“If you’re in Vancouver this is way out in the middle of nowhere, but way out in the middle of nowhere is our backyard.”

Those are the words of Frederick Otilius Olsen Jr., the tribal president of a traditional Haida village on Prince of Wales Island, Alaska.

When I met him, he had travelled to Ketchikan, Alaska, to meet with officials about the risk posed by the mining boom across the border in British Columbia.

He stood on the boardwalk overlooking Ketchikan’s fishing fleet and waved his hands animatedly while he told me about how his culture — and southern Alaska’s economy — depends on salmon.

The week before, I’d spent several hours flying in a small fixed-wing plane over B.C.’s mining boom to capture never before seen images of the province’s largest and most remote mines.

Door removed, I captured hundreds of frames as we passed over the Red Chris copper and gold mine, which began operation in late 2014. Its tailings pond and dam rises impossible and angular out of a soft, sloping valley.

Set within the vast and largely intact headwaters of northwestern B.C.’s greatest wild salmon rivers, the Red Chris mine is just one of 10 mines either in operation, in development or in advanced exploration stages in this region.

It is owned and operated by Imperial Metals, the company responsible for the Mount Polley mine disaster in central B.C. If the name seems familiar, it’s because in 2014, a tailings dam at Mount Polley collapsed, resulting in one of the worst environmental disasters in Canadian history. All told, 24 million cubic metres of contaminated mining waste flooded into a lake —  a source of drinking water and salmon-spawning ground that feeds the Fraser River.

A new study from the United Nations Environment Programme notes Canada has had seven known mine tailings spills in the last decade, only one less than China, which tops the list.

“The increasing number and size of tailings dams around the globe magnifies the potential environmental, social and economic cost of catastrophic failure impact and the risks and costs of perpetual management,” says the report.

A view from the sky gives perspective on both the enormity of the mines but also their proximity to Alaskans who, living downstream, fear they may unfairly suffer the consequences of another Mount Polley style accident.

“This is our Amazon right here and they’re not making any more of it,” Olsen Jr. said.

The following photo essay was made possible by 103 readers, who donated more than $10,000 to bring this unprecedented assignment to life.

B.C. and Alaska share some of the world’s most productive salmon rivers. However, the region is also home to some of the largest untapped gold and copper reserves in the world. Gold is mined primarily for use in jewelry, while copper conducts both heat and electricity well, so has many uses, including in electrical equipment such as wiring, motors and solar panels.

The Todagin Plateau on the edge of Imperial Metals’ Red Chris mine is thought to have the world’s highest density of stone sheep. It is the traditional Tahltan hunting grounds for moose, sheep, goats and caribou.

The wall of the Red Chris tailings dam is 105 metres high, about the height of a 35-storey building. Tailings are the byproducts left over from mining and include finely ground rock particles, chemicals and water. The rock particles and other chemicals sometimes undergo chemical reactions during storage that generate additional byproducts, such as acid, that can more easily leach into waterways.

In recent years, B.C. has experienced an explosion in mine growth on the Alaska border. Red Chris and Brucejack mines are now in operation, while KSM and Galore Creek have the required approvals and are in development. Schaft Creek is currently under review and four more mines are in the advanced exploration stages. Unlike Mount Polley, much of the waste in these transboundary projects will be potentially acid generating, making it much more toxic.*

The Red Chris tailings pond is an unlined, earthen centre-line type tailings dam — the same design Imperial Metals used at the ill-fated Mount Polley mine. An independent panel that reviewed the Mount Polley spill predicted two additional tailings dam failures could occur every 10 years in British Columbia if mine waste disposal practices aren’t improved. One of the panel’s key recommendations was for B.C. to move away from allowing liquid tailings ponds. There are currently more than 120 tailings dams across British Columbia.

When the Red Chris gold and copper mine opened in late 2014, it became the first mine of its type to operate in the transboundary region. The Narwhal (formerly DeSmog Canada) requested a tour of the Red Chris mine but was told by an official that Red Chris does not provide “unsolicited tours.” Red Chris is owned by Imperial Metals, the same company responsible for Mount Polley. The largest Imperial Metals shareholder is oilsands billionaire and Calgary Flames co-owner Murray Edwards, who organized a $1-million Calgary fundraising dinner for former B.C. premier Christy Clark’s 2013 re-election campaign.

The Mount Polley mine had a total tailings storage volume of 44 million cubic metres. B.C.’s massive transboundary mines require much higher volumes of waste storage. The tailings facility at Red Chris can store up to 305 million cubic metres of mine waste. Galore Creek will have a storage volume of 424 million cubic metres, Shaft Creek of 588 million cubic metres and KSM a staggering 1,213 million cubic metres.

Frederick Otilius Olsen Jr. is the Haida Tribal President of the Organized Village of Kasaan and chair of the Southeast Alaska Indigenous Transboundary Commission. “We have been trying for years to get the B.C. government to adequately address our interests and concerns, but other than nice words and vague promises, we seem to be getting nowhere,” Olsen Jr. said. “It takes a little wisdom, but sometimes to do something different, you have to do something you never did.”

The tailings pond at the Red Chris mine has a capacity of 305 million cubic metres — seven times more than the Mount Polley tailings dam, which collapsed three years ago. In the case of Mount Polley, British Columbian taxpayers ended up on the hook for $40 million of cleanup costs. No fines were levied and no charges have been laid against Mount Polley.

The Red Chris mine has an expected daily throughput of 30,000 tonnes of ore for the 25-year lifespan of the project. The Canadian government did not conduct a comprehensive assessment of the environmental impacts of the project, a process that would have opened the mine proposal to public input.

This is the view northeast across Todagin Creek, wetlands and Tatogga Lake with the road to Red Chris mine on the right. If any tailings escaped from the south dam of the Red Chris tailings pond, this is the point where the tailings would enter the Iskut river system.**

Melanie Brown, left, is a fourth generation commercial fisherman in Bristol Bay, Alaska. Heather Hardcastle, right, is director of the conservation organization Salmon Beyond Borders and a commercial fisherman in Juneau, Alaska. “We share these waters and we share these fish. There has to be an international solution,” Hardcastle said.

Massive braiding and bars from glacial sediment inputs on the Iskut river. Alluvial flood planes such as this are highly vulnerable to disruption.

A view of what is called the “Grand Canyon” of the Stikine River. Considered one of the last truly wild rivers in British Columbia, its 600-kilometre length encompasses mountain peaks and glaciers and supports some of the continent’s richest salmon habitat and wildlife populations.

If you look closely at this photo, you’ll see the drill pads perched on the mountainside (low centre right) and camp (centre left) of the Spectrum GJ gold-copper project, located 30 kilometres west of the Red Chris mine. It is just one of many examples of the lengths mining companies are going to open new mines in the isolated region.

A helicopter nearly disappears in the expanse of this glacier near the Brucejack gold mine. B.C.’s glaciers lose an estimated 22 billion cubic metres of water every year, feeding the province’s rich river systems.

A view east across Brucejack mine site and Brucejack Lake. Brucejack is an underground gold and silver mine. It will create 300 permanent jobs during its 22-year life. Owner Pretium has taken steps to minimize tailings risks by backfilling about half its mine waste in a paste mixed with cement in the underground mine. The other half will be stored in Brucejack Lake.

The Brucejack mine required the construction of an 11-kilometre glacial highway up the centreline of Knipple Glacier. The glacier retreated 300 metres between 2000 and 2011.

The Brucejack mine encampment. Potentially acid generating waste rock from the mine is stored underwater in Brucejack lake.

Joe Williams is a member of the Tlingit and former mayor of Ketchikan Borough, Alaska. He is also the owner and guide of Where the Eagle Walks, a walking tour business. Williams worries mining in the region has affected the health of oolichan populations. “The Department of Fish and Game say we can’t fish it anymore, even when it is out in the bay. It’s a sad thing. Now none of my kids know how to make oolichan oil and we can’t get it for me to teach them.”

Red Chris Mine went ahead after Imperial Metals’ largest shareholder Murray Edwards helped arrange $150 million in loans and crown corporation BC Hydro paid most of the costs for the $746-million Northwest Transmission Line into the region.

The proposed KSM mine site is in the foreground with Brucejack gold mine in the background. KSM sits atop one of the world’s largest undeveloped gold reserves. Once built, it will become one of the largest gold and copper mine in North America, with three open pits and two underground mines. The project initially entailed mining under an active glacier, but that glacier has now retreated. The project will require the construction of two 23-kilometre-long tunnels to deposit mine waste into a tailings impoundment. At 239 metres tall, the tailings dam wall for KSM will be higher than the Shangri-La, the tallest building in Vancouver and the tailings pond will hold 27 times more waste than was held in the Mount Polley tailings dam.*** 

The Tulsequah Chief mine, a zinc and copper mine close to the Alaska border, has been leaking acid mine drainage into the Tulsequah River since it was first shut down in 1957. Attempts to re-open the mine have failed, along with several promises to clean up the site.

Other jurisdictions, such as Alaska and Quebec, demand large financial securities, paid up front to ensure companies are held responsible for any damage.

“If we were to put the bar higher and require payment of financial securities ahead of permitting and ahead of mining, this would be one one way to get rid of the mines that would be marginal and you would end up with the mines that are safest,” Ugo LaPointe of MiningWatch Canada told The Narwhal.

Although most of the mines in this region have a life expectancy of 20 to 50 years, their toxic legacy continues far beyond. This contaminated tailings pond of the Premier gold mine in the Salmon Valley is one example. Originally built in 1910, it operated steadily for 50 years and sporadically for a few years after that. It opened again in 1989 to close once again in 1996. This toxic tailings pound is currently being upgraded to today’s standards so it can be reopened in the future.

A grizzly bear fishes for salmon in Fish Creek, Alaska, just downstream of the Premier gold mine.

Ketchikan, Alaska, just across the border from British Columbia has dubbed itself the “salmon capital of the world.” Ketchikan’s economy is based upon government services, tourism and commercial fishing.

The last catch of the season is offloaded and processed at Alaska General Seafoods in Ketchikan. Alaska’s fishing industry employs nearly 60,000 workers, of which nearly half are fishermen.

Salmon canning at Alaska General Seafoods processing plant in Ketchikan, Alaska.

The initial mechanical processing and canning of salmon at Alaska General Seafoods in Ketchikan, Alaska.

Chief Shakes Tribal House in Wrangell, Alaska. Coastal indigenous cultures are closely tied to salmon and have flourished here for more than 10,000 years.

Brenda Schwartz-Yeager is a fourth generation Wrangell-based Alaskan. As the owner and operator of Alaska Charters and Adventures, Schwartz-Yeager is a confident navigator of the ever-changing Stikine River. “What makes the Stikine so special and unique is its vast wildness,” she said. “We just don’t have many places of this size, and scope, and wildness left on the earth.”

Icebergs and Castle Mountain as seen from Shakes Lake, which feeds the Stikine River in Alaska. Traveling the lower Stikine in 1879, American conservationist John Muir called it “a Yosemite 100 miles long.”

— With files and additional reporting from Emma Gilchrist and Carol Linnitt

This photo essay was funded by The Narwhal readers like you. Want more journalism like this? Become a member today.

Updated on Oct. 30, 2017, at 7:05 p.m. PST. The transboundary map in this article was updated to reflect the fact that the Galore Creek mine is in the development stage, rather than operational as previously stated.

Updated on Nov. 2, 2017, at 10 a.m. PST to correct the lake in the photo to Tattoga Lake, not Todagin Lake. Thank you to the reader with the sharp eye who pointed this out to us.

Updated on Oct. 31, 2017, at 10:45 a.m. PST. The article was updated to reflect the fact that the KSM mine will no longer require mining under an active glacier, as that glacier has now retreated from the proposed pit area. The description of of KSM has also been corrected to refer to the project as one of the largest undeveloped gold and copper mines in North America, rather than the largest undeveloped open-pit gold and copper mine in North America.

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There are no good guys or bad guys in the documentary Konelīne and that extraordinary lack of judgement is what rivets attention as the film examines the changing landscape and lifestyles of northwestern British Columbia.

As massive machinery moves into the wild landscape, first to build the Northwest Transmission Line and then to work on the Brucejack gold mine and the Red Chris copper mine, lives are disrupted or changed and, whether it is a lineman, miner, guide outfitter, First Nations elder or Tahltan language student, director Nettie Wild captures the love that all the characters have for the wilderness.

What some call progress, others see as the end of a way of life. Some hunt on the land, some mine it and they all love it.

Perhaps the heart of the film is expressed by a young Tahltan man, working for the mining company, who explains, with a slightly wry smile, that he is putting food on the table by mining what his grandparents are fighting to protect.

Konelīne (pronounced Koe-ne-lee-neh) is the Tahltan word for “our land beautiful” and that is what the film depicts, with stunning footage of a guide outfitter swimming her horses across the swollen Stikine River, a “pillow of blood” draining from a newly killed moose and startling scenes of one of the biggest helicopters in the world lowering a 16,000-pound transmission tower while linemen on the ground struggle to stand in the whirlwind created by the rotors as they wrestle the base into place.

Caught in a chopper down wash, linemen build the Northwest Transmission Line in a scene from Konelīne.

The helicopter scene incorporates the essential elements of the film, Wild said.

“It had the elegance of engineering, it had the beauty of the landscape, the brawn and dexterity of the linemen and the environmental devastation of the clearcuts. It was all there,” she said.

“It’s complex and full of contradictions and has a beauty to it even if people can’t stand the Northwest Transmission Line and everything it represents.”

The film does not lecture and does not tell the audience what to think, Wild emphasized.

“Instead, we have sought to find poetry in every person in front of our lens.”

That meant being able to look at the humanity and complexity of people working in the mining industry, at a time when it is often vilified, she said.

“I have been able to look in that world where the word environmentalist is often seen as a swear word,” Wild said.

KONELINE TRAILER 2.0 from Canada Wild Productions on Vimeo.

In other twists, a big game hunter comes across as one of the biggest environmentalists in the movie and non-native hunters shoot with a bow and arrow, while First Nations hunters kill a moose with a high-powered rifle.

The documentary, which won the Best Canadian Feature award at the Hot Docs Film Festival in Toronto, has three showings left in Vancouver at the Vancity Theatre, will show in Victoria at the Cinecenta Theatre on Dec. 2 to 5 and will be in Calgary in early December, Courtenay in February and Maple Ridge in April.

In a question and answer session with DeSmog Canada, Wild, whose previous films took a more traditional, conflict-driven approach, explained how she came to make Konelīne and why she believes it is important to “cut through the din of rhetoric” and find common ground.

Q. Tell me a little about your background.

A. I am known for making political feature documentaries. I call them high-stakes, real-life dramas, so my work has taken me all around the world filming revolutions really. Revolutions of thought or armed revolutions. . . . I made a little deal with myself when I started in this game — which is a hard one — I made myself two promises. First, that with each project I would try and change the form of my art as far as possible and secondly I would work with different people who would help twist my head a bit and I have done that.

Nettie Wild, riding in the mountains of B.C., is the director of Konelīne: Our Land Beautiful.

Q. Why did you decide to make this film?

A.  Two reasons. I have had the very real privilege of exploring northwestern B.C. on foot and by horseback over the last 20 years and I love it and I am aware it is on the cusp of huge change. The time was ripe for a snapshot in time of this magnificent landscape and the very real forces of change that were rolling out across it. I knew there was a clock ticking.

The other reason is I felt really strongly that there is a roar of rhetoric around the development issue. People are screaming at each other and I’m not sure that too many people are actually listening and I think that is dangerous because, as a larger community, we are all involved in a mutual project which is trying to dialogue with each other and trying to build a more sustainable planet and, if we are screaming at each other, it is dangerous. So I thought what is it that I can bring, at this time, to this landscape that I love so much? I am not Tahltan and I am not from the industry. I am from away. What can I bring? Then I thought — art. I can bring the best film crew I can find and our mutual objective was to find the poetry in every person in front of our lens. Park our judgement and look for that poetry and complexity in everyone.

Oscar Dennis runs his dogs across Tahltan territory.

Q. How did you manage not to be judgemental?

A. It wasn’t so much a matter of trying to find middle ground, it was more that, when things came up, and it was something you might be judgemental about — park it. A lot of times we had absolutely no idea where the scenes were going. They completely surprised us. It was more keep the door open, keep curious and park the judgemental heart. . . . . It was more being aware of my own assumptions and just putting them aside and then finding that, when you do that, people open up. They will make themselves vulnerable if they have that sense, but it’s like if someone senses something is sexist or racist they close down. If they think deep down that you think they shouldn’t be doing that job, they just clam up, but the opposite happens when you say “really, what are you doing there? Is that frightening or is it dangerous?” It’s that curiosity that people respond to and then you will find that people often offer up the vulnerabilities that they face.

Every single person that I talked to when I began the research, I asked “why is it you are doing what you are doing?” and every single person without exception said “I am here because of a love of the bush.” So I thought that is where the film is going to start.

Q. What reaction do you get from audiences?

A. That’s why the film is controversial in a weird sort of way. Most people come up to me afterwards and say thanks for not telling us what they think. Other people are really upset that I didn’t give the gears to the mining industry. It’s very intriguing and I am saying bring it on, let’s talk about it. If we are addressing the mining industry or any resource-extraction industry with a voice full of vitriol there is no room for another sort of conversation that maybe will lead to light rather than dark. I am not saying people don’t have well-earned anger, but in these 96 minutes maybe we can go to another place.

Q. What was the hardest scene to shoot, either for you personally or because of technical problems?

A. Physically, filming the horse going across the river and then going across the glacier was really tough . . . . . It’s hell to film from horseback so we had to ditch our horses and run ahead . . . . .One moment I became aware of that kind of movement that you know is full of danger — you catch it out of the corner of your eye — and I looked over at (the cameraman) holding the huge camera and he’s cradling it in his arms sitting down, except he’s sliding down and picking up speed. His feet were wind-milling trying to get purchase. .  . .  Finally he gets purchase on a rock.

Guide outfitter Heidi Gutfrucht (in boat) swimming her horses across the Stikine River.

For me, personally, I found myself at one point when I couldn’t get anywhere near Imperial Metals and the Red Chris Mine and then, on the First Nations side, the woman who was leading the blockade told me one night that I had to contribute my truck to the blockade or lose access. I tried to convince her that my camera was more useful to her than my truck, but she wouldn’t have it, so, at that point I was excluded from everything and it was really a lonely place. . . . . . My editor and cinematographer took me aside and said “you said you wanted to make a different film than you have ever made before — walk away from the blockade. Leave it. We have seen them before and it’s old time conflict and we are talking about digging deeper in more surprising areas and this is forcing you to do that.” So that’s what we did and focused on the transmission line more than the mine and look what we got. . . . It’s funny how life does that. On the one hand it feels like it’s defeating you and, on the other hand, when you make art like this, you just have to immerse yourself even deeper. When you know you are in trouble, it usually means you are on to something.

Q. What did you learn from this film?

A. I think what this film has really, really taught me is that there is a real role for art in the heart of controversy. When we go in and say we are trying to find the poetry, a lot of time we are trying to shoot in the abstract rather than the concrete. That doesn’t mean we are trying to be arty for the sake of being ambiguous, but we are trying to find things that maybe seem familiar in an unfamiliar way and that allows us to chisel away at stereotypes. . . . . It’s almost like the story comes in through your skin, rather than someone wagging their finger at you. As an artist, that has been extraordinary and I have turned a huge corner in terms of the way we have shot this and cut it. We shot it in the abstract and cut it like a piece of music. . . . You still have to deliver a story, but you do it in a different way.

The northern lights on the Northwest Transmission Line.

Q. How long did it take to make this movie?

A. Four years. That’s starting from research and getting money together and shooting for a year — although we weren’t shooting every single day. Then we were 65 weeks in the edit room. It was the hardest edit ever. Because we were making that piece of music instead of a character-driven story that I was so used to doing and have done all my life. I am very proud of the films I have made in the past — don’t get me wrong — but this one is different. . . . .The main character is the land and in saying that, you are putting together a very different story structure than following one person through a challenge that he or she has to face.

– Find additional screening information on the Koneline website

This interview has been condensed.

Main Image: Diamond driller and sunrise over Northwest B.C.

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B.C.’s approval of a new mine in a transboundary watershed has added fuel to simmering Alaskan anger about the province’s surge of mine development adjacent to the southeast Alaska border.

The province has granted an environmental assessment certificate to Pretivm Resources Inc. for the Brucejack gold and silver mine, about 65 kilometres northwest of Stewart and 40 kilometres upstream from the Alaskan border.

The underground mine, which has not yet received federal approval, will be close to the headwaters of the Unuk River, which flows from B.C. into Alaska. The Unuk is one of Southeast Alaska’s largest king (chinook) salmon rivers and drains into Misty Fjords National Monument, one of Alaska’s most popular tourist destinations.

Brucejack is adjacent to the large Kerr-Sulphurets-Mitchell (KSM) mine, which received B.C and federal government approval last year, despite strong opposition from Alaskan politicians, fishermen and tribal governments.

“It is too much, too fast,” said Chris Zimmer, Alaska campaign director with Rivers Without Borders.

“It is the cumulative effect of so many mines in salmon-producing areas. There is so much coming at us so fast without any long-term controls and the process is just not designed to look at cumulative effects over a big region.”

According to a Ministry of Energy and Mines spokesman there are 10 advanced mine development projects in northwest B.C. and numerous exploration projects.

Brucejack, with an estimated capital cost of $450 million, would produce up to 2,700 tonnes of ore a day, create 500 jobs during the two-year construction period and 300 jobs during a minimum 16-year operating life, according to a ministry news release.

Appeals from the Alaskan side of the border for a federal panel review of KSM were ignored, so there is little hope the federal government will veto Brucejack, Zimmer said. It is expected that the Canadian Environmental Assessment Agency will make a referral to the Environment Minister by late spring.

Tension about the number of mines planned for the transboundary area, close to the Unuk, Stikine, Nass and Taku rivers, was already high when the Mount Polley tailings pond collapsed last summer, confirming the worst fears of Alaskans about B.C.’s mine oversight and permitting process.

The report into the Mount Polley disaster promised that it would not be business as usual, but that has not deterred B.C., said Heather Hardcastle of Salmon Beyond Borders.

One business day after release of a geotechnical report on the causes of the Mount Polley dam collapse, the Red Chris mine opened in the Stikine watershed. Red Chris is owned by Imperial Metals, the same company that owns Mount Polley.

Even though the report recommends that tailings not be stored underwater and behind large dams, Red Chris has started to fill a tailings storage facility that utilizes just that technology, according to Salmon Beyond Borders.

However, tailings from Brucejack will be stored underground and in Brucejack Lake, eliminating the need for a tailings pond and dam.

“This reflects the best-available technology as recommended by the independent panel that investigated the Mount Polley failure,” says the ministry news release.

The environmental assessment certificate has 15 conditions that the province says will ensure there will not be “significant adverse effects downstream from the mine and to the Unuk River.”

B.C has also asked for additional information on the effectiveness of the proposed water treatment plants and more modelling of local groundwater conditions.

That does not mollify worried Alaskans.

“To us it feels as if the pace of these projects in the transboundary region have accelerated, not decelerated,” Hardcastle said.

“We are frustrated. We want to see real engagement happening between B.C. and Alaska and the U.S. and Canada. We are downstream from all these (projects) and we take all the risks with no benefits … We want an equal seat at the table with B.C. and Canada to talk about the effect of multiple projects, not just project by project.”

Several groups, hoping for strong support from Alaska Governor Bill Walker, are pushing for a review by the International Joint Commission, established in 1909 as part of the Boundary Waters Treaty and charged with resolving transboundary water disputes between the U.S. and Canada.

But Canada appears to be balking at that idea, said Zimmer, who is irritated by suggestions by B.C.  Mines Minister Bill Bennett that problems could be addressed by a one-day symposium, bringing all parties together.

Alaskans also responded angrily last fall to Bennett’s message that they would stop worrying if they understood how B.C. mines are reviewed and how much input the Alaskan government already has.

“That’s pretty condescending,” Zimmer said.

“Bill Bennett tells us we just don’t understand and I think we understand too well.”

Image Credit: Brucejack mine camp by Pretivm Resources

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