “Our people would be met with military, rubber bullets, pepper spray and dogs.” 

“We don’t want another Standing Rock,” he said, referring to the 2016 gathering of thousands of opponents of the Dakota Access Pipeline, which threatened water used by those on the nearby Standing Rock Sioux reservation. 

The event became a flashpoint issue for Indigenous Rights across the continent.

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With the U.S. presidential election just weeks away, the fate of oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge — the largest intact wilderness in America — seems to rest in the hands of candidates Donald Trump (decidedly pro drilling) or Joe Biden (decidedly not).

But whether or not industrial development goes ahead in a 1.6 million-acre parcel of the treasured Alaskan refuge, which provides important calving grounds for the threatened transboundary Porcupine caribou herd, could also come down to Canada.

Although in August the U.S. Department of the Interior gave the go ahead to the most aggressive lease program possible — which would open up the entire coastal plain of the refuge to potential drilling — here are all the ways Canadians could get in the way.

But first, what’s the deal with the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, again?

The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge is roughly 19.6 million acres (8 million hectares) of vast wilderness in northeastern Alaska that was set aside decades ago as a haven for wildlife and outdoor recreation. It’s home to a myriad of species including polar bears, migratory birds and the Porcupine caribou, a herd that undertakes one of the longest land mammal migrations on Earth.

There have been attempts in the past to get at oil reserves that lay beneath the refuge, including through exploration activities in the 1980s. But industry has been prevented from moving ahead with any major development, until now.

That’s thanks in part to a 2017 tax bill President Trump used to promote oil and gas activities and open up a portion of the refuge to potential drilling. The bill made way for at least two lease sales in the Arctic refuge by 2024, initiating an environmental assessment process that culminated in a record of decision that allows drilling in what is known as the 1002 area this past August.

Map showing overlap of 1002 area lands and the Porcupine caribou herd range. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Former vice-president Joe Biden has pledged to permanently protect the refuge as part of his campaign commitment to preserve the Arctic and tackle climate change.

Canada and the U.S. have a bilateral treaty to protect caribou

In 1987, Canada and the U.S. signed a treaty to ensure the Porcupine caribou herd and its habitat is protected by minimizing possible long-term impacts while balancing subsistence harvesting.

That treaty has now become the focus of talks between the Yukon and federal governments, along with other interested parties such as Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, the Gwich’in Tribal Council and the government of the Northwest Territories.

Pauline Frost, Yukon Minister of Environment, told The Narwhal the treaty may provide Canada with legal grounds to push back against the August decision.

“It fails to consider impacts to food security in the North,” Frost said. “It’s clearly for financial gains and quick access. It doesn’t consider long-term, specific impacts. It doesn’t correlate with how we do business in Yukon, how we do business in Canada, in terms of effective land management.”

Ian Waddell, a former NDP MP and B.C. MLA, told The Narwhal in 2018 that the treaty could be used to “raise a little hell” with U.S. counterparts. In an interview this week, he said this could take the form of diplomatic letters to the U.S. government.

“It gives us at least something to hang our hat on,” he said. “It’s not a big coat rack, but it’s something, and it can open up the dialogue.”

Jonathan Wilkinson, minister of Environment and Climate Change, said in a statement that the federal government has “significant concerns” with development in the Arctic refuge, noting bilateral agreements with the U.S. government are designed to not only protect the Porcupine caribou herd but also polar bears and migratory birds.

A spokesperson at Wilkinson’s office declined an interview.

The Yukon government has already proven it is willing to intervene in the issue. Last year it made a submission to the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, calling for a complete redo of what the territory considered spotty preliminary environmental assessment work.

Frost, who is Gwich’in from Old Crow, said the record of decision has impacted all Gwich’in nations, which are concerned about the caribou because they are so intricately connected to their culture.

“It affected me, it affected my whole community, it affected my family,” she said. “It’s certainly something, as a Gwich’in person, that I take to heart …” 

Frost wouldn’t elaborate on the details of forthcoming talks between Yukon and the federal government, but said the record of decision and the treaty will be front and centre.

Members of the Porcupine caribou herd in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Canadian banks may withhold funding for Arctic refuge drilling

Last week, the Royal Bank of Canada, the largest financial institution in the country, became the first Canadian bank to refuse to finance any oil and gas development in the Arctic refuge. 

“Due to its particular ecological and social significance and vulnerability, RBC will not provide direct financing for any project or transaction that involves exploration or development in the ANWR,” reads RBC’s updated policy guidelines for sensitive sectors and activities posted on Friday. 

A spokesperson told The Narwhal that the bank has never financed oil and gas development in the region and that the policy change was a “proactive” decision to ensure it stays that way.

A delegation made up of Gwich’in and members of the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society have been putting pressure on not only RBC but other major banks such as TD Canada Trust, Scotiabank and the Royal Bank of Montreal since last December. 

The move follows several U.S. banks, such as Goldman Sachs and Wells Fargo, which, earlier this year, publicly stated they would refuse to finance oil and gas development in the refuge.

Chris Rider, the executive director of the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society, said he hopes other banks in Canada follow RBC’s lead. If they do, that will help highlight the financial risk in store for companies bold enough to consider oil and gas development in the refuge. Severing the flow of cash earmarked for development in the area could thwart any attempt by companies to follow through with their plans, he added.

Dana Tizya-Tramm, Chief of Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, said RBC’s commitment marks the first time a Canadian bank has taken meaningful strides to consult with affected First Nations and make a decision based on those deliberations.

“This is about leadership,” he told The Narwhal. “What we need more is courage, and we’re looking to the courage of financial institutions in Canada to stand in partnership with Indigenous people and stop ecocide.”

On the trail of the Porcupine caribou herd

Canadians are joining legal disputes against drilling in the Arctic refuge

Several groups, including the Gwich’in Steering Committee, the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society and the Alaska Wilderness League, are taking the Department of the Interior to court over its handling of the environmental assessment process.

The National Audubon Society and the Center for Biological Diversity, among other U.S. groups also launched a lawsuit against David Bernhardt, the secretary of the Department of Interior, who signed off on the record of decision.

Last month, attorney generals of 15 states sued the Trump administration’s move to open up part of the refuge to development, too.

Malkolm Boothroyd, campaigns coordinator with the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society Yukon, wrote in an opinion piece for The Narwhal that his organization’s lawsuit “challenges the legality of Interior’s environmental review,” stating “the environmental review gave little heed to the seven original purposes of the Arctic refuge, like protecting wildlife, wilderness and subsistence.”

His group, along with 12 others, allege that the Department of the Interior “broke the law by disregarding the refuge’s original purposes and failing to safeguard those purposes through the design of its oil and gas leasing program.”

Adam Kolton, the executive director of the Alaska Wilderness League, said that if Trump is re-elected, litigation will continue, noting there are currently four lawsuits in motion that challenge the record of decision, including one brought by Earthjustice and the Natural Resources Defense Council.

“If Trump wins, these are still going to be active lawsuits, and, depending on the outcome of that litigation, the administration could be forced to redo its work, and this could substantially delay plans to offer the area to lease,” he said. “We think the administration really sidelined scientists, sidestepped environmental laws and went about this in a really reckless fashion.”

The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

What would the fight to protect the Arctic refuge look like under Biden?

If the Democratic party wins the U.S. election, the battle to keep oil drilling out of the refuge might all but evaporate. 

Biden has pledged to permanently protect the Arctic refuge, calling Trump’s move to open oil and gas development there and in other areas an “attack on federal lands and waters.” 

He has several campaign commitments that involve greater protection for the Arctic, including a moratorium on offshore drilling in the Arctic Ocean and prioritizing climate change at the Arctic Council, an intergovernmental body that seeks to address problems faced by people who live in the area. 

Tizya-Tramm said that Biden’s campaign suggests that advocacy efforts in both Canada and the U.S. are working.

“We’re almost there,” he said, adding that leaders near and far can take a page from Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, which is proving to the world that sustainability is possible.

“In our community, as we advocate for the protection of the caribou, we are charting the path in North America as Indigenous people to what renewable economies look like, to what a renewable, permanent presence on the land looks like, and there is no reason why the U.S. government cannot enjoy the same successes that a small village of 250 people north of the Arctic Circle are levying today,” he said.

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Canada’s largest bank, the Royal Bank of Canada (RBC), has quietly become the first major financial institution in the country to refuse to fund any oil and gas development in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) in Alaska.

“Due to its particular ecological and social significance and vulnerability, RBC will not provide direct financing for any project or transaction that involves exploration or development in the ANWR,” reads RBC’s updated policy guidelines for sensitive sectors and activities posted on Friday. 

RBC is “committed to finding ways to balance the transition to a low-carbon economy while supporting efforts to meet global energy needs and our energy clients,” Andrew Block, an RBC spokesperson, said in an email to The Narwhal.

The refuge, the largest of its kind in the United States, is home to myriad sensitive species, including polar bears and the Porcupine caribou, a transboundary herd that undertakes one of the largest land mammal migrations on Earth.

The bank’s pledge comes on the heels of a controversial U.S. decision to open up part of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil and gas development. The decision prompted swift reaction, with 13 environmental organizations taking the Department of the Interior to court.

Block said RBC has never financed any oil and gas development in the refuge, and noted the policy update is a “proactive decision” to ensure development isn’t funded in the future by the institution.

The bank also placed restrictions on financing the development of coal-fired power plants, thermal coal mines, mountain-top removal coal mines and development in UNESCO World Heritage Sites. RBC also now requires “enhanced due diligence” of any financing of energy exploration in the Arctic. A report by the Rainforest Action Network released earlier this year found RBC to be the biggest funder of fossil fuel development in Canada. 

Vuntut Gwitchin, Gwich’in Tribal Council and the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society have been putting pressure on major Canadian financial institutions to refuse to finance development — and withdraw any existing financing — in the refuge since last fall. 

Dana Tizya-Tramm, Chief of Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, said RBC’s commitment marks the first time a Canadian bank has taken meaningful strides to consult with affected First Nations and made a decision based on those deliberations.

“This is a wonderful acknowledgement and vindication of our Elders, who spoke to the importance of the caribou. We are looking to all major banks in Canada to come into the sunlight with RBC,” he said, adding that meetings have also occurred with TD Canada Trust, the Bank of Montreal and Scotiabank, among others.

The Porcupine caribou, which migrate into Yukon, are of great cultural importance to the Gwich’in, who have harvested them for thousands of years and exercise subsistence harvesting rights.

“This is what true leadership looks like,” Tizya-Tramm said. “This movement speaks to responsible financing. They’ve really opened up a vacuum and created a whole new discussion.”

RBC joins other U.S. banks that have made similar commitments 

Earlier this year, five major U.S. banks, including Goldman Sachs, Wells Fargo and J.P. Morgan Chase, pledged to not finance development in the refuge.

Chris Rider, executive director of the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society, said RBC’s decision sends a clear message that investment in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge is risky. 

“This is sending a strong message that this is a project that is not going to work and that this is a project that companies aren’t going to be able to get capital for, if they do want to pursue it,” he said.

“It shows that banks like RBC are recognizing both the moral importance of protecting landscapes like the Arctic refuge and also simply that it makes good economic sense.”  

When Goldman Sachs committed to not fund development, others followed its lead “almost immediately,” Rider said.

He said this domino effect could occur in Canada, too.

“We hope to see the rest of Canada’s major banks follow suit,” Rider said. “We will be stepping up the campaign in the coming months until they do that.”

Map showing overlap of 1002 area lands, proposed for oil drilling, and the Porcupine caribou herd range. Illustration: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

How RBC assesses projects that may come with a risk

RBC evaluates all potential transactions through an environmental and social risk management process.

“A client’s environmental and social issues can affect their cash flow, their ability to operate, or the ability to grow their business,” according to a policy summary. “Our experience and knowledge along with our policies and processes help us identify and manage risks associated with a client’s environmental and social issues, minimizing our exposure to credit, reputational, regulatory and legal risk.”

Risk could be foisted onto RBC if a company has a history of spills, costs related to fines and remediation efforts or they default on loans, it says.

The bank assesses risk by visiting sites and conducting third-party environmental assessments, the summary says. 

Resource and energy development in the Arctic is deemed as “high risk” in a policy guidelines document.

“RBC recognizes the natural and cultural significance of the Arctic ecosystem that is threatened by a number of factors, including climate change,” it says. “The harsh conditions and fragile ecosystems make it a particularly vulnerable and challenging region for energy and resource development projects.”

Updated at 3:15 p.m. PST to add more detail about RBC’s new policy guidelines and add reference to a report by the Rainforest Action Network.

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Malkolm Boothroyd is a writer, photographer and campaigns coordinator for the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society Yukon chapter.

Two years ago I sat in a windowless convention hall in Anchorage, Alaska, breathing stale air, waiting my turn to speak about the most vibrant place I’d ever visited, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. High-ranking officials from the U.S. Department of Interior sat at the front of the room, emotionless as speaker after speaker described the importance of the Arctic refuge — for caribou, birds, polar bears, and Indigenous communities across the North that depend on the Porcupine caribou herd.

The Interior Department had just begun its environmental review of oil and gas leasing on the Coastal Plain of the Arctic refuge. But even back then, the outcome seemed to have already been determined. The people in charge of the environmental review were closely tied to the oil industry, and the President of the United States had repeatedly claimed opening the Arctic refuge to drilling as one of his proudest accomplishments. All signs pointed towards a rushed and cursory review.

Pacific loons are among the many waterfowl that migrate to the Coastal Plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Malkolm Boothroyd / malkolmboothroyd.com

Last week the Interior Department released its Record of Decision, bringing its environmental review to a close. To nobody’s surprise, the department gave the go-ahead to the most aggressive scenario imaginable: one that would offer up the entire Coastal Plain to oil companies, and place the fewest restrictions on drilling. This week, we responded. Thirteen groups, CPAWS Yukon included, are taking the Department of Interior to court. The lawsuit is led by the Gwich’in Steering Committee, and will be argued by lawyers from Trustees for Alaska, a public interest environmental law group. Earthjustice and the Natural Resources Defence Council have filed a second lawsuit.

Our lawsuit challenges the legality of Interior’s environmental review. For example, the environmental review gave little heed to the seven original purposes of the Arctic refuge, like protecting wildlife, wilderness and subsistence. Instead it shaped its environmental review to accommodate an oil and gas leasing program, an eighth purpose that was only added in 2017 when the U.S. Congress opened the refuge to drilling. We allege that the Department of Interior broke the law by disregarding the refuge’s original purposes and failing to safeguard those purposes through the design of its oil and gas leasing program.

A calf from the Porcupine caribou herd that migrates between Alaska, northern Yukon and Northwest Territories, and is harvested by Gwich’in communities there. Photo: Malkolm Boothroyd / malkolmboothroyd.com

The U.S. government recently confirmed its decision to open the Porcupine caribou herd’s calving grounds, in Alaska’s Coastal Plain, to oil and gas development. Photo: Malkolm Boothroyd / malkolmboothroyd.com

The Porcupine caribou herd is one of few healthy herds remaining in Canada. Photo: Atsushi Sugimoto / Arctic Photo Laboratory

We also contend that the Department of Interior broke the law by not adequately considering alternatives, failing to take a hard look at the consequences of drilling and not adequately addressing the threats to Gwich’in subsistence rights. In total, our lawsuit makes eight claims against the Department of Interior for transgressions in its environmental review and associated actions to authorize leasing in the Arctic refuge. If we prevail, we hope the courts will invalidate the Department of Interior’s environmental review, and any decisions that stem from it.

The Department of Interior could have modelled its environmental review after the Berger Commission. It could have taken the time to visit every Gwich’in community, and learn why oil and gas development in the Arctic refuge poses such a grave threat to the Gwich’in way of life. The Department of Interior could have listened to scientists and the public. It could have written an environmental impact statement that acknowledged the magnitude of damage that drilling would bring. But that didn’t suit the U.S. government’s agenda — since a review in good faith would have found that the dangers of drilling far, far outweighed the pros. Instead, the Department of Interior started with a conclusion in mind, and then wrote an environmental review to justify it.

Caribou is prepared for a community feast in Old Crow, Yukon. Photo: Atsushi Sugimoto / Arctic Photo Laboratory

The coming months will be pivotal for the Arctic refuge — with lawsuits, a potential lease sale and the U.S. election all looming. At the same time we’re working on a parallel strategy, pressuring Canadian banks to rule out financing for Arctic refuge drilling. Our allies in the United States are pressuring corporations there to do the same, and five of the six largest U.S. banks have agreed.

Autumn is spreading across the Arctic, and most of the caribou have departed from the Coastal Plain. I hope that by the time the caribou return next spring, the future of the Arctic refuge will be much more secure than it is today.

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After graduating from university in 2000, I took a teaching job in the remote First Nations community of Old Crow, along the Porcupine River in northern Yukon. The Gwich’in of Old Crow chose the location of the community to align with the spring and fall migrations of the Porcupine caribou herd. Every year the caribou pass Old Crow as they migrate to and from their calving grounds in Alaska’s Arctic Coastal Plains. 

The caribou normally cross the Porcupine River in April or early May when it’s still frozen. One June, when Gwich’in Elder Robert Bruce took me upriver on a spring hunt, we were seeing caribou cow with calves, two or three days old, swimming across the swollen, freezing river.

Calving had happened in the boreal forest south of Old Crow. The caribou were a week’s travel short of the calving grounds. 

We rounded a corner in our boat and saw a cow pacing nervously at the top of a 60-metre cutbank. She was calling out to her calf, who was stuck in the mud at river level. Bruce steered the boat to the riverbank and when we were close enough, scooped up the little calf. We moved her upstream to solid ground and a caribou trail that led to her mom. 

It was the first time Bruce had seen the caribou calve so far from their calving grounds — an early cue to the distress the changing climate is causing on the natural world.

As a Whitehorse-based photojournalist, I have documented that distress and its impacts on wildlife, wild landscapes and people connected to the land for the last 20 years.

The photographs here tell those stories and show how, for those in the North, the forces of a rapidly changing climate are playing out in front of our eyes.

The Porcupine Caribou Herd migration covers more than 2,400 kilometres each year from its calving grounds in the coastal plains of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, through its range in Alaska, Yukon and the Northwest Territories. The herd’s calving grounds are centred on a small strip of flat grasslands between the Arctic Ocean and the mountains of the Brooks Range, providing a safe-haven for calves and an abundance of grasses and sedge for lactating cows to feed on. Though it is the only suitable calving area in the enormous range of the herd, the coastal plains are now threatened by oil and gas development.

A group of pregnant cow caribou cross the dangerous jumble of broken river ice as they’re drawn to their calving grounds in Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. The migration of the Porcupine caribou is thought to be the longest among land mammals and it can be treacherous as environmental conditions change.

A group of caribou from the Porcupine herd linger on the edge of the Crow River during their spring migration to the Arctic Coast. The Gwich’in  of Yukon, Northwest Territories and Alaska depend on the caribou for their cultural, physical and spiritual sustenance. They live in 13 communities throughout the North and the subsistence lifestyle of the Gwich’in is based around the caribou — hunting them during their long migration.

In 2013 my wife Terri and I stumbled upon a black bear sow and three cubs emerging from their den. Watching the momma bear with her cubs reminded Terri of having a newborn. The mother was so tired and worn out that she didn’t give us a second thought. She patiently waited while the cub cried and screamed for 45 minutes until it tuckered itself out and retreated back into its den. Then the relieved mother followed.

A grizzly bear follows its own tracks as it explores around its den in early spring. I often wonder which animals will benefit from the warming weather and which animals will suffer. Does a bear need an extended sleep each winter or will it thrive with more time in spring and fall to stuff its belly?

A black bear cub emerges from its den, to take its first tentative steps in a new world. With spring arriving earlier every year in the North, bears are naturally emerging from their dens sooner every year.

I began photographing spawning Chinook salmon in Tatchun Creek in central Yukon in 2013. Salmon need cool waters to spawn in. If the water in the creek is too warm, they’ll wait in the deep, cool waters of the Yukon River until the temperature in Tatchun Creek comfortably drops. 

I was roaming up and down the small, bear- and salmon-infested shore of Tatchun Creek when I bumped into fish biologist Nicolas De Graf, who has been studying Yukon salmon for decades. I followed him and his son, Joe, around for a day as they captured salmon to gather eggs and milt (semen) for a school hatchery project with the local Carmacks Little Salmon First Nation. He was also measuring the temperature of the creek, which salmon are very sensitive to when spawning.

Tatchun Creek is a minor spawning creek for Yukon River Chinook Salmon. I’ve returned here every year since 2013 and watched the salmon move into the creek later and later in the summer, year after year.

I set up a remote camera on a wolverine den in Alaska’s coastal plains and captured a pair of red foxes when they came over to investigate it. Spotting red fox here is alarmingly common. One of the well-documented concerns with climate change is the migration of red foxes north. As the temperature has risen in the Arctic, red foxes are now able to survive and thrive where they couldn’t before.

A red fox on a caribou kill in the Arctic Coastal Plains. The presence of red fox so far above their traditional range is causing a disruption in many Northern ecosystems — the red fox is a much more efficient hunter than the Arctic fox.

An Arctic Fox visits a wolf-killed caribou on Alaska’s North Slope. The northern cousin is seeing more competition as red foxes move into their range, but also a more direct threat: red fox are known to prey on Arctic fox.

Many Inuit have humorous stories about the shock of seeing their first moose. The massive ungulates, here in the boreal forest of Alaska, are no longer an uncommon site for Arctic communities. 

In the winter of 2019 I was flying with biologists studying wolverines on Alaska’s Arctic coast. We flew over a willow patch and counted 17 moose.

Throughout the North, Elders talk about the changes on the land brought by the slow migration of willows, which moose eat, moving North along river valleys. Moose and hare have followed willow trees and shrubs that have slowly migrated north. Lynx, following their prey the hare, are also increasingly found in the Arctic.

In a sealskin boat, Inupiat whalers paddle through an opening in the ocean ice. One of the most magical experiences of my life was spending 24 hours on the ice with an Inupiat whaling crew. The light, the community effort and the success of a bowhead whale hunt, is a once in a lifetime experience.

An Inupiat hunter, with his harpoon ready, prepares to pursue a bowhead whale. The bowhead hunt is a subsistence hunt, with the meat divided up amongst the hunting crew and community members.

A bowhead whale is secured to the shore ice as Inupiat hunters prepare to pull it up. Bowhead hunts in Alaska have always contained a certain amount of risk but these risks are mediated by the thousand-year-old knowledge of Elders and whaling captains. As a warming climate makes the sea ice less predictable, the hunt is subsequently more dangerous.

Caribou rest on an ice patch in the mountains in northern Alaska. It reminded me that my dad, a passionate armchair archeologist and history lover, was ecstatic when some sheep hunters found 1,700-year-old caribou scat on an ice patch behind our cabin in 1997.

Caribou have always used high elevation ice patches to escape the incessant mosquitoes of summer; First Nations hunters have always used this knowledge to hunt caribou. As the ice patches melt in the warming climate, artifacts like atlatl darts, bows and arrows are being revealed.

In 2015, I was on a caribou photography expedition in Yukon’s Ivvavik National Park where we spent the day photographing caribou crossing a small ice patch. On our way back to camp we found an ancient hunting tool on rocks that were once encompassed by the shrinking ice patch. Yukon archeologists said it was most likely a part of a makeshift scarecrow that hunters would use to corral caribou during a hunt.

Cooper Island is a small barren island just off Alaska’s Arctic coastline, home to polar bears, birds and George Divoky. Divoky has been studying seabirds, specifically black guillemots, on this small island for over four decades and he has observed first-hand the effects of climate change like few others.

A black guillemot delivers a meal to its chick: sculpin, inferior prey in Alaska’s waters. Black guillemots rely on the fatty, nutritious flesh of Arctic cod to feed their chicks. Arctic cod tend to track on the ice edge, but ice that was a few miles off shore in the summer is now hundreds of miles away. It’s a journey too far for breeding pairs of black guillemots.

A guillemot chick that did not survive. The survival rate of chicks has been drastically reduced with the movement North of summer sea ice and the access to food that the shifting ice edge provides.

A black guillemot lands on a log at its colony on Cooper Island. In his four decades of study, Divoky has seen this Arctic island warm enough for a breeding colony of black guillemots to establish themselves here. As the Arctic continues to warm, he’s now watching that colony disappear.

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When the sun rose on the final day of our 12-day hike in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and we still hadn’t seen the Porcupine Caribou herd, the reality that we might not see caribou at all was beginning to sink in for many of us, and the collective mood was sombre.

A team of photographers, artists and Indigenous leaders had been assembled by the International League of Conservation Photographers to document the herd’s epic migration — one of the longest and harshest of any land mammal.

For the bulk of the trip, as we hiked across tussocky tundra, baren shale mountainsides and frigid Arctic rivers in search of caribou, we took the opportunity to document the myriad other flora and fauna that make up this unique ecosystem, while reflecting on the unexpectedly cold temperatures that were foiling our plans.

An unusually cold spring and summer in the northern reaches of the Yukon and Northwest Territories meant the herd’s usual migration through the safety and comfort of Alaska’s coastal plain was disrupted and rendered unpredictable.

Slightly warmer temperatures are needed to spark the mass migration of this herd that begins their near-mystical journey — one of the longest and harshest of any land mammal — for the most prosaic of reasons: fleeing a seasonal plague of mosquitoes.

We were, rather perversely, praying for a swarm of distant pests.

By day 11 we reached the edge of the Hulahula river, where, in two days time, we were scheduled to be picked up by a bush pilot.

Spirits were low as we awaited the plane. Eleven days and neither hide nor hair of the caribou we had come to see.

Then, almost miraculously, as we finished breakfast on that last day, a group of paddlers sent word of the unimaginable: thousands of caribou sighted a mere 20 kilometres from our camp.

That brief satellite message would send us scrambling 19 hours straight over harsh terrain and through a dense fog — into which one member of our party would eventually disappear.

The Hulahula river flows north to the Beaufort Sea, from the Brooks range mountains in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

The waiting game

Each year, the Porcupine caribou herd embarks on one of the longest migrations on earth. From the northern reaches of the Yukon and Northwest Territories, they make their way to the relative safety of Alaska’s coastal plain where, by late May, they calve and nurse the next generation.

I was lucky to witness the herd’s migration in the Yukon in the summer of 2016. It was a revelation to see thousands of caribou stream by at close range over the course of a few days. What struck me most then was the realization that those six-week-old calves had already journeyed 200 kilometres or more in their short lives.

Since that time, the news has been both good and bad for the herd. The Porcupine is the only barren-ground caribou herd across the north that is not in steep decline.

However, while the caribou themselves know no border, the American political climate and details buried in a controversial tax bill have created a crisis for the herd and the Gwich’in people who span northern Canada and Alaska and have depended on them for tens of thousands of years.

The ‘1002 lands’ of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge align almost perfectly with the caribou’s traditional calving grounds and Trump’s ‘Tax Cuts and Jobs Act of 2017’ has suddenly opened up this slice of untouched Arctic wilderness to oil and gas developers, after a decades-long battle with the Gwich’in First Nations and members of the scientific and conservation communities.

Map showing overlap of 1002 area lands and the Porcupine caribou herd range. Illustration: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

I recently made my way to Fairbanks, Alaska, to join a team of photographers and artists with the International League of Conservation Photographers, as well as Jeffrey Peter, member of the Vuntut Gwich’in First Nation from Old Crow, Yukon.

“There’s a lot at stake here,” Peter said, adding his experience of becoming a father for the first time had altered his perspective on the caribou, making him take stock of the legacy he hopes to pass on to future generations.

“I’ve always been concerned about the issue, but now I’m at a point in my life where I’m able to clearly describe why the caribou are so important to Gwich’in, and help others understand that.”

For the Gwich’in, the fight to protect and prolong the life of this wild herd is no less than existential.

Jeffrey Peter surveys the landscape for signs of caribou and other wildlife in the Brooks Range mountains. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

‘Any more development in the refuge at all will wipe us out’

Bernadette Demientieff, the U.S. executive director of the Gwich’in Steering Committee, works on behalf of the collective of First Nations to raise awareness of the refuge with decision-makers in Washington, D.C.

“Any more development in the refuge at all will wipe us out,” Demientieff told me. “This is our health and our way of life that this administration is stomping all over.”

So far, according to Demientieff, the pleas of the Gwich’in have gone unaddressed in the halls of power.

“The refuge is now open for the first time in history, so they have ignored our concerns,” she said.

“They don’t seem to understand what we’re saying. For the Indigenous people in this country, oppression and genocide continue to this day. It’s 2018 and we’re still fighting for our human rights.”

Just two days earlier, the bi-annual Gwich’in Gathering wrapped up in Tsiigehtchic, N.W.T., where a declaration was signed reaffirming the Gwich’in commitment to protect the calving grounds.

“The first Gwich’in gathering in over 150 years was held in 1988, and that was when our elders and chiefs got together, because of drilling in the coastal plain,” explained Demientieff, “so now every two years, we come together and reaffirm our commitment. Our identity is not up for negotiation.”

Bernadette Demientieff, executive director of the Gwich’in Steering Committee in Fairbanks, Alaska. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Thin ice in caribou country

When our bush plane finally dropped us off at the Collins airstrip in the heart of the Brooks range mountains and then flew away, leaving us alone with our 70-pound backpacks and a startling silence, an adrenaline rush packed with both excitement and apprehension kicked in.

We were on our way, hiking over tundra and forging rivers.

As our journey stretched on, we used a satellite phone to connect with a research biologist from the Government of Yukon. We hoped some external insight could help us pinpoint the location of the herd.

The incoming news was bad: the herd’s usual post-calving aggregation in the foothills still hadn’t begun.

We needed temperatures on the coastal plain to warm up, prompting mosquitoes to drive the herd into the foothills and then the mountains in search of higher ground.

We had planned for months — done everything we could to give ourselves the best opportunity to see the herd on our planned 12-day journey — but the caribou still weren’t on the move up into the Brooks range mountains where we hoped to intercept them.

And so, we hiked, day after day.

Expedition members traverse open tundra north of the Collins airstrip in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, on day one of the trip. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

It was obvious, even in their absence, that this is caribou country: every patch of mud bore the tell-tale tracks of earlier caribou movement, and our group followed in millennia-old caribou trails weaving through tussocks and carved into shale-covered mountainsides.

When we finally received news on our last day that there were caribou nearby, our group was elated. We quickly mobilized for a day trek, taking just the barest of essentials.

A significant portion of the herd had been spotted heading toward us, 20 kilometres from our camp.

On terrain as rugged as this, we could expect that to make for a challenging six-hour hike. As we had to return to our same camp site at the Grassers airstrip beside the Hulahula, we were lucky to be able to pack light, but realized our day could end up being closer to a 40-kilometre round-trip saga — about the distance of a marathon.

After an extended river crossing, the team stopped to wring out wet socks and re-apply tape to blistered feet. Our group broke out the binoculars and took turns peering northward down the Hulahula valley, desperately scanning for any sign of caribou.

I mounted my longest lens and noticed hundreds of tiny brown ‘rocks’ that appeared to slowly crawl across the valley slope several kilometres away.

A feeling of jubilation washed over our group as the ever-growing spectre of failure evaporated: we were finally within sight of thousands of caribou, dotting the slopes of the valley across from us.

The herd was still over an hour’s hike away and we were also conscious of the fact that we had at least another six hours to go before getting back to camp.

Sitting atop a pingo, a type of ice-cored mountain unique to the Arctic, we consumed some of the very last calories of food packed for the trip, and planned our final push to bring us close enough to document the herd.

When our northernmost vantage point was finally reached, our view opened up upon what we estimated to be nearly 10,000 caribou.

Bulls pushed up slope toward rockier precipices, cows grazed and rested periodically, while calves sprinted about awkwardly, experimenting with their frisky legs beneath them.

Porcupine caribou cover the valley of the Hulahula river in the Brooks range mountains of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

A Porcupine caribou crosses a braided section of the Hulahula River. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Caribou move along the banks of the Hulahula River. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

Lost in the fog

We had spent about two hours in the presence of the caribou and began to calculate how many hours of sleep we’d get after our long journey back.

We reluctantly packed up and headed out just as a light but steady rain began. A claustrophobic fog slowly settled over the valley.

What was already sure to be a challenging hike home became a cruel reminder that wild places like the refuge owe nobody safe passage.

The fog and rain grew heavier and our tiring team of 10 gradually began to spread out. With camp tantalizingly close, and believing navigation to be straightforward, one of our members forged ahead alone.

Just after 10 p.m. a few of us paused to scrape the bottom of our peanut butter jars and rehydrate in lieu of an actual dinner. Back on the trail, we came upon a creek that had risen to the point of raging thanks to several hours of rain.

It was immediately apparent that this obstacle would prove too much for a solo crossing — our minds turned to our friend who had pushed ahead of the group.

Had he attempted to pass and been swept down the river, it could be fatal. Searching for an alternate route, he could become lost in the unrelenting fog.

Back at camp, our fears were confirmed: our solo hiker had not arrived.

Forming a search party, pairs patrolled the edge of the river and adjacent valleys, where he may have ventured had he become disoriented.

One hour later, nothing. The night crept on. With the darkness and wet and fear settling into our bones, we hit hour two. Not a trace.

It wasn’t until after four in the morning that we’d finally reunite.

The lost team member was located back near that flooded creek, cold, wet and still searching in vain for a safe place to cross.

Rattled by this close call, our entire crew crashed hard just before 5 a.m. — just a scant few hours before our scheduled extraction flight.

We ultimately succeeded in our mission to see the caribou, but were also served a serious reminder of the harsh and unforgiving environment the caribou have to endure, even in the middle of summer.

Peering out over the sprawling grandeur of the refuge from the bush plane the next morning, I felt an exhausted mix of joy at having witnessed the caribou herd on their distant terrain and relief at our team having escaped that terrain intact.

Arctic fox remains atop a small pingo in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge serve as a reminder of the high stakes at play. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

The disturbance

For more than a decade Jeffrey Peter worked in Vuntut National park, tucked into northwest corner of the Yukon and separated from the wildlife refuge by no more than an imaginary international border.

Prior to this trip, he had never actually crossed over into the refuge. Now, having done so, he struggled to comprehend how the caribou can be so well protected on one side of the border, while their existence — and the existence of the Gwich’in nation across the north — is threatened by developments on the other.

“There are thousands of Canadian Gwich’in directly affected by this, and the herd spends a large part of the year in Canada,” he said. “If there is development in the calving grounds, we would see less and less caribou in Canada. They’re such an important part of the ecosystem and they have a big role to play on the Canadian side as well.”

Our group witnessed firsthand how something as minor as a few degrees temperature change, and something as small as a mosquito, can dictate when and where the herd will move.

And while our entire group took every precaution to not disturb the herd, we noticed how sensitive the caribou were to the presence of two-legged creatures, lurking with cameras in the shrubs a couple hundred metres away.

Having seen that, it seemed a stretch that oil and gas development in calving grounds would not have a significant effect on the herd.

Indeed, we have known for decades that human-caused disturbance on the landscape — roads, pipelines, drilling rigs and more — can have long-lasting impacts on caribou, even many kilometres away. It can cause individuals to lose weight, a devastating impact on a species that works endlessly to build fat reserves to survive the cold.

In just a few years in the late 1970s and through the 1980s, a surge of oil and gas activity near Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, redistributed the Western Arctic caribou herd on the landscape as they avoided roads and developments — even going to places where the food is less plentiful to avoid the disturbance — resulting in fewer calves.

The findings of scientists are in lockstep with the traditional knowledge and first-hand experience of the Gwich’in.

For Peter, the idea of brute industrial activity in the calving grounds is unthinkable.

“For all of human history, and predating that, it’s been unspoiled,” he said.

“To have this happen in our lifetime, and look back on it decades from now asking ‘how could we have let that happen?’ It just seems so irresponsible and short-sighted.”

Expedition members cross an alpine river in the Brooks Range mountains of the refuge. Photo: Matt Jacques / The Narwhal

‘We’re not going anywhere’

For the photographers on this particular trip, not seeing the caribou would have been a tremendous disappointment, but for Gwich’in the stakes are much higher.

For tens of thousands of years, Peter said, it’s been a matter of life and death whether they saw caribou.

“They had to really understand the movement of the herd and rely on traditional knowledge to allow them to survive,” he said.

“As Gwich’in, if there’s no more caribou, we lose our cultural identity, our connection to the land, to our ancestors. A lot of things get lost if the caribou don’t come back.”

The connection between the landscape, the caribou and the Gwichi’in spans multiple borders, ecoregions and hundreds of generations, and yet that seemingly robust relationship could be easily disrupted by subtle shifts in climate or a sudden re-arrangement of the political landscape.

With the Trump administration’s approval, seismic testing deploying 90,000-pound trucks with metal plates to shake the earth, could begin in the calving grounds as early as this winter.

The resolve of those determined to prevent this from happening has never been greater.  

“Our culture’s been here for thousands of years — we’re not going anywhere,” Peter said. “This is our homeland. We want to continue to be healthy, happy people. To do that, we need caribou.”

Demientieff draws strength from the solidarity she sees across the border, and has faith that the final chapter of the Porcupine caribou has not been written.

“Our relatives in Canada are standing with us. We’re not going to back down. We’re not going to step aside. We’re going to continue to stand strong, in unity and in prayers, just as our elders directed us to. This fight is not over — far from it.”

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In the mid-1970s, a young lawyer named Ian Waddell took a helicopter ride across the Crow Flats, in northern Yukon. He was accompanying Justice Thomas Berger on his visits to community after community — the so-called Berger Inquiry — to gain their input into a proposed gas pipeline from the Beaufort Sea to Alberta.

When they landed, Berger turned to him and, as Waddell recounts it, said, “You know, Ian, do you realize the magnificence of what we saw yesterday? It’s the last of North America — the eighth wonder of the world.”

That landscape the judge so admired is home to the Porcupine caribou herd, around 200,000 strong, which roam on the world’s longest land-mammal migration between Alaska, Yukon and the Northwest Territories. On the Canadian side of the border, two national parks, Ivvavik and Vuntut, protect much of the herd’s habitat.

But on the Alaska side of the border, the land and the herd that depends upon it have come under threat from oil and gas drilling after President Trump opened up the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) in his recent tax bill.

Caribou, like many large mammals, require huge tracts of relatively undisturbed land to thrive. The routes of migratory herds can be imperiled by development, such as pipelines or roads, that divides the landscape or gives easier access to predators. The area that could be opened to drilling is the Porcupine herd’s calving grounds, rich territory where the animals migrate each year to give birth.

It’s also the site of another kind of riches: the so-called “1002 area,” a potentially lucrative patch of land near Prudhoe Bay. It could contain more than six per cent of the total recoverable oil in the entire United States, at about 7.7 billion barrels.

Trump made the controversial decision to undo decades of conservation in the region, apparently, on a whim.

“I really didn’t care about it,” Trump told a congressional Republican retreat in early February. “And then when I heard that everybody wanted it, for 40 years they’ve been trying to get it approved, I said, ‘Make sure you don’t lose ANWR.’”

There may be something else Trump doesn’t know much about, though, and it could put the brakes on drilling in the refuge: a treaty, signed between the governments of Brian Mulroney and Ronald Reagan in 1987.

The treaty requires that the governments “take appropriate action to conserve the Porcupine Caribou Herd and its habitat,” including considering effects of activities (like, for instance, drilling), avoiding disrupting migration and considering cumulative effects on the landscape.

After Waddell’s time in the north with Berger, he moved on to politics, serving as energy critic for the federal NDP and later as B.C. environment minister. But that experience never left him, and he recently revived the treaty in an article for The Hill Times.

“Canada should now argue that the treaty provides us the right to be consulted before a drilling permit is issued in ANWR,” he wrote.

In an interview with DeSmog Canada, he explained, “If we’ve got a treaty with the United States, we could press that treaty — use that treaty — to raise a little hell.”

A small member of the large porcupine caribou herd. Photo: Peter Mather

NDP, Greens take on Alaskan drilling in House of Commons

Elizabeth May has had her eyes on the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge for decades, since she was a senior policy advisor to Progressive Conservative environment minister Thomas McMillan, and later as the executive director of the Sierra Club.

Now, as head of the federal Green Party, May is the only MP to have brought the issue up in the House of Commons.

“It’s been appalling to see Donald Trump as president for many, many reasons, but this is one of those things that he might do that represents irreparable harm,” she says.

Even under Stephen Harper’s notoriously pro-oil government, Canada remained resolute against drilling in the refuge.

New Democrat MP Richard Cannings says he plans to raise the issue in the House of Commons if the drilling plan goes ahead.

“This is what this treaty was drawn up for — this kind of situation,” he said, noting that the Liberals are under pressure to protect caribou and that this “might be an easy win for them,” to make some progress on protecting one of the last intact herds.

Gwich’in sounding the alarm

Its habitat is a place Cannings, like Waddell, is familiar with from time spent on the land in his former life as an ecologist. As was the case for Waddell, the northern Yukon left an impression that he carried with him to Ottawa.

“I think that Canada should stand up for the Porcupine caribou herd, for the First Nations that have relied on that herd over the millennia, because our whole ecosystem up there is related.”

The Gwich’in have been sounding the alarm on drilling in the refuge since Trump’s election.

“The Gwich’in call this area ‘Iizhik Gwats’an Gwandaii Goodlit,’ the Sacred Place Where Life Begins,” Vuntut Gwich’in Councillor Dana Tizya-Tramm told DeSmog Canada in November, a year after Trump’s victory.

“It is a keystone in the ecosystems of the Arctic, and the heart that beats outside of the Gwich’in chest.”

Tizya-Tramm expressed horror at the idea of degrading the habitat the caribou depend on, emphasizing the interconnected and fragile nature of the coastal plain, which has been described as the Serengeti of North America.

Cannings says the Gwich’in would be consulted and involved in negotiations with the U.S. over the treaty.

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As snowcover recedes from the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska each spring, thousands of Porcupine Caribou arrive to graze on new plant growth and calve the next generation of this herd that is the ecological and cultural backbone of the region.

Following ancient trails through the Brooks, Ogilvie and Richardson mountain ranges on both sides of the Alaska/Yukon border, the herd’s migratory path to this sanctuary is one of the longest of any land mammal.

Yet with a new President in power that promises to open hydrocarbon development in the Arctic, this iconic herd’s migratory way of life could be threatened.

The North’s great barren-ground caribou herds, a sub-species grouping to which the Porcupine belong, were recently listed as ‘threatened’ by the Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada.

A combination of habitat loss, industrial development and climate change have provided a formidable challenge for the notoriously sensitive creatures.

While the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has confirmed 2016 as the warmest year on record for our planet, making it the third year in a row to re-write the record books, the arctic as a whole is warming twice as fast as the rest of the globe.

Dramatic changes are already evident across the north, with warming permafrost and earlier lake melts signaling not just a change in weather for places like the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, but an existential threat to a way of life that has existed for millennia.

Moving even faster than global or regional warming trends, a political step-change in Washington has also sent shockwaves that seem to bode ill for the environment.

Under the patriotic banner of energy security, Donald Trump campaigned on the promise of expanding domestic fossil fuel development.

We haven’t had to wonder long whether president Trump’s “America First Energy Plan” was just empty rhetoric.

Trump’s nominees to lead the Department of the Interior (Ryan Zinke), Department of Energy (Rick Perry) and the Environmental Protection Agency (Scott Pruitt) in particular served as early signals of a clear intention to de-regulate industry and expedite, or outright remove, environmental assessment and protection requirements tied to resource development.

Within days of taking office, the president has now signed executive orders advancing both Keystone XL and the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL), while simultaneously placing an expenditure and communications freeze on the EPA.

It may now be only a matter of time before renewed attention turns to the estimated 7.7 billion barrels of ‘technically recoverable’ crude oil laying under the arctic permafrost in a coastal plain area of the wildlife refuge known as the 1002 area.

Map of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge with the 1002 in orange. Source: United States Geological Survey

“The Alaskan congressional delegation has asked that the 1002 lands be opened to development. This would impact the Porcupine Caribou herd,” Yukon Conservation Society energy analyst Sebastian Jones told DeSmog Canada. This 1002 sub-area of the ANWR also happens to be the favoured calving grounds of the Porcupine Caribou herd, particularly when snowmelt occurs earlier.

“Calving grounds for these caribou herd are very, very important,” says Dr. Justina Ray, President and Senior Scientist of the Wildlife Conservation Society of Canada and Co-Chair of the Committee on the Status Endangered Wildlife in Canada, Terrestrial Mammal Species Subcommittee.

“This is the most vulnerable time of year for this animal. They come to these places habitually year after year, and drop their calves at a time that coincides with new plant growth, so it’s perfectly matched.”

“Those first six weeks of life for calves are critical,” Ray continues. “If you have disturbance in this area, whether it’s noise from exploration or infrastructure, that could increase mortality directly or indirectly because the nutrition of the females is disturbed or they don’t even calve.”

Thanks in part to one of former President Obama’s final acts of conservation — banning oil and gas drilling in the Arctic — Trump can’t single-handedly overturn the protections currently in place for the refuge.

For this, an act of congress plus two-thirds majority vote in the Senate would be required, something Jones feels Trump won’t be able to achieve, “unless something really weird happens.”

A mother caribou from the Porcupine Caribou Herd with her young calf. Photo: Peter Mather, used with permission.

He also feels carbon emission reductions of other nations “will start to reduce demand, likely before oil could flow.”

While the impacts of potential development in the 1002 area remain hypothetical for now, Trump’s denialist view of climate change may pose a more imminent threat.

“A Trump presidency looks to be much more climate reckless,” Jones says. “Caribou are among the species most vulnerable to climate change. If tundra disappears, times will get very tough for barren ground herds like the [Porcupine], and it appears we are already seeing climate effects across the north on caribou habitat.”

What makes the potential fallout from a Trump presidency on the Porcupine Caribou particularly critical, is the impact any dramatic drop in the herd would have for the Gwich’in people of Alaska and Yukon who have relied on caribou for their subsistence for over 20,000 years.

It is the resolve and relentless efforts of the Gwich’in and others that give Jones reason for hope about the potential consequences of a Trump presidency.

“Trump and his acolytes will motivate the conservation community and users of the Porcupine Caribou herd,” Jones says. “This has proven to be a formidable coalition that has defended far more focused and competent regimes.”

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