Morning light streams into the tiny, five-seat helicopter as it hovers above the Tranquil Creek watershed in Clayoquot Sound, B.C. It turns into what seems like a collision course with a cliff, but a landing pad appears just in time.

After a minute of careful positioning, the chopper touches ground on a bed of freshly cut grass and branches, allowing Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation’s natural resources manager Saya Masso and lead guardian Tattuuskulth (Tatt) Charlie to step outside.

They’ve come to see a mine shaft with an entranceway small enough that Masso ducks down to look inside. It looks like a relic from the gold rush, but there are a few conspicuously new things stashed at the entrance: a shiny white construction hat, plastic bags and a long orange hose coiled in a pile. 

For Masso and Charlie, they’re quiet reminders that what began here more than a century ago has yet to conclude.

In February, Canadian mining company Imperial Metals received a permit to explore for gold at the long-dormant Fandora mine site on Vancouver Island’s west coast. For the next five years, the company is allowed to pick and prod underground in the hopes of accessing the site’s mostly untapped resources. 

Masso is worried about Hiłsyaqƛis, the name for the Tranquil Creek watershed in Nuu-chah-nulth. Problems at this remote site in the middle of rain-drenched temperate forest could easily metastasize. 

“Positive change is gradual,” he says, “but negative change can happen so quick.”

Clayoquot Sound is home to the some of the largest intact old-growth forests on Vancouver Island, and remains a key refuge for massive red cedars, orcas and Pacific salmon. About 20 kilometres from the mine site, these lands and waters now underpin the tourism economy of Tofino, B.C. First Nations including Tla-o-qui-aht have spent decades protecting the region, helping to shape its economic future. According to Tourism Tofino, visitors spent $430 million in the region in 2024. 

Tofino Mayor Dan Law was careful to clarify the municipality has no jurisdiction over a prospective mine outside its boundaries, but says a mine in the sound “seems like a no-go.”

“Clearly, the wealth of Clayoquot Sound is not in resource extraction,” Law says from his office on a tree-lined street in the heart of town.

Masso puts things a little more bluntly. “A gold mine will never open in Clayoquot Sound in this tenure,” he says. The Tla-o-qui-aht have opposed Imperial Metals’ efforts to search for gold on the site for more than a decade.

“It goes against our spiritual plan, our cultural plan, our tourism plan, so we’re asking ministers and leaders in B.C. to help turn this around, to put a pause on it, put an injunction on it,” Masso says.

The Tofino Chamber of Commerce also opposes the plan. 

“This would be extensively damaging to our business community,” Graydon Clerk, executive director of the Tofino Chamber of Commerce, says. The association recently sent a letter to the province outlining its concerns.

Imperial Metals did not respond to The Narwhal’s multiple requests for comment. 

B.C.’s Ministry of Mining and Critical Minerals told The Narwhal the permit doesn’t allow activities beyond the current exploration plan. Anything more would require a new decision under the province’s Mines Act.

“The Ministry remains committed to strong environmental oversight, safe mining practices and ongoing consultation with First Nations and partners,” it added. 

Pressure from the growing price of gold

East of Clayoquot Sound, a broader debate over Canada’s future is unfolding.

“Canada has what the world wants,” Prime Minister Mark Carney told a room of the world’s elite at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, earlier this year, signalling his government’s open-for-business ethos. And the world wants gold.

Gold is among Canada’s largest exports, after oil and gas. Thanks to skyrocketing prices, the precious metal has boosted the profile of Canada’s stock exchange and contributed to the country’s claimed success diversifying its exports away from the U.S. To facilitate a resource-sector renaissance, Canada, B.C. and other provinces have promised to push major projects through — and quickly.

The Tla-o-qui-aht are no strangers to the treasures beneath their territory. Copper and gold from the region have long been used in ceremonies and to adorn regalia. “They had monumental value,” Tla-o-qui-aht Chief Elmer Frank tells The Narwhal in an interview. 

By the late 1800s, word had gotten out, and prospectors flooded the region as the north’s Klondike Gold Rush wound down. The efforts were buoyed by B.C.’s mining laws, which allowed settlers to stake out mineral rights simply by driving posts into the ground.

The Fandora mine site was first staked in the 1930s, but in 1940, the mine had yet to produce the equivalent of a large gold bar. It has sat mostly dormant for half a century. 

Meanwhile, Tofino grew. 

In 2000, Clayoquot Sound was declared a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, marking it as a global priority for conservation. The town’s new boom was in whale-watching, five-star hotels and fancy restaurants. Today, Tofino’s population surges from about 2,500 year-round locals to more than 12,000 during its summer peak.

But in February, as gold prices soared, British Columbia approved a five-year permit for Imperial Metals, under its wholly-owned subsidiary, Selkirk Metals Corp., to see whether Fandora’s reserves are worth the cost of constructing a mine. 

Documents obtained by The Narwhal show the company plans to dig a series of metre-wide trenches, some as long as two football fields, to determine if trace amounts of gold in the soil signal riches below. The company has also mapped out six drill pads, each roughly the size of a small house, some as close as 110 metres from the river. Drilling will likely require thousands of litres of water for each hole. On the company’s proposed exploration map, there are three “helicopter drill pad water sources” listed in Tranquil Creek’s tributaries. According to its permit, “road-access drilling” will not use water from Tranquil Creek or its tributaries. 

In its permit application materials, Imperial Metals noted it will seek to reuse and reduce water as much as possible. The company’s permit also requires it take steps to accommodate traditional harvest and cultural practices during its exploration work, among other requirements.

In the documents, Imperial Metals noted the intensity of this project in its first year will depend on how much funding the company obtains. “We may only drill one or two holes,” it added. Its permit allows it to drill another 15 house-sized drill pads in yet-undisclosed locations across the Tranquil Creek watershed and its adjacent valley.

The documents also suggest gold on the property extends farther than previously understood. “After a long hiatus in exploration, modern soil geochemistry was completed on the property, which successfully extended the anomalous gold horizon along strike of the known veins,” an August 2025 Notice of Work document obtained by The Narwhal states.

Imperial Metals did not respond to The Narwhal’s questions about its plans.

A mine surrounded by tribal parks

As the lead guardian for Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation, Charlie doesn’t miss a beat when asked which of his many tasks he prefers. 

“Hands down, my favourite is trail building,” he says.

Trails extend throughout the nation’s tribal parks, which now encompass Tla-o-qui-aht’s entire territory, more than 1,000 square kilometres. Within tribal parks, industry and economic development aren’t categorically excluded. But their acceptance is contingent on support from the nation and other locals who aim to ensure industry doesn’t come at the expense of what ecosystems and communities need to thrive. 

“It’s a vision that the region can stand behind,” Masso says. 

The province has yet to recognize tribal parks within its own legal system — and where some form of recognition exists, it has been hard-won.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, members of Tla-o-qui-aht and ʕaaḥuusʔatḥ (Ahousaht) First Nations discovered logging giant MacMillan Bloedel had plans to clear-cut almost all of Meares Island, home of ecologically important intact forests. In response, Tla-o-qui-aht declared its first tribal park across Meares in its entirety. The province granted the company’s logging permits anyway.

A blockade led by the Tla-o-qui-aht ensued, sparking the first of a series of blockades in Clayoquot Sound which eventually led to the War in the Woods. In 1985, the B.C. Court of Appeal decided the nations’ yet-to-be-recognized Aboriginal Title should outweigh the company’s right to short-term profit.

According a paper published by lawyer and professor Douglas Harris, the decision helped shape a key turning point. Indigenous Rights claims were no longer a point of curiosity for the courts. Now they had legal weight.

Today, Meares Island remains off-limits to logging, protecting the District of Tofino’s sole source of drinking water. But elsewhere in the territory, including in the Tranquil watershed, areas within tribal parks had no such safeguards.

That is, until recently.

‘Consent of affected First Nations is not a legal requirement,’ B.C. government says

In spring 2024, B.C., Tla-o-qui-aht and neighbouring ʕaaḥuusʔatḥ announced a set of protected areas across Clayoquot Sound and throughout the Tla-o-qui-aht Nation’s tribal parks. “It’s a monumental occasion,” Masso said at the time. 

In theory, the conservancies would recognize some principles of the Tla-o-qui-aht’s tribal parks within B.C.’s laws, and they came with commitments: B.C. promised the areas would have no commercial forestry within their boundaries, nor any mining activity. 

To Masso, it remains a partial victory: The Tranquil Creek conservancy B.C. put forward has a big hole in the middle, shaped seemingly to avoid overlap with Imperial Metals’ mining claims.

Masso says he remembers the province’s reassurances. “They said, ‘This is just the first step,’ ” he says. “‘We’ll make more as we do more work to resolve overlaps or tenures, and we’ll add it.’ ”

But that hasn’t happened. 

Instead, Masso received an email from the province in December 2025, which revealed Imperial Metals was about to return. After a few years of what Chief Frank described as “one-way” consultation, the company was on the precipice of receiving a renewed exploration permit.

Masso was stunned. “We said, ‘Wait a second, they’re considering issuing this,’ ” he says. “We wrote a very stern letter reminding them that they couldn’t.”

Two months later, the province approved Imperial’s permit anyway.

In an emailed statement, B.C.’s Ministry of Mines and Critical Minerals said its decision was based on the exploration activity alone. 

The ministry added “Consent of affected First Nations is not a legal requirement” but that it “seeks to reach consensus in decision making and considers all input from First Nations in that process.”

“Input received informs decision making,” it added. 

ʕaaḥuusʔatḥ, whose territory overlaps with areas within Imperial Metals’ Fandora claim, did not respond to The Narwhal’s interview request. 

Indigenous consent and the country’s relationship to it are an increasingly charged lightning rod in Canadian politics. In 2019, B.C. committed to integrate the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, or UNDRIP, into its own laws, including the principle of free, prior and informed consent.

More recently, the B.C. Court of Appeal found the province’s mineral tenure system inconsistent with UNDRIP, as incorporated into provincial law through the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act (DRIPA). The province appealed the ruling, which is now waiting to be heard by the Supreme Court of Canada. In the meantime, Premier David Eby attempted to suspend parts of the Declaration Act, a move that was widely criticized and stopped, in part, by the NDP government’s own members. The government says it will revisit the issue in the fall legislative session.

Sara Ghebremusse, an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia’s Allard School of Law, cautions against efforts to go backwards, particularly given the growing body of international and national law recognizing the weight of Indigenous Rights. 

“This is going to be a long-term issue,” she says.

The cost of gold

At the Fandora site, gold comes wrapped up with sulphides. Under certain conditions, the compound turns water into acid that can leach heavy metals into the watershed.

To curb that risk, mines generally store waste rock underwater and away from oxygen. But in rain-drenched Clayoquot Sound, accumulating pools of tailings could overflow, meaning if built a mine would likely require long-term drainage systems and monitoring. 

“Water is always a problem,” Scott Dunbar, a professor of mining engineering at the University of British Columbia, says. “If an accident occurs, the first question is always ‘Where did the water get out?’ ”

For the time being, Imperial’s exploration permit requires it to mitigate the potential for acid mine drainage through identifying and safely disposing of rocks capable of causing it.

Gold is also famously stubborn for clinging to its host rocks, which means heavy-duty chemicals are used in extraction. Cyanide leaching is the most common method of choice. Companies aim to isolate the obviously noxious chemical and keep it contained, but tailings that are left over are likely contaminated.

Meanwhile, the Tranquil Creek watershed is already on life support. 

After the valley bottom was logged extensively in the 1960s and 1970s, loggers moved into the hills, destroying root systems that held the region’s crumbly till in place. Landslides ensued, helping turn Tranquil Creek, a key spawning ground for Pacific salmon, into a danger zone capable of suffocating salmon eggs beneath gravel or washing them out to sea. By 2017, resident Chinook and chum salmon had almost disappeared.

With the Redd Fish Restoration Society, Tla-o-qui-aht is working to restore the watershed, including installing a series of costly but effective human-made log-jams to slow the water and building terraces in the landslides to choke off the gravel taps. Collectively with other groups, about $6 million has been spent restoring the Tranquil so far. Recent years of boosted salmon returns are providing some hope.

Charlie warns of the risks of backsliding in the Tranquil. “Mining is one thing that will just throw it over the edge,” he says. 

In a recent article in the publication Ha-Shilth-Sa, Imperial Metals CEO Brian Kynoch noted the mine would “most likely” be underground, not in an open pit, and that it would target only “narrow” gold veins. He also said Imperial Metals “remains committed to engaging respectfully with First Nations and local communities as the project moves forward.”

Kynoch has previously described the project as “artisanal.”

But the company has a checkered past: In 2014, the company’s “crown jewel” gold and copper mine, Mount Polley, became the site of the largest mining waste disaster in Canada’s history when its tailings dam breached. More than 25 billion litres of water and mine waste, including lead, cadmium and arsenic, spilled into the surrounding watershed. Later reporting showed the province warned the company about stability concerns in its tailings dam at least five times before the disaster occurred. 

In 2018, the company faced significant financial challenges and there was concern it might file for bankruptcy. But even if a mine is never built, Imperial could profit from the claim. In B.C., mining companies stand to be compensated if they withdraw claims to make way for new protected areas. In 2022, Imperial Metals received $24 million to relinquish its claim area in the Skagit Headwaters. 

“It doesn’t make any sense at all to let them drill it if the only end result is to compensate them to not mine,” Masso says.

Imperial Metals did not reply to The Narwhal’s request for comment.

‘It’s still a beautiful place’

Once we’re back in the helicopter’s bucket seats, the chopper ascends from the cliff face and travels on through the Tranquil watershed. 

Uniform patches of short, stubby trees extend across the valley bottom, but the forests transform as we fly higher, farther from the reach of roads and access points. Soon the chopper tips toward the deep blue bowl of a mountain lake, its water still and inky blue. 

“It’s still a beautiful place,” Masso says. “Even if it’s still in recovery.”

From up above, Tofino’s growth is hard to ignore. Multimillion-dollar vacation homes sprawl across the coastline. Masso peers out the window, thinking about an old photo of Tofino in the 1960s with just a scattering of homes. He knows more change is on the way. 

“Imagine another 80 years from now,” he says. “People are gonna say, ‘Look at what it was like.’ ”

Tourism has its challenges: Tofino is short on water and housing. Charlie and the other Tla-o-qui-aht Guardians sometimes spend days cleaning up after visitors who leave their trash on the beach and backcountry. 

But these are the challenges that Tla-o-qui-aht and the town of Tofino are choosing to grapple with, and there is work underway to smooth out the industry’s edges. Local businesses, for example, are now encouraged to collect a one per cent “responsible visitor fee” from customers to support restoration and protection in Tla-o-qui-aht’s tribal parks program. 

“We live together,” Tofino Mayor Law says. “We see this as a present and future relationship.”

Back on the ground, Masso and Charlie get ready to return to their day’s business. Masso is thinking about the coming heat and wildfires, and asks to see the helicopter company’s firefighting equipment. Moments of pause are few and far between. 

Masso had hoped the nation’s tribal parks would ward off ill-fitting visions of the region’s future. 

“We could spend our time building longhouses and rebuilding rivers, doing positive things for our children,” he says.

“But now I have to spend the next couple of years opposing a gold mine.”

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Summary

• Historically, First Nations in B.C. who lived near floodplains respected tides and lived nomadically, until settlers disrupted water flow, creating dikes to pursue agriculture and urban development.
• Xwíʔləm̓nəc, or Addington Point Marsh, has been restored to a wetland after three years of collaboration led by Katzie First Nation.
• Restoring wetlands brings life to countless species and helps restore Indigenous people’s connection to their traditional territories. The marsh is part of Canada’s largest salmon-bearing watershed.

On a late April morning, a group of Katzie First Nation land guardians, conservation workers, government representatives and others trek down to Xwíʔləm̓nəc (Addington Point Marsh).

They gather in the First Nation’s Lower Mainland territory to celebrate the long-awaited completion of a wetland restoration project connecting to the Stó:lō (Fraser River).

Mike Leon leads Katzie’s team of eight guardians, and has been involved with the marsh restoration project from the beginning. After everyone bypasses a locked gate — there to reduce the risk of bear-human encounters — they stop by the water, and he addresses the group.

“I would really like to raise my hands to all of you, to the hard work and willingness to work with us, to be with us, to be with this land,” he said.

The restoration project was funded by the B.C. government and the federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans, implemented by Katzie First Nation, Resilient Waters, Ducks Unlimited Canada and the Nature Trust of British Columbia, with many helping hands involved.

For three years the partners worked together to reestablish waterflow in the marsh. The wetlands connection to the Pitt River and South Fraser River system was disconnected when early settlers installed a dike, which has since been removed. 

“I love doing the work. I love being on our territory and helping the environment,” Mackenzie Adams, another Katzie guardian, added. Adams monitored the site throughout the project, and collected water and bird surveys to compare data before and after restoration. 

According to the B.C. Wildlife Federation, wetland monitoring is just as important as the initial restoration during a project. “Monitoring, maintenance, and data collection help us evaluate the effectiveness of restoration techniques and improve the performance and function of future projects,” it reads on their website.

Xwíʔləm̓nəc is now letting nature take its course, and with the area being home to one of the country’s largest salmon runs and smallest sandhill crane populations, monitoring the wetland is critical work for Katzie Guardians. 

“I was there one of the first days … comparing the first day to the last day was pretty eye opening because you can already see the differences from the river water coming in. It will be an awesome habitat for all birds and salmon fry,” Adams said. 

While the exact impact is currently unknown, wetland restoration benefits are well documented. Leon’s team will be on top of that data, working with partners to restore and conserve native plants and animals in the area.

Relationships between Katzie Guardians and partners in the project have flourished. A local property owner who attended the celebration shared their initial concerns after seeing excavation equipment clearing a path to the dike, and their relief after learning more about the endeavour. Beyond its environmental impacts, the project has brought people together from all walks of life who want to see salmon and wildlife in and around the Fraser River thrive.

Restoration project had many partners, but Katzie had final say

Dan Straker, the manager for the Resilient Waters project, was a lead organizer under the direction of Katzie Guardians and leadership. 

“With Katzie First Nation, it was determined early on they would have final decision making and be informing the project along the way. All the partners fell in line with that idea and thinking,” Straker told the Narwhal. 

“What we ended up with was this really nice blended way of doing things, from a more two-eyed seeing approach.” 

Leon added that, throughout the endeavour, Katzie brought in their customs, culture and laws.

“It’s really important and special to us to know our place names in our territory. When we have our guardians come out, we’re honored to be on those place names such as Xwíʔləm̓nəc,” Leon said. 

It’s a sentiment shared by Katzie’s guardian coordinator April Pierre. In a quiet moment of emotion in the circle, she addressed a reality shared by many First Nations people: growing up away from her homelands.

The Xwíʔləm̓nəc restoration project gave Pierre an opportunity to spend time on land she had never been to — the land of her ancestors. It’s one emotional moment of many that were shared during the celebration, as others reflected on the marine and wildlife already making appearances in the marsh.

Dikes were built to create flat land for agriculture in the area since the late 1800s. Restoring the marsh’s connection to the river has immense ecological benefits and cultural benefits for local First Nations.

“Conservation organizations in previous decades had a different approach to conservation land management that I think sometimes excluded other organizations and nations,” Ducks Unlimited senior restoration biologist, Eric Balke, said.

“I think we are learning new and better ways of moving forward, more collaborative ways, and this project is a great example of that.”

Balke has been involved with restoring Xwíʔləm̓nəc since brainstorming and planning days, eventually passing the reins to his colleague Alison Martin.

“What excites me about this project is it’s all about restoring relationships,” he said. “You’re restoring the relationship between the river and these wetlands that were formerly alienated by dikes. You’re restoring the relationship between Xwíʔləm̓nəc and juvenile salmon that previously were prevented from accessing the site … it’s also restoring the relationship between Katzie and their kin.”

Wetland restoration benefits salmon

In the Pacific Northwest, both people and the ecosystem know how important salmon is. Xwíʔləm̓nəc is connected to Canada’s largest salmon-bearing watershed, the Fraser River. 

According to the Pacific Salmon Foundation, “floodplains provide critical, food-rich habitat for juvenile salmon. These low-lying areas adjacent to stream channels allow young salmon to grow healthy and strong before their journey to the ocean.”

But dikes disrupt the river’s connection to the marsh, blocking valuable nutrients and harming the salmon and other species.

“Wetlands, such as tidal marshes, help to collect sediment that build up the marsh platform, helping to protect our communities from flooding,” Balke said.

“This land that settlers found is super valuable for farming and agriculture, it was valuable because of the sediment that was delivered, because of the nutrients that were delivered by the river,” he said.

“When we construct dikes we disconnect the river from its floodplain. The river can no longer deliver those critical ingredients.”

A huge benefit of restoring tidal marshes is that they are one of the most effective ways of capturing and storing carbon, contaminants and pollutants that flow downstream. 

Further, Xwíʔləm̓nəc is home to wapoto and tule, two traditional plants for Katzie First Nation that have been impacted from dikes. Restoring the wetland is giving members of the nation hope that these plants can be harvested for food and mat-making once again.

The marsh is also home to sandhill cranes, whose local population has hovered around 30 to 35 birds for decades, Myles Lamont told the Narwhal. He was brought into the project by Katzie as a sandhill crane consultant.

“The remaining birds seem to nest in golf courses and some very small regional parks … Unfortunately they’ve been getting struck by golf balls. Quite commonly over the last 10 to 15 years, I’ve had to rescue a few birds that have had broken legs or injuries as a result of golf ball strikes, particularly in Richmond,” Lamont said. 

He is hopeful that restoring Xwíʔləm̓nəc to a wetland will bring in enough water to create a nesting habitat for the birds, drawing them away from golf courses. As folks went around the sharing circle, Lamont spotted one overhead, calling out, “Crane!” 

“It’s really cool being a part of it. Just knowing that we’re making a difference, I’m making a difference,” Adams said.“The salmon habitat has a place to go throughout the winter and so do the sandhill cranes and birds. It’s a good feeling … I feel accomplished.”

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Summary

• British Columbia is home to the country’s longest-standing Indigenous Guardian program, the Haida Gwaii Watchmen, founded in 1982, and the province leads leads the way for national investment.
• Indigenous Guardian programs support conservation targets, create jobs in rural areas and have a high return on investment. 
• While programs across the country are seeing budgets slashed, Indigenous Guardians received an unexpected $230M investment by the federal government in March — but questions remain.

Ida Peter knew she had to apply to protect mule deer populations in Tsal’alh traditional territory, located in B.C.’s Central Interior, when B.C. first announced $8.9 million for Indigenous Guardians programs in 2023. 

“We have a really big concern about [them] in our territory because traditionally we’re known as the deer people,” Peter said. 

“I would say in the last 50 years the population of deer has declined drastically. Where we used to see hundreds of deer, now we’re lucky to see in those same areas maybe 10 or 20,” she said.

Mule deer are a significant species of concern in the Southern Interior region of the province, which means they are at risk of being endangered because of wildfires, resource extraction and human development.

Peter is an elected councillor in her nation, and manages the culture and heritage department. The Tsal’alh Guardians were born out of Peter’s proposal and are a small but mighty team of three who steward the territory.

It’s one of over 240 Indigenous Guardian initiatives that have been implemented across the country with the support of federal funding: an initial investment of $25 million to pilot Indigenous Guardians programs in 2018-2022 which was bolstered by an additional $100 million announced in 2021. But with both B.C. and federal guardian funding streams set to expire in 2026, Indigenous Guardians across the country were bracing for major cuts. 

That was until an announcement on Mar. 31. 

To the surprise of many First Nations, Prime Minister Mark Carney’s government committed an additional $230 million into Indigenous Guardian programming, including for the creation of a new Arctic Indigenous Guardians Program. 

Though the announcement was welcomed by Indigenous communities, many are still wondering when those funds will begin flowing — and who will benefit from them.

Funding will be administered over the next five years, Emily Jackson from Environment and Climate Change Canada confirmed in an email to the Narwhal.

“Information on Indigenous priorities, including initiatives, eligibility, and timelines, will be shared as it becomes available.”

The Indigenous Guardian movement has deep roots in B.C.

Indigenous Guardians in British Columbia have led the way, implementing the longest-standing program in the country, which has been in operation since 1982: the Haida Gwaii Watchmen, established by volunteers.

Before B.C. or Canada began investing in these programs, Haida people took it upon themselves to steward their homelands. The goal was to preserve Gwaii Haanas village sites, according to the nation’s website. 

“It was very common for looters to come to these sites and take artifacts that were very important to the living culture of the Haida Nation, the work done by these volunteers was incredibly important in preserving the village sites that are now protected,” it reads.

Now the Watchmen are funded by Parks Canada, one of four programs the department is supporting across Canada, with three of those programs based in B.C. The province is also home to the highest number of guardian programs funded last year.  

According to an economic analysis from Makeway, a national charity that supports conservation, and the CoEvaluation Lab, a Canadian organization that provides reporting and research support, Indigenous Guardian programs put between $1.43 to $5.37 back into the economy for every dollar invested. 

Another analysis by Social Ventures Australia, which examined a different selection of Indigenous Guardian programs in Canada, had similar findings. For every dollar invested, approximately $2.50 was generated for stakeholders. 

Those returns on investment come from employment outcomes, improved health and wellness, increased tax revenues and benefits to the environment.

For Dallas Smith, president of Nanwakolas Council, the thinking behind the programs has evolved.

“First it was about having eyes, ears and boots on the ground out there. But as we’ve started trying to build a conservation economy in the Great Bear Rainforest, we realized that there were other returns to be made, not only in helping us balance our conservation vision, but also [to] build sustainable economic development visions,” he told The Narwhal.

The council supports six member nations on B.C.’s South Coast and Vancouver Island in negotiations with government and industry. 

“Having the guardians in place whether we protect something or develop something has been monumental,” Smith said. 

While the $230 million announcement came as a welcome surprise, with no clear guidelines about where the funding is going, and with B.C.’s funding still set to expire, staff at some programs are concerned.

“Some [guardian programs] have models that have trust funds … where we’re able to back the guardian program up with some foundational funding that we’re able to live off the interest of,” Smith said. 

“For some of the other guardian programs that are in development … I bet there’s definitely some concern out there about where the next set of funding comes from to get through the next season.” 

Meanwhile, the federal government and various provinces, including B.C. and Ontario, passed bills that faced First Nation opposition last year, among them Bills 14 and 15 in B.C., Bill 5 in Ontario and federal Bill C-5, all of which critics have said privilege industry over Indigenous rights and consultation.

Long term funded is needed to sustain programs

Indigenous Guardians protect the land and natural resources across Canada, maintaining the ecosystem for everyone, while contributing to local economies, businesses and relationships that allow industry into Indigenous territory. 

“The people of this territory would like to see the environment better protected for future generations, so that in generations to come, they’re able to go out and harvest berries and get the meat and fish they need,” Peter said. 

In her nation, interest in becoming a guardian is growing, with renewed funding needed to continue the program. 

“Long-term funding makes it all happen. It takes away the anxiety of chasing grant after grant … being able to secure long term stable funding gives you the ability to plan around it and invest in it,” Smith said. 

Funding gaps, even temporary ones, could undermine the investment and benefits in guardian programs.

And while loss of employment is a huge harm, disruptions in Indigenous Guardian funding can have deadly consequences for the environment.

For example, programs like the Wuikinuxv Guardian Watchmen monitor coastal waters for spills, mitigating risk from industry and acting as a first responder for the environment. 

“Too many people want First Nations to either protect everything or develop everything, they don’t understand the balance we’re trying to reach. The guardians are a living example of creating balance,” said Smith.

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Summary

• The first round of investments from a $375-million fund for Indigenous-led conservation in the territory is being distributed to 21 Indigenous partner governments.
• The funds will support activities on three Tłı̨chǫ protected areas, which cover roughly half of Tłı̨chǫ territory and represent a region three times larger than Banff National Park.
• Funds will also support new and existing Guardians programs, which will generate steady jobs and preserve cultural knowledge that would otherwise be lost.

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A landmark initiative in the Northwest Territories is disbursing $21.6 million to Indigenous governments to support protected areas and Guardian programs.

The funds represent the first round of investments from the Our Land for the Future Trust. The trust came out of an agreement signed in 2024 by the federal government, territorial government, 21 Indigenous governments and private donors that invested $375 million into Indigenous-led conservation in the territory.

The investments were announced Feb. 26 at a meeting in Yellowknife, where the agreement’s partners gathered to review progress.

“It’s an exciting announcement,” Dahti Tsetso, the trust’s chief executive officer, told The Narwhal. With the agreement finalized and funds transferred to the trust’s account, money is now flowing to Indigenous governments to support conservation work at the community level: protecting diverse ecosystems, culturally and spiritually important areas and wildlife habitats.

That, she says, “was always the vision.”

In this first round of funding, Tsetso says each of the 21 Indigenous partner governments is getting resources to work toward area-based conservation goals as well as Guardian and stewardship goals.

In some cases, this will mean managing existing protected areas, such as Edéhzhíe in the Dehcho region or Thaidene Nëné near Łutsël K’é. In other cases, funds will support communities looking to explore or advance protected areas. Both Ka’a’gee Tu and Sambaa K’e First Nations, for example, have been working to establish protected areas that would conserve culturally and ecologically significant zones, home to wildlife such as moose, fish, waterfowl and caribou.

“There’s a number of initiatives that have been ongoing for quite some time,” Tsetso says. “Now the trust can help support their efforts.”

She adds that all of the Indigenous partners have ambitions to either initiate or expand their Guardian work. For instance, the K’ahsho Got’ine Guardians in Fort Good Hope are looking to expand, while the Gwich’in are developing a regional Guardian program.

Protecting roughly half of Tłı̨chǫ lands

The Our Land for the Future agreement covers existing protected areas in the territory, but it’s also expected to support 200,000 square kilometers of new protected and conserved areas, contributing to the federal government’s commitment to protect 30 per cent of Canada’s land and water by 2030. 

Last week’s announcement recognized a big step toward that goal. In November 2025, three protected areas on Tłı̨chǫ lands were officially recognized as Indigenous protected areas by the federal government and added to a national database. The online database is currently being updated to reflect more lands and waters protected as of the end of 2025, according to a spokesperson from Environment and Climate Change Canada.

The three protected areas are known as Tłı̨chǫ Nàowoò K’è Dèt’àhot’ı̨ı̨, Gowhaèhdǫǫ̀ Yek’e Aet’ı̨̀ı̨ K’è and Tıts’aàdı̀ı Nàdèe K’è Wexoedıı.

Altogether, they span 22,565 square kilometers— equivalent to about three times the size of Banff National Park, and encompassing about half of Tłı̨chǫ lands.

“It is a great piece of work,” Tłı̨chǫ Grand Chief Jackson Lafferty says.

He adds that there are also large areas where development is being promoted to support economic self-sufficiency. “It’s a balancing act,” he says. “We’re doing what we can to conserve and also develop.”

 Tłı̨chǫ Nàowoò K’è Dèt’àhot’ı̨ı̨ is aimed at preserving Chief Monfwi’s trails: traditional winter and summer travel routes that connect the four Tłıc̨hǫ communities as well as important cultural and harvesting areas, Brett Wheler, senior policy advisor on sustainability and resource management with the Tłı̨chǫ Government, says.

Similarly, Gowhaèhdǫǫ̀ Yek’e Aet’ı̨̀ı̨ K’è prioritizes the preservation of the ancestral Įdaà Trail, which connects Great Bear Lake to Great Slave Lake. There are important waterways and watersheds situated roughly halfway along the route.

Finally, Tıts’aàdı̀ı Nàdèe K’è Wexoedıı extends along the shoreline of the north arm of Great Slave Lake, and will protect habitat for birds and other wildlife such as caribou.

“These areas have been important for Tłıc̨hǫ people for a long time, basically forever,” Wheler says. Although Tłıc̨hǫ people have protected the areas since time immemorial, a lack of resources to get people on the land had kept them from fully realizing their vision of stewardship.  

The funds from the trust will support the “people component” of the protected areas, Wheler says, including Guardian work, environmental monitoring and cultural programming. One intention is to hire people full time — though the Tłıc̨hǫ Government already has several monitoring programs, patchy funding has meant most employees work on a part-time or casual basis.

The trust served as a catalyst for having the areas officially designated and recognized by the federal government, Wheler explains. In anticipation of funds flowing from the Our Land for the Future, Tłı̨chǫ law governing land protection was updated in 2023. In 2025, the federal government deemed the three areas equivalent to other protected areas, such as national or territorial parks, for achieving conservation goals. As a self-governing nation, the Tłı̨chǫ Government is the sole decision-making authority on its 39,000 square kilometres of land. A land claims and self-government agreement signed in 2003 gave the Tłı̨chǫ Government ownership of surface and subsurface rights on these lands.  

Stephanie Behrens, the Tłıc̨hǫ Government’s manager of lands protection and renewable resources, echoes Wheler.

“Our Elders have always said that the wildlife and the land need us to be out there,” she says. “Having this pot of money really ensures that we’re able to do that.”

Guardians funding will bring jobs, protect culture 

Behrens says the intent is to hire two full-time Guardians in each of the four Tłıc̨hǫ communities, along with a Guardian manager.

Employing Guardians full-time will also provide jobs in an economically challenging time for the region, Behrens says. The territory’s three diamond mines have long been major employers, but are all expected to close by the end of the decade. One is shutting down this month, and the two others are struggling financially.

Tłıc̨hǫ Guardians will help implement work set out for the protected areas, including stewardship, monitoring and harvesting. The work will support the Tłıc̨hǫ Government’s language and cultural programs, but also provide opportunities for individuals to exercise their culture, Wheler says. Elders will provide Guardians with guidance on how to re-establish and maintain cultural trails, along with a network of camps and cabins. 

A lot of that cultural knowledge might otherwise be lost.

“There are only a handful of people that actually know these historic trails,” Behrens says, adding much of her work is guided by her late grandfather’s vision. As an Elder, he was involved in negotiating the Tłıc̨hǫ self-government agreement.“To be able to utilize these trails once again in the way that our Elders and ancestors used to do, I think he would be extremely proud,” she says.

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The Narwhal has once again received national — and international — recognition for stunning storytelling and photography, with four awards last week.

The recognition includes a first-place finish at the Indigenous Media Awards, a gold and a silver at the Digital Publishing Awards and a silver at the National Magazine Awards.

The award-winning stories share a common thread: deep, on-the-ground reporting from remote Indigenous communities, brought to life through intimate storytelling and gorgeous photography.

“Since our humble beginnings just seven years ago, The Narwhal has worked hard to build trust in Indigenous communities, to allow us to do this type of deep reporting and beautiful storytelling,” executive editor Denise Balkissoon said. “We are grateful to the nations and people who shared their stories with us for these award-winning articles and photo essays.”

“Thanks also to the judges for agreeing that The Narwhal still sets itself apart by investing in hard-to-access stories that would otherwise go untold,” Balkissoon added. “None of it would be possible without the more than 7,000 members who regularly contribute to this work.”

Freelance reporter Jimmy Thomson and photojournalist Gavin John spent three days travelling across Montana and southern Alberta to tell the story of the Blackfeet guardians who are working to restore buffalo to the landscape. On Thursday, the Indigenous Journalists Association gave their article the first place award for best feature story in its division.

That same article, which was edited by senior editor Michelle Cyca and managing editor Sharon Riley, won silver for the best feature article at the Digital Publishing Awards on Friday. 

Also at the Digital Publishing Awards, Manitoba-based photojournalist Tim Smith took the gold for best photo storytelling, for capturing the story of five Cree nations who are working together to conserve traditional lands. Smith and Manitoba reporter Julia-Simone Rutgers spent nearly a week in remote northern Manitoba to tell that story, published by The Narwhal in partnership with the Winnipeg Free Press. In total, The Narwhal was a finalist in nine categories at the Digital Publishing Awards.

Meanwhile, Amber Bracken’s intimate portraits of residents of Fort Chipewyan, Alta., took home silver for the best photojournalism at the National Magazine Awards. Bracken’s photo essay shared the hopes and fears of those living downstream of oilsands tailings ponds — after revelations of industrial wastewater leaks infiltrating groundwater.

“This story represents some of the things that I value most in journalism, including working with a talented, caring and invested team — and also having sustained interest and sustained coverage of issues that affect people’s everyday lives,” Bracken said.

“It’s not always easy to get to the community of Fort Chipewyan, and it means a lot to me that The Narwhal stood behind me to make a repeat visit and to try to tell these stories.”

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

The land just outside the powwow arbour is filled with overgrown prairie grasses, patches of invasive plants and soil along the riverbank that is just beginning to erode. 

It’s here that members of the Blood Tribe, also known as the Kainai Nation, are looking to restore the land in the traditional way, for the first time in decades: by embracing fire.

Supported by the Kainai fire department, Waterton Lakes National Park and members of Blackfeet fire management in Montana, fire has come back to the land not to destroy, but to heal.

In early May, four agencies came together over four days for a knowledge exchange on cultural fire, training on how to responsibly set fires (known as prescribed burning) and, finally, putting fire directly back on the land.

In a small circle under the afternoon sun, the gathered firefighters and land guardians each held a small piece of tobacco while Kainai Elders Calvin Williams and Dennis Chief Calf led a prayer.

Then, setting two dried cattails aflame, Williams and Chief Calf ceremoniously lit the ground on fire. Slowly, the sparks grew larger, burning low and slow across the landscape.

“Our culture is being threatened — not just by colonial aspects, but invasive species, climate change — and we’re trying to figure out ways to reignite those cultural pathways,” Alvin First Rider, Kainai’s environmental manager, says.

For decades, a fire like this would not have been possible and, at one point in time, illegal. As Western settlers moved across Canada, wildfires were actively stopped in a bid to protect land and property — called fire suppression — and relatively few resources have been put toward bringing fire back to the landscape in a controlled way.

“Fire suppression is a colonial tactic,” he says. “It was used to remove us, remove bison, off the landscape, and that’s one thing we need to get back on the landscape and express our sovereignty, is using fire as a tool the way we always used it.” 

Bringing cultural burning back to the land is part of First Rider’s vision to reintroduce traditional land management techniques. His plan is to restore fire alongside the rematriation of bison and beavers to rebalance ecosystems. Now, supported by three years of funding from the federal government, Kainai is creating the first fire guardians program in Canada.

Power and respect: The Blackfoot people and fire

The Blood 148 reserve is the largest in Canada, encompassing 1,400 square kilometres and home to more than 8,600 of the nation’s roughly 13,000 registered members. The Blood Tribe or Kainai Nation is one of four making up the Blackfoot Confederacy, along with the Blackfeet Tribe in Montana and the Siksika and Piikani Nations in Alberta.

The traditional use of fire among the Blackfoot people goes all the way back to creation stories, particularly the tale of Napi and the Sun Leggings. 

In that story, Napi, a trickster, stumbles upon the Sun’s lodge and sees a pair of beautiful leggings the Sun uses to start fires when he hunts. After Napi tries and fails to steal them several times, the Sun gives Napi the leggings, but warns him they must be used responsibly.

Napi ignores these instructions, and in his arrogance and vanity, sets the grasslands on fire — destroying the leggings in the process.

“It just kind of goes to show that power of fire and how you’re supposed to follow direction. And then just community-wise, it’s powerful, there’s that respect,” First Rider says.

Williams says these stories are important because they explain how fire was traditionally used by ancestors “in a good way,” as a “beneficial means for our tribe.”

First Rider explains Traditional Knowledge and methods were handed down generationally by fire keepers, such as using bison horns to transfer hot coals.

“There was that notion historically that these lands weren’t maintained and wild, but historically they were. We managed them, and that’s one thing we’re trying to reintroduce is how we manage our landscape,” First Rider says.

Many people on the reserve recall their Elders and grandparents burning land around their property to manage pests, clear out trash or replenish a nearby berry bush.

But in the 1980s and ‘90s, the use of fire to manage the land died out in the community.

“The last time I ever seen anyone burn was in the mid-1990s,” First Rider says.

“It always kind of astounded me that people went away from that. That fear mongering really got ingrained into us, to where people are so scared of fire that they don’t use it. There’s a taboo around it.”

Under the Indian Act, fire management and protection services on First Nations reservations are managed by band councils and regulated by community bylaws but paid for by the federal government.

In 1990, the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs (now Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada) signed a three-party agreement with the Treasury Board and Human Resource Development Canada to establish new ways of suppressing fire and providing greater fire protection services for First Nations communities to reduce wildfire risk in Alberta, Ontario and New Brunswick.

But while this may have hastened the decline of cultural fire practices, the history of restricting Indigenous uses of fire goes back much further. Amy Cardinal Christianson, senior fire advisor with the Indigenous Leadership Initiative, told The Narwhal the use of fire among Indigenous people wasn’t lost but taken away through colonial fire exclusion policies. In 1874, B.C. became the first province to outlaw cultural burns; by the early 20th century, it was banned across Canada. 

“It’s not like people just forgot it and walked away, it was systematically taken away from Indigenous Peoples through prosecution, through fines, through jail time,” she says.

But it’s now understood that cultural burning, along with prescribed burns, mitigate the risks of serious wildfires — risks that have been exacerbated by decades of fire suppression policies. And Indigenous communities are disproportionately affected by wildfires. 

“I think for me it also becomes a social justice issue right now, where we know we need fire on the landscape. So, who better to do that than Indigenous Peoples?”

The difference between cultural and prescribed burns

Although prescribed burns share a similar purpose in how they impact the land, a cultural burn is distinct in that it is led by traditional Indigenous land management practices and knowledge.

“Indigenous people across Canada have used fire on the landscape historically to steward for cultural objectives and so that’s burning to improve a berry production, to get more green grass growing, to make firewood, to open up trails,” Christianson says.

In comparison, a prescribed burn also works to support healthy landscapes but is done primarily for wildfire prevention and ecological wellbeing purposes, and not for cultural reasons.

“Prescribed fire really comes from wildfire agencies, and so it operates very similar to wildfire response,” Christianson says. Both are directed by wild firefighting services operating usually outside Indigenous communities, rather than the communities themselves.

Christianson says cultural burns are also community driven and often led by families. They can involve the whole community, from youth to Elders. 

“When you’re on a cultural fire, there’s laughter, it’s fun. People are visiting, smiling, hanging out together, learning from one another, and so that’s really what I love about cultural fire.”

Parks Canada has been using prescribed burns to help reduce wildfire risk by eliminating built up wood, grass and plant material and to restore ecology for several decades now.

These burns are grounded in Western scientific techniques and typically use gasoline or diesel drip torches to light the land. According to Parks Canada, the agency did 13 prescribed burns in seven parks last year.

The fire crew at Waterton Lakes National Park, which is on traditional Blackfoot territory and borders the Blood reserve, have been helping support the development of a fire guardians program for about six years. That’s when First Rider met the park’s fire management officer Matt Rance, and spoke with him about Indigenous land sovereignty and its connection to fire.

“I started to tell him my vision, and he got it right away,” First Rider says.

Rance, who has worked with fire as a firefighter and technician for over 23 years, has been with the park since 2019. He helped First Rider and Kainai do their first two burns in the Blood Tribe Timber Limits, 1,940 hectares near Waterton managed by the tribe for cultural use. He also assisted First Rider in getting several members of the Kainai land management department their standard wildland firefighting course certification.

“They’ve really helped us build capacity to where we’re able to use it from a Western certification standpoint and get that Western lens on how they plan burns and the proper way to communicate burns,” First Rider says.

Rance says working with the fire guardians has been “one of the more fulfilling parts of my role.”

“I just feel humbled to be in this room with these folks who are doing such amazing work and anything I can do to help and support that we’re going to do,” he says.

The rise of the fire guardians

According to Indigenous Services Canada, the federal government provides annual funding for fire protection services, such as firefighting, fire hall operations, equipment and insurance, which between 2016 and 2024 averaged $50.2 million annually to the 634 First Nations communities across Canada. 

In March, Natural Resources Canada granted Kainai Nation $500,000 over three years to establish a fire guardians program.The grant, which comes after years of work by First Rider, will “strengthen the integration of Indigenous cultural practices and fire-related knowledge,” while helping the First Nation develop tools and resources to incorporate these cultural practices and knowledge into fire management within the community.

Nathan Provost tells The Narwhal he is the first to be hired with this funding as the fire guardian program coordinator. He says he wants the program to educate the community and empower youth.

“Letting them know that this is what we used to do back in the day, and [that] fire is good. It’s not that colonial notion that fire is bad,” he says.

There are more than 200 Indigenous guardians programs in Canada, and many have received federal funding since 2017, which has been managed by the National Guardians Network since 2024. But this one is unique for its focus on fire.

Christianson says there are currently no other federally funded guardian programs for fire across Canada, but for there to be more, there needs to be better funding for proper salaries and sufficient resources. 

“These are very knowledgeable practitioners that are going to be hired in these programs. We should be paying them a lot more,” she said, adding funders “seem to think when it’s an Indigenous program that the wages can be much lower.” 

First Rider says the next phases of the program will focus on acquiring equipment to do cultural burns and hire cultural practitioners within the community who already have fire knowledge.

To plan the four-day knowledge exchange and training session on burns, First Rider reached out to neighbours in the Blackfoot Confederacy, across the Canada-U.S. border.

Sheldon Brewer, a fuel specialist in Browning, Montana, and member of both the Blackfeet Nation and Kainai, has been working with fire for almost 30 years, including wildland fire fighting to prescribed burns.

Brewer says when he got into prescribed burns he started learning about traditional methods of burning by the Blackfoot people, such as lighting cattails, sap-covered pine cones and cow or bison dung.

“Everything that we use presently as field specialists derives from a history, and that history started out back when First Nation Peoples pretty much dominated the area that we currently live in,” he says.

Being invited to be part of the training as a Blackfeet fire specialist is a full-circle moment for Brewer.

“To be home and to participate in this project that’s happening, especially early stages, is one of the biggest key moments in my life that I can say I’m very proud of,” he says.

Costs of wildfires rising with more destructive, deadly fire seasons

Wildfire seasons have become more intense and more destructive in Canada, and the costs of fighting them have also risen.

2023 saw the most destructive wildfire season to date an estimated 5,475 fires ignited more than 17 million hectares of land. That’s over 10 million more than the previous record in 1995.

Last year, Canada saw nearly the same number of fires, but only roughly five million hectares were burned. Still, 2024 had more singed hectares than than the annual area burned in any of the previous 10 years before 2023.

And at the time of publishing, more than 1,900 fires have already burned over 3.6 million hectares of land across the country. In late May, Manitoba declared a state of emergency as wildfires raged in the north of the province, forcing the First Nations of Pimicikimak and Mathias Colomb to issue evacuation orders. Saskatchewan declared a state of emergency shortly after.

Firefighters from across Canada have been called in to fight the flames, as well as from the U.S. It all comes at an enormous cost to governments and communities.

In comparison, Christianson says the cost of cultural burns and investing in fire guardian programs is “peanuts.” Fire guardians also reduce the risk of fire on the land, which in turn helps reduce the risk and cost of large wildfire disasters.

Christianson points out that a guardian’s salary is around $80,000 per year, whereas “we’re spending millions to billions of dollars on fire in Canada.” The cost of wildland fire protection has frequently exceeded $1 billion annually. Manitoba recently put a down payment of $80 million dollars on three water bombers, with the full cost still to be determined. 

So a fire guardian, she adds, “makes it a really good economical case from a Western sense.”

But Indigenous fire experts argue climate change is only part of the smoldering problem.

“Smokey the Bear, he did a damn good job in making our forests unhealthy,” Brewer says, referring to the mascot which has been a symbol of wildfire prevention in the U.S. since the 1940s.

“We go against Mother Nature, we get end results from it and a lot of the time, it’s not what we expected.”

Southern Alberta is no stranger to wildfires. In 2017, the Kenow Fire was one of the area’s most devastating wildfires in recent years, burning 35,000 hectares of land, including “almost half the vegetation” in Waterton, according to Rance.

He says the fire created an opportunity for the park to press the reset button and utilize prescribed burns in areas they might not have been able to before, and including cultural perspectives into those burns as well.

“We’re looking at it as an opportunity to [create] the future plan and make sure that an event like that doesn’t happen again.”

A living restoration project on Blackfoot territory

With the training, First Rider hoped to forge a type of fire network among the participants. He wanted them to come away from it with experience of using fire as a land management tool “from a cultural lens, respecting it,” and not fear it.

During the post-burn debrief, Provost said he was thankful to the Elders for their prayer to make sure “the grandfathers were watching — helping for everything to run smoothly.”

“I remember the older ones used to always burn, and you just never seen that anymore, because, you know, getting in trouble after a while,” he says.

“Just really feels good to see everybody come together like that.”

As the area by the powwow arbour burned slowly, the red, blue and yellow fire suits of the various agencies mingled on the landscape, as participants lit the grasslands aflame and controlled them with water hoses. 

The participants and community onlookers watched the fire, talked and laughed. Even those who said they felt initially panicked by the flames felt a calm wash over them as the burn went on.

“For me, what was much more exciting about it was their relationship building and just being out on the land with people who are so proud of their culture and just so excited to be together and working together,” Christianson says.

“It’s about much more than fire. It’s about that cultural pride in what you’re doing and bringing communities together.”

Despite working with fire for more than three decades, this was Brewer’s first cultural burn using traditional methods.

“It’s something that I’ll cherish for a long time,” he says.

The burn is only the beginning for First Rider’s holistic plan, who calls it a “living restoration project.”

“The goal is to rematriate our connection with fire along with our bison,” First Rider says. A bison herd was reintroduced to the Blood reserve in 2023.

First Rider is also looking for more areas in the community where his team can put down fire, but says there’s still healing that needs to be done in the community.

The plan now is to plant willow cuttings and saplings back to the burned area to stabilize the stream bank and encourage beavers to return. Then the rain will come in to do its job — and then it’s time to burn some more.

“This land needs guardians, and we really need to be able to express our sovereignty and our culture by using these historical practices,” First Rider says.

“That’s in our DNA: fire and bison.”

Updated June 12, 2025, at 4:06 p.m. PT: A previous version of this story stated the cost of wildland fire protection and management reached over $1 billion annually for the last six of 10 years. That statement was pulled from a dataset spanning 2007-2017. The story has been updated to state the cost of fighting fires frequently exceeds $1 billion.

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Mike Leon leans over the water to point out a salmon redd — a “little fish nest, I call it,” he says. It’s easy to miss in the gravelly riverbed of the sánəsaʔł stáʔləw (Alouette River) in q̓ic̓əy̓ (Katzie) territory, also known as Maple Ridge, about an hour’s drive from Vancouver. 

The Alouette Dam, not far upriver, means the water in ánəsaʔł stáʔləw is lower and slower than it would be naturally. Leon, lead guardian for q̓ic̓əy̓ (Katzie) First Nation, says slow water makes it more likely silt will settle on salmon eggs, which can smother them.

q̓ic̓əy̓ is raising the alarm that the river’s ecology has been severely eroded by the dam. The nation commissioned a report that found the river’s flow has been reduced by 86 per cent since the river was dammed in 1928. But the situation has grown more urgent as the Fraser River region experiences increasingly dry conditions and summer heat nears.

A tremendous amount of water is diverted to Stave Lake for hydroelectric power, flowing through the Alouette Tunnel at a rate of 53 cubic metres per second — enough water to fill an Olympic swimming pool every 47 seconds. 

“That’s our matriarch they’re bringing over there. That’s the water that should be flowing through here, for life,” Leon says. Mist rests among the tree tops and the sound of the river fills the air as he looks at the water with q̓ic̓əy̓ councillor Rick Bailey.

While much of B.C. experienced high precipitation in March, it can take a while to make up for deficits. The Fraser snow basin is about 76 per cent of its normal depth and the average snowpack provincewide is 71 per cent of normal according to data from May 1. Low snowpack, warm weather and lingering drought impacts have B.C. preparing for “elevated drought hazards” this year, according to a bulletin from the provincial government.

“We’ve got drought coming,” Leon says. If water gets too low and warm it can be lethal for salmon.

The nation is pushing for BC Hydro to let more water through and build a fish ladder to allow fish that are currently blocked by the dam to pass by it unimpeded. For its part, BC Hydro says it is working to increase water flow by updating infrastructure and that fish ladders were not technically feasible, instead proposing a hatchery.

“It boils down to money,” Bailey says. “BC Hydro comes up with all kinds of reasons why it can’t be done.”

Meanwhile, the nation is also looking to expand habitat restoration and improve access for its people to their territory. Part of that work has involved enhancing their Guardians program — the people who act as the nation’s “eyes and ears” on the land. In the past year the nation has built up their team from three to eight guardians, in addition to Leon as the lead, and has been working with BC Hydro to do habitat enhancement.

Bailey, a fisherman, hunter, father and grandfather, has been working on the river since he was first elected in the 1990s. 

“This is just one little place to some people. It may not seem important. But we didn’t just come here. We went to all the little creeks throughout our whole territory,” he says. “It’s a different world today. We call the salmon part of our family — we want our family to have a good place to come home.”

Central to all their plans for the river is reconnecting people to the water. In administrative meetings, Bailey says he hears over and over again from other nations along the Fraser that “we just need to get out on the water.” 

“It doesn’t matter if we go out there to catch a fish — it’s to just be there,” he says.

Nation wants BC Hydro to build a path for fish to pass, and let more water through dam

q̓ic̓əy̓ means land of the moss, a reflection of the close relationship between the nation and the rivers and wetlands of their homelands and with the non-human relatives who share them. Leon and Bailey both speak softly as they look at the water passing by.

Sockeye have fed the nation for countless generations. Fish carcasses feed the ecosystem — providing food for creatures from insects to bears, and bringing nutrients to soil and plants. 

“They’re an amazing relative,” Leon says, smiling.

But these relatives have been especially impacted by the dam. Some got trapped above the dam when it was installed, while others couldn’t reach their traditional spawning grounds. Every year BC Hydro catches sockeye, transporting them by truck to the other side of the dam and releasing them to spawn. In a statement, the energy utility told The Narwhal annual returns from this program have varied from zero to 103 sockeye per year.

Dam affected wider ecosystem in the watershed

The nation published a cumulative effects report last October, which was partly funded by BC Hydro. It calls for enhancing water quality protections to address agricultural runoff and human waste from sewage overflow and houseboats, along with habitat restoration, especially in the face of climate change. It emphasizes the importance of future management decisions being guided by q̓ic̓əy̓ law and knowledge. It recommends re-establishing seasonal water flows and reconnecting the slough system for wildlife. Leon and Bailey hope these actions will support otters, trout, mink, eagles and wolves — and bring back a functioning ecosystem that brings wealth, stability and sustenance. 

“Being a good ancestor is having the next generations come along and say, ‘Our ancestors fought for more water in the Alouette. Our ancestors fought so that our salmon families could pass the dam.’ That’s what makes more sense for wealth,” Leon says.

Pre-contact the nation’s territory was rich with ponds, wapato (Indian potato), cranberries and fish.

“That’s what it was about — richness,” Bailey says. “Nothing about money. That was our grocery store.” 

With diking and water reduction, wapato and bog cranberry nearly disappeared — two core pillars of food security for q̓ic̓əy̓, who also traded the foods with neighbouring nations.

In 2008, BC Hydro developed a seven-step process to look at fish passage restoration in the sánəsaʔł in partnership with Fisheries and Oceans Canada and the province, but according to its website it’s still at stage 3 and 4, looking at environmental and technical feasibility. The website says more than $1.8 million has been spent addressing dam impacts on fish and wildlife in the Alouette River Watershed since 1999, including $825,000 for sockeye restoration.

Comparatively, BC Hydro revenue for 2023 to 2024 was more than $7 billion — and more than $8 billion the prior year.

Guardians act as ‘voice for Katzie’ on the land

In q̓ic̓əy̓ law, punishment is not central, Bailey says. If someone does something wrong, they are educated, not penalized. To him, that’s central to the role of guardians — educating others.

The guardians have been working with BC Hydro to do habitat enhancement, and are leading a survey to take inventory “of those little salmon babies,” Leon says, as well as monitoring water quality and educating the public. 

Leon wants to work with partners to mount signs and have guardians be the “voice for q̓ic̓əy̓” on the land. But he adds all q̓ic̓əy̓ people share the responsibility.

“We hold the title but everybody in q̓ic̓əy̓ are Guardians,” he said. “From our Elders right down to our littlest grandchild.”

Until late last year the guardians were contractors, but the roles are now permanent under the nation. 

The guardians are one way the nation exercises its governance, Leon says. The nation’s laws are equal to Canadian law, he adds, and they want to use q̓ic̓əy̓ science and Western science “side by side, rather than one above the other.”

BC Hydro says new structure may increase flow

In a statement, BC Hydro spokesperson Kevin Aquino told The Narwhal that monitoring by the energy utility found sediment levels are “suitable” for salmon spawn. He said the dam releases water at a steady rate during the spawning period, meaning there is less risk of salmon redds drying out than in unregulated rivers. He also said salmon deal with natural storm runoff and so they are “accustomed” to temporary changes in river levels.

But Leon and Bailey say they still see the effects of inconsistent flow play out on the riverbank.

“One day it’ll be up here and fish will spawn right on the bank here. The next day, the water’s down there, so those eggs are in the dry,” Bailey says. “The fish will die, trapped.”

Currently, water can flow into the sánəsaʔł via a spillway and a pipe. Aquino said BC Hydro is replacing the pipe and the new structure will be able to allow more water through. He said BC Hydro is submitting an application to the comptroller of water rights for this structure later this year, which includes recommendations for higher and seasonable variable flows to the river. If the application is accepted, BC Hydro expects the daily average flow into the south Alouette to increase by about 40 per cent once the new structure is completed.

As for fish passage, Aquino said “installing fish passage at large, earth-fill dams like Alouette is technically complex.” He said there is a large elevation change, meaning “traditional fish ladder structures may not be technically feasible.” 

He said the utility did an analysis of fish passage options and “large, complex designs” are necessary to meet the technical requirements, such as flood control and seismic safety. He said the designs were “unlikely to be suitable for sockeye,” but did not elaborate. He said data suggests these sockeye have low ocean survival rates and fish passage may not lead to improved returns, and that’s why BC Hydro has proposed a hatchery. But hatcheries are not without controversies of their own, as some scientists worry they may increase competition with wild populations.

Aquino said BC Hydro can’t estimate when fish passage solutions may be reached, but said the utility is actively engaging with the nation.

‘It’s part of us — the water, the trees, the mountains — and we’re part of it’

The sánəsaʔł area has been the nation’s fishing, gathering and hunting grounds for thousands of years — “now we’ve got to ask permission,” Leon says. BC Hydro has gated off some areas, restricting the nation’s access to their traditional territory. 

Aquino said the utility recognizes qic̓əy̓’s desire to access their territory gated by BC Hydro and is in discussions with the nation to “meet shared interests in a fair and safe manner.” He said the utility is also working with qic̓əy̓ to “understand and incorporate” recommendations from the cumulative effects report.

In 2022, the nation filed a lawsuit against BC Hydro, alleging breaches in contractual obligations to mitigate the dam’s impacts on the nation’s use of the river for food and culture. Bailey said the case is on pause as the nation and utility try to negotiate. 

In addition to fish, the river and surrounding area provided hunting for deer, elk, waterfowl and mountain goats, as well as picking berries and medicines. As a kid, Bailey remembers fishing when “the early Chinook were just treasured.”

“They’re just so delicious,” he says with a chuckle.

The lowlands began to be diked and drained for agriculture in the late 1800s, which had frequently flooded seasonally before. This disrupted traditional means of travelling by canoe. The Canadian Pacific Railway reached the area in 1884, leading to increased logging and export of timber from the area, affecting the nation’s access to plants like devil’s club and cedar. 

Over time, the area was developed into the urban centre it is today. Animals like beaver and muskrat decreased while effects like pollution increased, and it became harder for q̓ic̓əy̓ members to pass down intergenerational knowledge about how to live with the land.

Today, it’s a hub for recreation. Part of the land falls within the popular Golden Ears Provincial Park. Leon sees people ride their motorbikes across this riverbed through the gravel that may be home to salmon nests. It’s a spot he brings his grandkids.

“You try to govern — but it’s so hard with garbage and beer cans,” he says. Not just for people, but for the sockeye and their eggs, too. 

“All that hard work — our relatives come up, spend four years out there to come back here and have their redds destroyed by a quad or a motorcycle.”

Bailey’s voice is full of concern as he argues climate change makes everything more urgent. “Extreme weather, floods and drought. … I hope and pray climate change is not so drastic that our salmon family can’t survive,” he says.

Still, they are doing everything in their power to connect people with the territory as part of their solutions. The nation has also bought a piece of land to build a treatment centre, surrounded by the mountains and water. Central to all their plans is bringing people back to the water.

“Just being out there on the water does something for us internally, like spiritually, culturally,” Bailey says. “When I come back out, I’m revived.”

“It’s part of us — the water, the trees, the mountains — and we’re part of it.”

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A $335 million funding commitment to fund 17 West Coast First Nations protecting the Great Bear Sea. $375 million for new protected and conserved areas, Indigenous Guardian programs, ecotourism, traditional economic activities and climate research in the Northwest Territories.

These are two of the big commitments the federal Liberal government made starting in 2018, as it pledged more than $1.2 billion towards Indigenous-led conservation projects as part of Canada’s ambitious international commitment to conserve 30 per cent of lands and waters by 2030. 

We were not quite halfway to meeting that commitment by the end of 2023 — the last time the federal government posted an update. It’s hard to predict if we’ll get there, since a lot has changed in Canada since Justin Trudeau was first elected in 2015, a shift that’s evident in how Canadians think about environmental issues. In 2019, climate change was a top priority for Canadian voters. In 2021, it was also a top-ranked issue for almost a quarter of Canadians, along with cost of living and healthcare.

But despite having so much further to go to reach our national conservation targets — and despite our worsening climate crisis — in a recent survey, fewer than four per cent of respondents told CBC the environment was their most important election issue. Instead, Canadians are preoccupied by threats of annexation by U.S. President Donald Trump, an economy destabilized by unpredictable tariffs and an Arctic region coveted by powerful geopolitical rivals. And as party leaders champion energy projects and critical minerals as the solution to Canada’s economic and sovereignty woes, the interrelated issues of Indigenous Rights and the environment have been pushed to the sidelines. 

Conservative Party Leader Pierre Poilieve has emphasized repeatedly that he will get resource projects built fast — he promised that will financially benefit Indigenous communities that buy in, but also suggested he might forge ahead without consent if they don’t. And while Liberal Party Leader Mark Carney has promised to uphold the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and continue funding Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas, he continues to promise that major projects will happen quickly all across the country — without clarifying how consultation and consent could be expedited.

This has caught the attention of Indigenous leaders, who point out sovereignty is not up for debate. And in B.C., where speeding up industry projects is already being piloted by the provincial government, promises to fast-track projects have already been met with concern by Indigenous leaders. “If you want certainty and you want it quickly, the only way you can achieve that is with free, prior, informed consent of the First Nations that are impacted,” Tahltan Elder Allen Edzerza told The Narwhal in March. “There’s no shortcuts in that regard.”  

One way or another, we’re getting a new government. Carney, as he reminded Canadians repeatedly during last week’s leaders’ debates, is not Justin Trudeau — and Poilievre doesn’t need to remind us of that at all. So what could the next federal government mean for Indigenous conservation and rights? 

What has been achieved for Indigenous Rights and conservation so far?

Two major Indigenous-led conservation projects — the Great Bear Sea off the coast of British Columbia and the Northwest Territories Project Finance for Permanence — have been finalized in the past year, ensuring long-term funding for massive networks of protected lands and waters, led by Indigenous nations. Two more initiatives — one in northern Ontario and another in Nunavut — are still in negotiations. Whether or not they move ahead will depend on the next federal government. 

In addition, the federal government has worked with Indigenous nations, and in some cases provincial governments, to conserve areas through other mechanisms. In B.C., the Klinse-Za / Twin Sisters Park now covers almost 200,000 hectares of critical caribou habitat as part of an expanded provincial park. And in the Yukon, the Aullaviat/Anguniarvik Traditional Conservation Area was established last June, bringing the total protected area in the Yukon to just over 21 per cent.

Perhaps most significantly, in 2021 Canada adopted the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, commonly known as UNDRIP. This enactment requires the federal government to align laws and policies with international standards.

Paul Seaman, a lawyer with Gowling WLG who specializes in Indigenous law, says Canada is still figuring out what UNDRIP means in practice. But he says a recent federal court case involving the Kebaowek First Nation and a proposed nuclear waste storage facility on their territory in Chalk River, Ont., offers some insight. “What the federal courts have said so far is that you have to approach the issue and the process with reference to Indigenous laws and Indigenous Knowledge and practices, and that the process you use has to be directed toward finding mutual agreement.” 

What this means, in part, is that there is no one-size-fits-all approach to consultation; it must be considered in the context of a specific nation and its protocols. “You might have to do a process outside of the statutory process. You might have to enact regulations or something, to fill gaps on a case-by-case basis,” Seaman says. “But one way or another, you can’t just say, ‘Well, the process is the process, and we’re done with it.’” 

Jessica Clogg, executive director and senior counsel at West Coast Environmental Law, says Canadian politicians should have learned these lessons by now. “We know from extensive past history that if Indigenous Rights are kind of run roughshod over, or if environmental concerns are not addressed in assessment of projects, we end up with disasters like Mount Polley. We end up with things being tied up in the courts. We end up with land defense actions.” None of which, she points out, are resolved quickly — or cheaply. 

What do Mark Carney and Pierre Poilieve say about Indigenous Rights? 

As with many issues, Poilieve and Carney diverge on Indigenous Rights and conservation. 

In 2021, Poilievre opposed the adoption of UNDRIP, saying it was undemocratic because it gave “veto power” to First Nations opposed to projects on their territories. “If 19 First Nations communities supported a project and one opposed the project, the one would be able to overpower the 19,” he said at the time. “To me, that is not how we should function in a country that is a democracy.”

He appears to stand by that position. In the French language debate, leaders were asked whether they would impose a pipeline over First Nations objections. Poilievre demurred at first, suggesting there is a lot of support for pipelines from many nations, before saying he would, as translated during the debate, “side with the majority” for a project like Northern Gateway, a pipeline proposed between Alberta’s oilsands and Kitimat, B.C., that was cancelled in 2016. Though Poilievre claims it was supported by 80 per cent of impacted First Nations, many others brought legal challenges in opposition.

“There’s no concept that I’m aware of where you can ignore the rights of one [First Nation] in favour of the rights of another in a ‘majority rules’ kind of concept,” Seaman says. 

Seaman also emphasizes that Indigenous Rights — enshrined in the Constitution Act under Section 35 — are not something that any federal government can suspend. This is true despite the infamous notwithstanding clause in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which Poilievre has threatened to use to impose multiple life sentences on murderers. But, Seaman says, “the notwithstanding clause does not apply to section 35. There’s no equivalent to allow [Indigenous Rights] to not apply in some particular circumstances, or anything like that.” 

In contrast, Carney has stated his support for reconciliation and UNDRIP. Though he has emphasized the urgency and importance of natural resource and energy projects, he’s said he would not force projects through without approval from Indigenous nations. However, having it both ways might be impossible: in B.C., Premier David Eby’s NDP government has already run into legal challenges while trying to expedite projects that impact First Nations and it’s unclear how the requirement for free, prior and informed consent could be sped up. 

Seaman says that time and again, federal and provincial governments have learned the hard way that upholding the duty of consent is key to successful projects, which otherwise end up mired in litigation and delays. He points to the 2017 Supreme Court ruling on a case in Clyde River, which saw Nunavut Inuit successfully block seismic testing they said would hurt marine life. To Seaman, a line in the decision sums up the reality: “No one benefits — not project proponents, not Indigenous Peoples, and not non-Indigenous members of affected communities — when projects are prematurely approved only to be subjected to litigation.” 

Provinces play critical role in advancing conservation — but Indigenous nations aren’t waiting around

The Liberal Party has also committed to funding new Arctic Indigenous Guardians as well as “Indigenous-led conservation and protection projects,” though it has not promised any renewed or expanded financial support for other Guardians programs such as the National Guardians Network. The promise to fund new Arctic Guardians aligns with Carney’s Arctic sovereignty push, but his party has not offered any specific support for Indigenous-led conservation projects elsewhere. 

Meanwhile, the Conservative Party has said little about conservation, including Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas. But in 2023, Aaron Gunn, now the Conservative candidate for the hotly contested North Island-Powell River riding, attacked the Great Bear Sea proposal and suggested it be scrapped. However, the agreement for the Great Bear marine protected area was signed the following year, with two decades of funding committed. A Conservative government wouldn’t be able to undo that agreement — but it could withhold support and funding from other Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas.

And funding is “one of the most significant federal roles” when it comes to Indigenous-led conservation, Clogg says. The least she hopes for is that existing commitments, such as the Tripartite Nature Agreement among B.C., Canada and First Nations, will be honoured. “At minimum, we want to see those dollars begin to flow, but also we want to see sustained, robust funding from the federal government.”

But provinces and territories have jurisdiction over most natural resources — which means provincial support for Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas is crucial. In Ontario, Doug Ford’s government has stonewalled Indigenous-led conservation projects, including those with federal funding and support. The Ontario government is also trying to win First Nations over to its plan for mining and development in the Ring of Fire: the potential economic and infrastructure benefits have some nations interested, while others are staunch opponents because of the impact on environmentally-sensitive regions. 

In B.C., where a number of First Nations, including Gitanyow, Kitasoo Xai’Xais, Simpcw and Ḵwiḵwa̱sut’inux̱w Ha̱xwa’mis, have issued sovereign declarations to protect their lands and waters, the province has not offered support for these unilateral initiatives — and sometimes still issues permits for extraction and energy projects. “It has been extraordinarily challenging for them to get the Crown to stop issuing incompatible tenures, or really to do anything — even to provide interim protection for those areas while negotiations are ongoing,” Clogg says. 

In addition, she says, B.C. has flinched from the political backlash to its first tentative steps to align provincial legislation with UNDRIP, backtracking on proposed changes to the Land Act and halting other conservation efforts. Until these provincial-level barriers are addressed, Clogg says, “even the most robust federal action … is unlikely to result in impact on the ground.” 

Still, if there is a lesson to be gleaned from recent history, it’s that Indigenous nations are exercising their rights and moving forward with protections one way or another — no matter which party prevails after this election. 

As Dallas Smith, president of the Na̲nwak̲olas Council, told Canada’s National Observer, “First Nations have taken the lead [on the Great Bear Sea] and we’re willing to work with elected officials, but we’re not here to convince them of the direction we’re going in when it comes to the protection of our territories.” 

And as Canadians head to the polls on Monday with sovereignty in mind, Clogg says the next Prime Minister has an opportunity to unite the country around safeguarding the environment, and the critical role that Indigenous stewardship plays in doing so. “I really feel that at a time when Canada is under attack, it’s never been more important to uphold these values — to protect our land and water, to uphold constitutional rights and Indigenous human rights — because it’s these values that make us who we are.”

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For more than six years, the federal government has been funding Guardians programs to support Indigenous-led environmental stewardship.

Combining Indigenous Knowledge with western science, guardians play a critical role in monitoring and managing wildfires, water quality, species protections and more. But applying for funding to do this work was “a tedious, time-consuming process,” Gillian Staveley, a Kaska Dena citizen from northern B.C., told The Narwhal. Engaging with the application process meant taking guardians away from the land. 

Staveley is a council member of the National Guardians Network — Canada’s first Indigenous-led national stewardship network, which launched in December 2022 at COP15, the United Nations biodiversity conference in Montreal. For the first time, this past year the network independently managed and allocated federal funds for all Indigenous communities. (Guardians programs across Canada have various funding sources, including the federal government.)

In doing so, the network is reinventing the system for distributing federal funds to make “a process that is easier for guardians, that gets them in the field faster,” Staveley said. The network created a toll-free support line and permitted oral reporting by funding recipients instead of requiring hefty written submissions. 

A year on, Staveley said the program is working and has created “a new kind of partnership between us and Canada, one based on equality,” and one she describes as “a real example of reconciliation.” 

“It has allowed us to really make Indigenous-led decision-making,” she added.

The number of land guardian programs has increased six-fold from 30 in 2016 to more than 180 this year. And the new system allowed 90 per cent of funding agreements to be made in 60 days, compared to an average of six months previously. 

This year, the network — with a council made up of guardians — has divided $27.6 million among 80 First Nations Guardians initiatives. Of this year’s recipients, 18 are developing new programs, like Wet’suwet’en First Nation in northern B.C., who received more than $75,000 to study moose population and mortality rates. Aamjiwnaang First Nation, near Sarnia, Ont., also got more than $48,000 to better monitor the air, water and land surrounding their territory. The funding comes months after Aamjiwnaang declared a state of emergency due to spikes in carcinogenic benzene measured in the air during a plastics factory’s temporary shutdown. This week the nation ordered some residents to evacuate fearing more harmful pollutants would be released.

The remaining recipients include some that have been around for decades, including wildfire monitoring efforts, programs to collect data about water health and setting up climate monitoring stations. 

The Heiltsuk Nation has received nearly $350,000 to continue protecting local aquatic ecosystems and community fisheries. The Łutsel K’e Dene First Nation received nearly $350,000 to continue their stewardship of the Thaidene Nëné National Park Reserve in the Northwest Territories. 

Many of the programs focus on employing full-time guardians for two years. Caldwell First Nation, for example, received more than $345,000 to give on-the-land training to members and also review environmental assessments as they build their community from the ground up. 

At least 11 of the 80 programs also focus on employing and engaging with youth to train what Staveley describes as “guardians of the future.” Seal River Watershed Alliance — made up of four northern First Nations in Manitoba —  received $500,000 to employ 14 youth and senior staff as land guardians. 

“A lot of [youth] are reclaiming that identity and reclaiming that role as land stewards because it was taken away from them,” Staveley said. Through these programs, they get practical skills, paid employment and opportunities to build relationships with their community and culture. 

In offering his congratulations to the network, Environment Minister Steven Guilbeault said in a press statement “Indigenous-led stewardship offers profound and transformative benefits for communities and the environment and guardians are a cornerstone of these efforts.” 

Staveley told The Narwhal the network’s long-term goal is to establish accreditations and professional standards for guardians. And, of course, to keep the money flowing. 

“The sad reality of the situation is there’s more programs than what we have money for,” Staveley said. The network received 183 proposals, which would have required close to $55 million, nearly double the funding they currently have. Staveley expects an increase in the number of applicants every single year. 

With a federal election on the way, Staveley hopes “any future government will see this as an example of a respectful partnership and want to build on it and move it forward.” 

“It’s a gut-wrenching feeling to not be funding all the programs that are asking for money,” she said. “But it lit a fire for us to know that we have to work with all levels of government and even philanthropic organizations and corporations so that we are supporting Guardians programs in Canada. Because our ultimate goal is that every First Nations community that wants a Guardian program has one, and it’s going to take a lot of us working together to make sure that happens.”

Updated on Oct. 3, 2024, at 4:07 p.m. ET: This story has been updated to clarify that only federal funds are now being managed by the National Guardians Network, as Indigenous Guardians programs across Canada have various sources of funding. 

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A new study out of northern Manitoba is helping to make the case for Indigenous-led conservation amidst a global biodiversity crisis, putting the spotlight on Canada’s unique and iconic abundance of birds. 

North America’s bird population has declined by nearly 3 billion birds in the last 50 years, according to the National Audubon Society. But within the 50,000 square kilometres of boreal forest and subarctic tundra that form the Seal River watershed’s proposed protected area, surveyors have found more than 100 bird species — far more than have ever been documented in the region. 

“The total number was pretty astounding,” Jeff Wells, vice-president of Audubon’s boreal conservation program, said in an interview. 

“It just continues to make the point of how special and important this watershed is.”

The Seal River watershed crosses three distinct geographic regions: the dense and boggy boreal forest, the transitional subarctic and the rocky, barren fields of the Arctic tundra. 

The region’s heartbeat, its eponymous river, stretches from Shethanei Lake to Hudson Bay, where saltwater from the northern Arctic Ocean swells into fresh river water, creating a vibrant estuary home to seals, beluga whales, polar bears, fish — and lots of birds.

Previous research had already documented two dozen species of migrating waterfowl and shorebirds, but less has been known about the birds farther inland.

The bird study, a joint effort between the Audubon Society, an American non-profit focused on bird conservation, and the Seal River Watershed Alliance, a group of four northern First Nations working to protect Manitoba’s last major undammed river, found 102 bird species from more than 30 taxonomic families. 

This study forms part of the multi-year process initiated in December 2023 when leaders from the four allied nations — the Sayisi Dene, Northlands Denesuline, Barren Lands First Nation and O-Pipon-Na-Piwin Cree Nation — signed an agreement with the provincial and federal governments to explore the development of a protected area. The process is currently focused on ongoing consultation with members of the four nations, and collecting feedback from across Canada, including more than 30,000 letters of support.

Some of the birds are well-known symbols of Canadian identity: the Canada goose, common loon and rock ptarmigan, to name a few. 

But others are perhaps less familiar to the non-birding enthusiast, like the American wigeon, a type of “compact duck,” Philadelphia vireo, a small, rare treetop dweller and the sora, a comically chubby bird with stubby wings, a yellow beak and long neon green legs.  

Many are considered species in decline and are protected by Canada’s Species At Risk Act and Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada.

“We have a remarkable opportunity here because the watershed is still full of so much song, still full of so many birds,” Stephanie Thorassie, executive director of the alliance, wrote in the foreword to the study. 

Birds face a ‘maze of threats’ from people and need large, intact wilderness

Birds, like most other land and water species across the globe, have been affected by habitat loss from human activity. Add the impacts of climate change — widespread fires, extreme heat, drought, rain and cold — and the birds “are pushed to a higher level of stress,” Wells explained. 

“The footprint of human activity is so massive that it’s really impacted birds,” he said.

Breeding birds have lost their nesting grounds to agricultural developments and urban expansion, while migratory birds now have to navigate “a maze of threats” as they travel between their winter habitat and summer breeding grounds. 

That’s what makes large, intact ecosystems like the Seal River watershed so important. 

Take, for example, the lesser yellowlegs — a graceful, spindly legged shorebird that travels as far as South America in the winter, but only breeds in the northern boreal forest. The lesser yellowlegs is threatened; it’s estimated the bird’s population has declined by 60 to 80 per cent in the last 40 years.

But the yellowlegs appear in abundance in the Seal River, popping up at all but a handful of the study’s survey sites. 

“It’s the only place where you can make more of them,” Wells said with a laugh. 

Maintaining the bird’s breeding habitat is critical to supporting their populations — and conserving that habitat relies on Indigenous protection, he added.

“The way to see those birds continue to be healthy is completely intertwined with the work of Indigenous communities,” Wells said. 

Birds identified in Seal River region with help of machine-learning tools

In remote areas, birding is hard work. Difficult terrain, changing seasons, bugs, weather and wildlife can make it challenging to send researchers into the wild for hours on end to listen for the distinct trills, whistles and chirps of birdsong. 

The last large-scale bird study up north was the Manitoba breeding bird atlas, completed in 2014, which relied on “a handful of surveys over a couple of small areas in the whole watershed,” Wells said, and found fewer than 70 bird species across the Seal River region. 

This time, Audubon and the alliance wanted to do things differently. 

Surveyors set up programmable recording devices in the trees at 28 sites near Tadoule Lake, which switched on each morning through the spring and summer of 2021 through 2023. 

They collected more than 12,000 hours of recordings, which they fed into a machine-learning tool trained to identify birdsong. Predictions were manually verified by researchers.

The result was a broader understanding of the region’s winged creatures. 

Wells was surprised to hear the whistle of a magnolia warbler and piercing trills of the cedar waxwing far further north than their typical summer ranges.

The data, he explained, will help researchers understand the “little tantalizing mysteries” of bird migration and distribution, like whether some are moving north as a result of climate change. 

Most importantly, Thorassie said in an interview, it’s supporting First Nations’ land-monitoring work.

“Often it’s our community members just driving the boat for scientists that come in,” Thorassie said. “They do whatever they’re doing and then they leave, and we never see the reports.”

Collaborative approach between western and Indigenous ways — and opportunities for youth

This project was different. The Audubon society turned to community members to drive the research, Thorassie explained. Elders, land users and members of the alliance’s land guardian program decided where recording devices would be placed based on their knowledge of the landscape, oral histories, stories and memories. Land guardians then installed the units and collected the recordings.

Land guardians led an initiative to include a glossary of Indigenous bird names as an appendix to the study. The 102 species spotted in the watershed are listed in English, Dene, Cree and syllabics from each of the four nations, based on interviews with Elders. 

“It was really beautiful to see the sense of ownership the community members feel about this data because of being a part of the process from the beginning,” Thorassie said. 

While the research has practical applications, it’s also brought a lot of inspiration — especially for the community’s youth.

Since the project wrapped up, Wells said, some of the guardians have become fervent birders.

Some land guardians traveled to Maine to spend time with the Audubon Society to learn about bird tagging and monitoring. Next month, Audubon and the alliance hope to bring the land guardians to Colombia, to take part in this year’s United Nations biodiversity conference (COP16) as well as a cultural exchange with Indigenous communities who steward many of the same species that eventually migrate to Hudson Bay.

“These are life-changing opportunities,” Thorassie said.

As youth in remote northern First Nations navigate resource gaps and confront the lasting impacts of generational trauma, the opportunities to contribute to these projects can bring hope and purpose, she added. 

“Conservation is bigger than just the environment and the animals and the water. Environmental conservation includes the people, because you can’t have nature without the people that are from that area,” Thorassie said.

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This is the first story from In the Line of Fire, a series from The Narwhal digging into what is being done to prepare for — and survive — wildfires.

Gitanyow Elder Darlene Vegh drips fire onto a patch of dry leaves, moss and twigs on a ridge above Xsit’ax (Kitwanga River) on Wilp Gwaas Hlaam lands in northwest B.C. It’s a clear spring day a few weeks after the winter snowmelt exposed the forest floor. The orange light of the little flames dancing along the ground is soft and warm against the deep shadows cast by the trees. Vegh’s fire starts the day’s cultural burn, an Indigenous-led practice that brings fire back to the land in a good way.

Fire — called lakw in Simalgyax, the language spoken in Gitanyow — was used on the landscape for thousands of years as a tool to manage resources like food and medicinal plants and the animals that eat them. But under colonization, Indigenous use of fire was banned — suppressed along with every other aspect of cultural life. As governments enacted genocidal policies like the Indian Act, they used fire for nefarious purposes, burning down Indigenous dwellings as they forcibly removed communities from their lands and moved them onto reserves.

Vegh is from Wilp Wii Litsxw, a Gitanyow house group. She’s a member of the Gitanyow Lax’yip Guardians, a small group of fish and wildlife monitors known as the “eyes and ears” of the territory, or lax’yip. When the guardians surveyed the ridge to map the area for cultural values prior to the burn, she says they discovered seven house pits and dozens of cache pits, depressions in the ground where homes or food storage buildings once stood. She wondered why they didn’t see cedar boards — remnants of house construction — or other evidence of ancestral use of the land.

“I think they were all burned by the state, the churches or the Indian agents, when the Indian reserve systems were established — 1918 would have been a devastating year for ancestral habitation sites,” she says, referring to the time when settlers moved en masse onto Gitanyow lands, enabled by an amendment to the Indian Act that allowed expropriation of reserve land for farmers and ranchers.

The contrast between using fire to destroy Indigenous Peoples and using fire to bring life back to the land could not be more striking. 

Cultural burning in spring after the snowmelt and in fall before the rains stimulates plant growth and opens the land to wildlife. On Gitanyow lax’yip, the objectives of the burn include restoring for haast (fireweed), Ts’anksa gaak (nodding onion) and berries like ‘miiyahl (low-bush blueberry), T’imi’yt (Kinnikinnik) and gam (Saskatoon). As these plant species fill in after a burn, wildlife like bears and moose move in to eat the verdant regrowth. Using fire to clear tangled shrubs and provide paths through thick stands of trees also supports access for community members to harvest and hunt and visit culturally important sites.

Setting fires to fight fires may seem counterintuitive as wildfires across Canada increase in size and intensity, but the method is backed by decades of research and on-the-ground trials — and thousands of years of Indigenous science. In B.C., the government’s wildfire department is teaming up with First Nations to support cultural burns and other ways of using fire for the common good. Planned burns like the one on Gitanyow lands present a different way to think about fire and an opportunity to help meet the climate emergency head-on by mitigating the impacts of wildfires and restoring balance in forest ecosystems.

“This spring more than 30 burning projects have moved forward across the province, with the majority involving some kind of partnership with Indigenous communities,” Sarah Budd, a spokesperson with the BC Wildfire Service’s cultural and prescribed fire team, wrote in an email to The Narwhal.

“The way the BC Wildfire Service works with Indigenous communities to implement cultural or prescribed fire projects really depends on their capacity and interest in using fire on the land,” she continued. “Cultural burning can mean different things in different communities, and our goal is to meet them where they’re at, support the development of capacity, and work towards our shared goal of seeing more good fire used in B.C. for a range of stewardship objectives.”

On Gitanyow lax’yip, blackened trees are evidence fire was used decades ago, but those burns were done without government approval. With full support from the province, this year’s cultural burn signals a new chapter of collaboration between the nation and the province. Vegh compares it to the interconnected relationships between plants, animals and people. She smiles as she looks around at the wildland firefighters working on her homelands.

“I think it’s a beautiful thing,” she says.

‘We’re gaining momentum’: knowledge sharing and efficient fire practices

Vegh says her connections to the lax’yip were almost taken from her. Her mother was removed from the community at seven years old and taken to the Nanaimo Indian Hospital. She spent years locked in the institution and all ties to her lands, language, people and culture were severed. Vegh says her mom didn’t even know she was Gitanyow growing up. After years of working through trauma, she started piecing together the past that was stolen from her, eventually returning to the lax’yip and giving her daughter the life she never had. 

“When I was eight years old, a mountain became my mentor, and I connected with the ancestors then and continued to maintain that relationship for over 60 years,” she says. “The ancestors taught me how we, as Indigenous people, used the land before contact. How the land was our ‘food table’ and how we used fire to manage food security and to maintain wildlife habitat. That is why fire is integral to my being — it’s the culmination of a lifetime of struggle to help heal the land, in hopes of healing the people.”

Led by the Simgigyet’m Gitanyow (Gitanyow Hereditary Chiefs), the plan to bring cultural fire back to the land is guided by Gwelx ye’enst — the rights and responsibilities to sustainably pass on the land from one generation to the next — and part of the nation’s work to protect the territory. Vegh says she’s been waiting more than 30 years to see fire returned to Gitanyow lax’yip — and the land has been waiting far longer. She talks about depleted huckleberry patches, like a nearby spot that used to be one of her go-to locations for harvesting.

“That place has become non-productive, because of lack of fire,” she says. “The berries are still there but they’re small and sour. Some water and ash, that’s what they really need right now.”

In the burn site, it’s easy to see the effects of drought and decades of fire suppression. The few huckleberry bushes tucked in amongst the stands of trees are dry and scraggly and the land feels parched after a winter of little snow. The air is dusty and the forest floor crunches under the boots of the firefighters as they prepare for the fire. 

Kevin Koch, a wildlife biologist who manages the guardians program for the Gitanyow Hereditary Chiefs, wipes the sweat from his face and says the long planning process felt at times like they’d never be able to burn. For more than a decade, the Simgigyet’m worked to develop and implement a detailed and comprehensive land-use plan to set the stage for the cultural burn. But it still took more than two years of navigating government policies and regulations to get their fire stewardship program approved.

“It felt like there were just too many hurdles,” he explains. “But now it’s like, okay, we can do it — and we’re gaining momentum, even in little ways, on a daily basis.”

Using the province’s terminology, the burn area is divided into sections: a black line separates the area of forest that will be lit, a wet line — a swath cut along the edge of the burn area — is doused with water and held by teams operating hoses and a green line designates the area to be protected from fire. Inside the black line, the teams will spread the fire evenly, adapting on the fly to evolving conditions and using the natural lie of the land to guide the flames. 

Koch says with a few burn days under their belts they’re becoming familiar with how fire behaves on the land: how fuel and soil conditions affect its intensity and how it moves and interacts with the topography of the 240-hectare site. As the crews get a feel for what works, they’re adapting their techniques. 

“We can just burn from the bottom now, instead of having to do it so slow,” he says. “Like yesterday, we just did the top and then lit it from the bottom.”

Jeff Walsh, an incident commander with the BC Wildfire Service based in Telkwa, says the partnership with Gitanyow is great for fire crews as it gives them a chance to “get their legs under them” early in the year. He explains spring is usually focused on training exercises so working on the cultural burn is an opportunity for firefighters to have some time on the fire line before they are deployed to respond to wildfires. 

“It’s been really good to get everybody out,” he says. “It’s a win-win.”

He adds the public has been generally supportive, including local volunteer firefighters who visited and positive responses from onlookers driving past on the highway.

“We get a lot of thumbs up,” he says.

How Western science can complement Indigenous fire stewardship 

Kira Hoffman, a fire ecologist who worked with Gitanyow to develop the burn plan and facilitate connections between the nation and the province, invited The Narwhal to join the team on the fire line for a day, to learn about good uses of fire and witness how it’s being applied to the land. A former wildland firefighter who lives with her family in Smithers, B.C., Hoffman has decades of experience with fire and is a passionate advocate for returning fire practices to First Nations communities. 

Last summer, she watched from her deck as lightning sparked hundreds of blazes throughout the region, including one on a ridge a few kilometres away. 

“In our current reality, almost no Canadian community is safe from wildfires or their cascading consequences,” she wrote for The Globe and Mail at the time. “This season is confirming something we’ve observed over the past decade — that wildfires are now commonly exceeding our capacity for suppression.”

Hoffman’s collaboration with the Simgigyet’m Gitanyow is deeply rooted in her understanding of and respect for the nation’s sovereignty. As a researcher with the Pacific Institute for Climate Solutions and a National Geographic explorer, she recently secured funding to support Gitanyow in their goals and is continuing to research Indigenous-led fire stewardship. She’s published several peer-reviewed papers on the subject and regularly gives talks to everyone from elementary students to wildland firefighters and policy makers. Getting a project like the Gitanyow burn off the ground isn’t easy. Because reintroducing cultural burning to Indigenous lands in the northwest is so new, she says everyone involved is learning together and sharing knowledge throughout the process.

Early in the day, while the firefighters run their chainsaws to cut a fire break and drag heavy hoses up through the thick bush in preparation for the burn, Hoffman pushes through a tangle of chest-deep shrubs on a steep slope at one end of the ridge. She’s looking for a suitable spot to set up test plots so she and provincial fire technician Milo Bookout can collect data and monitor the fire’s behaviour. She stops in a small stand of aspen.

“We’re putting in soil moisture meters and thermocouples, which are going to tell us exactly how hot the fire is when it comes through,” she says, looking around at the surrounding plants.

Before they start unpacking equipment, Bookout kneels down and feels the ground.

“I’m going to amend my earlier estimate on how much [the fire] is going to go in here,” he tells Hoffman. “I think it’s going to go, but it’s really damp immediately below the leaf litter. The leaf litter is fairly dry but it’s not crunchy.”

Hoffman pushes away the leaves to touch the ground underneath and agrees. After a quick discussion, they decide to move the plot location a few dozen metres away, to a south-facing area.

“Soil moisture is the biggest determinant of how successful a burn is going to be,” Hoffman says, explaining how that data, in conjunction with fire temperature and observations of how fire moves through an area, gives them a good idea of how the burn impacts plant life. “We’ll have a good estimate of what the soil was doing right at the burn time. If it’s too cold, our plants won’t respond. If it’s too warm, they’ll get fried.”

“Already I know we’re going to meet our objectives just by what’s going on,” she continues, kneeling down and digging a hole to place the instruments in. “You can feel it. After a while of feeling soil and feeling fuel and stepping on fuel and hearing fuel, you get a really good idea of what it’s going to do.”

Bookout says it’s not easy to develop that deep knowledge as a wildland firefighter. The wildfire service has too high a rate of turnover, he explains. It comes with the territory. Fighting fires is incredibly hard work, both physically and mentally, and the seasonal nature of the job tends to attract young people, who give it their all for a few years before transitioning out. 

“You get a few people who really get tuned in,” he says. “I’ve had a couple of [supervisors] who were really good at fire — they could take a walk through and just know what was about to happen before a burn. But it’s not common anymore.”

That dynamic could change over the coming years. As B.C.’s wildfire season grows longer year after year and the organization works to address burnout and other mental health issues, firefighters are slowly seeing more opportunities to create a career within the wildfire service.

Using fire to meet cultural objectives

Sitting in the dirt at the top of the ridge before lighting the test burn, the ignition team shares snacks and sour candies and chats about the plan. Hoffman talks about how applying fire onto the landscape in specific patterns supports different cultural objectives.

“If you want to be enhancing soapberry, you do a chevron, which is essentially just a V, like this,” she says, drawing in the dirt with a stick. 

“Imagine soapberries here,” she continues, adding a dot. “Then you do this V pretty close to it. It grabs the fire and pulls it in and then it gives more resonance time on the thing that you’re trying to get hotter. It’ll pull it in, get it into the roots more, which is what you want.”

Chewing on their candies, the firefighters watch with curiosity.

“Typically, we won’t do something like that because, really, a lot of our stuff is just fuel consumption,” Jared Stephens, a wildfire technician from Terrace, B.C., and the ignition lead for the day, says. “As long as we can get enough fire on the ground, that’s really the goal. A lot of times, it’s just working off topography.”

Burning out dead wood on a prescribed burn is hard work but it doesn’t require much finesse. Crews simply dot fire along the ground, adding as much or as little as they need to make sure the fire sweeps through the forest understory. Stephens says he’s happy to have his team try new patterns as long as it’s safe to do so.

“I’m open to anything down on the flats,” he tells Hoffman, his thumbs hooked into his belt. He adds the crews can play around with how they lay the fire according to the conditions. 

“Sometimes we’ll just fuel out and dump everything in the middle. Get some real good heat, especially if you have a slight breeze coming towards the line you get that heat pocket causing convection to pull it in.”

Hoffman explains how different techniques help meet cultural objectives. The difference between a head fire and a backing fire is key, she says. A head fire is pushed by wind and moves quickly, while a backing fire stays low to the ground and creeps slowly against the wind. 

“Backing fire is really good for herbaceous plants because it has more resonance time — it kind of moves like water through forests and stays on some things for longer. A head fire just rips through.”

Playing with fire

At Vegh’s feet, the fire creeps out in a circle, spreading and growing as it consumes the dry materials on the forest floor. Everything becomes still. Hoffman points to the ground, with a smile.

“It’s like a heart right now,” she says. “Do you see that?”

Vegh’s face lights up. 

After watching the fire’s movements and observing the winds, Hoffman and Stephens agree its behaviour is consistent with their goals for the day. Stephens calls on the radio to say the burn is a go.

“Test burn is looking good, we’re going to continue with ignitions,” he says.

A few minutes later, everything changes. 

Members of the ignition team walk along the ridge, pouring fire onto the ground with drip torches. The lines they lay on the landscape spread and join together and the fire starts to move quickly through the understory, building in intensity. It gets hot, fast. The air fills with smoke and the light becomes diffused as billowing clouds shroud the sun. Occasionally, a standing dead conifer candles, flames leaping up its trunk and into the sky with an otherworldly rushing sound. The fire starts to create its own wind, sucking in flames from newly laid lines and sending vast clouds out across the valley.

Even backlit by towering flames and shrouded by smoke, the scene feels calm and controlled. As the firefighters move along the ridge, painting the understory with flames, it quickly becomes apparent that everyone shares a fluency and familiarity with how fire behaves. It’s as though they’ve all learned to speak a language of heat and sound and sensation. The coordination of their movements is reminiscent of a team sport, like soccer or rugby — except the ball is fire.

The team brings the growing blaze closer to one of Hoffman’s test plots, its edges marked by pink flagging tape, and Koch works with Stephens to strategize.

“Maybe we’ll get a strip — like a 10-metre strip — in behind this little hill here,” Stephens says, pointing. The idea is to let the fire creep over the site, lingering on the vegetation and penetrating the soil. 

“Yeah, maybe just a little bit back from the ribbon and then hopefully it’ll just draw in,” Koch agrees.

Behind them, the fire continues to build. Occasionally members of the ignition team disappear in the thick smoke, reappearing moments later ghostlike and silhouetted by flames as the winds shift. They proceed through the various sections with ease, calmly bringing walls of flame through the forest. Up at the fire break, holding crews use hoses to douse the surrounding trees and undergrowth.

Time stretches and loses meaning. An hour — or three — passes. The flames continue moving through the forest. As the fire sweeps through and around the trees and the smoke clears, the land is left a deep, rich black. Gone is the tangled brown of the dry understory. Aside from the odd standing dead tree left charred and smoking, destined to fall in the next windstorm, most of the trees stand strong, the rich browns and creamy whites of their barks glowing under the smoke-obscured sun.

Much later, Vegh watches from the highway as the ignition crews prepare to light the final sections of fire in the lowlands beside the road. Her eyes shine in the flickering light as the flames dance and crackle in the distance.

“It really feels alive,” she says. “Can you hear that? It’s so beautiful.”

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