It’s been more than a year since Pat Popp and her husband fled their home in Nopiming Provincial Park to escape an encroaching wildfire, but it’s a day she thinks about often. 

Popp recalls seeing distant flames from the window of her property on Bird Lake when she went to bed on May 12, 2025. An evacuation order was issued the next morning. 

“They had to water down the highway to get us out of here and then we were evacuated for five weeks,” Popp said over the phone.

Much of Nopiming — a sprawling boreal forest and recreational area 175 kilometres northeast of Winnipeg — burned in the wildfire, which was sparked by lightning and spread to nearly 4,000 square kilometres by the time it was finally deemed extinguished last December. 

Today, charred fir trees dominate the landscape around Bird Lake, where the Popps have lived full time since 2017 and where Pat’s husband, Russ, has had a cottage since 1966. Popp said she feels traumatized by how close they came to losing everything. Those anxieties were reignited last month when she noticed military training had resumed in the woods near her home. 

The Canadian Forces School of Survival and Aeromedical Training has been operating in Nopiming Provincial Park since the mid-1990s under a memorandum of agreement between the military and Manitoba government. 

Now, in the wake of the wildfire, park residents and a local wilderness advocate are calling for the relocation of the long-running survival training program to protect the damaged forest and its inhabitants — humans and animals alike.

Military uses provincial park for survival training

The Manitoba government markets Nopiming, which means “entrance to the wilderness” in Anishinaabemowin, as a destination for “nature-oriented recreational opportunities such as canoeing, hiking and mountain biking in a largely undisturbed environment.” But the park has also long allowed both mining exploration and military activities with the provincial park. 

The agreement that allows the military to use the park was last reviewed in 2021, and dictates where and under what conditions military activities are permitted in the park, Capt. Ken Jacobson, a public affairs officer with CFB Winnipeg, said in an emailed response to questions from The Narwhal/Free Press.

The school trains Air Force members how to survive in remote wilderness environments following a plane crash or emergency situation; as well as how to evade, resist and escape enemy capture. 

“Training focuses on survival fundamentals such as shelter construction, firemaking, signalling, water procurement and food acquisition. The program does not involve combat training,” Jacobson said. 

The school is based at a former summer camp on Springer Lake — a body of water north of Bird Lake near Provincial Road 314. Students and staff were evacuated during the 2025 fire and most of the facilities were destroyed. The base is currently outfitted with tents and temporary storage units. So far, none of the permanent structures have been rebuilt.

The program returned to Nopiming in October 2025 through consultation and permits approved by Manitoba Parks, Jacobson said, adding modifications have been made to reduce the natural resources used by trainees in the field, such as limiting the number of trees required to build a shelter.

Timber is allowed to be harvested for personal use in designated areas of Crown land and Manitoba provincial parks with a permit. The agreement between the province and military includes a provision that allows trees to be cut down during the survival training, according to the provincial spokesperson.

Students may also fish and hunt small animals in accordance with provincial regulations during the training exercises, Jacobson said, but are not allowed to harvest large game. 

The agreement between the military and province only allows campfire training to occur from April to May and September to October unless prior notice is given and pending local fire restrictions, a provincial spokesperson said in an emailed statement.

Residents concerned about military firemaking in a park recently ravaged by wildfire

The military confirmed training activities are being conducted this fall south of the Bird Lake cottage development in an area untouched by the fire.

The firemaking and close proximity are what worry Pat Popp most.  

“They are so close to my home. I mean, we’ve been worried about this for years: these fires that they start and can so easily get out of control,” she said. “It’s just so stressful knowing that this much of the park is gone and now they’re pushing them into this small area.”

In 2021, Popp wrote a letter to the province expressing her concerns about the potential wildfire risk associated with the military survival exercises, which involve making open fires in makeshift camps outside of designated pits.

In a response letter reviewed by The Narwhal/Free Press, then deputy minister of conservation and climate, Jan Forster, said parks staff had engaged with Department of National Defence staff “to strengthen communications, and to ensure training activities are restricted during times of high to extreme fire danger.”

While the fire danger was extreme in northern parts of the province, the risk remained low in most of southern Manitoba this year due to wetter conditions.

The school is required to have firefighting equipment on hand during training demonstrations, and instructors are responsible for confirming campsite fires have been properly extinguished before departing a site, the provincial spokesperson said. 

A 2025 wildfire evacuee and resident of nearby Flanders Lake, who asked not to be named, shared similar concerns about military trainees making open fires near Nopiming’s residential area and described the practice as a preventable risk — particularly in a forested region where much of the ground is covered by peatlands, which can harbour smouldering fires for months. The permanent park resident hadn’t noticed any signage related to military training in the area this fall and said it’s unsettling to see uniformed Canadian Forces members arriving in the neighbourhood unannounced.

‘Now that the park is burnt, the area needs peace’: advocate

Eric Reder, senior Manitoba campaigner with the Wilderness Committee, said his organization has been pushing the province to decommission and remove the military training facility at Springer Lake since at least 2014. He believes the issue is more pressing following last year’s wildfire.

“Military training can happen somewhere, but this isn’t the place for it,” Reder said over the phone while driving up to Nopiming last month. “And now that the park is burnt, the area needs peace.”

In a report released earlier this year, the committee recommended a moratorium on industrial activity and “disruptive military training exercises” to allow the park’s vegetation and wildlife — including its threatened boreal woodland caribou herd — to recover. 

Over the years, Reder has documented remnants of temporary campgrounds in the bush and gouges in trails left by the tracks of an all-terrain vehicle used by the school. 

“It’s way too invasive for an area that is a sensitive ecosystem. It’s important wilderness, but it’s also a park, right?” Reder said of the military training. “That’s not what parks are for.”

Popp also worries about the impact on flora and fauna, adding she’s seen a large military plane flying over the area frequently this fall. 

“It’s so vulnerable at this point,” she said of the forest. “It’ll take decades to regenerate, it won’t happen in my lifetime.”

The province said there are no plans to end the military training agreement.

The military and province are developing a tree-replacement initiative and looking at other forest regeneration options. “This work reflects a shared commitment to responsible environmental stewardship and the continued preservation of the park’s natural environment,” Jacobson said.

Eva has been reporting on environmental issues in Manitoba since joining The Narwhal in 2026. Her role is part of a partnership with the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

Like many farmers, Nick Matheson has multiple weather apps on his phone. 

“If I find something I don’t like, I switch apps,” he laughs during a phone interview.

No amount of forecasting, however, could have prepared Matheson for the deluge of rain that hit his Stonewall-area grain and cattle farm this spring — or for the lingering challenges that have trickled through the rest of his season.

“I’m still in it,” he says in mid-October. “And I won’t be out of it until the snow flies at this point. And even then, I’ll probably be dealing with some residual effects come next spring.”

The region north of Winnipeg was drenched with 255 millimetres of rain over a 13-hour period on June 9 — a storm the local mayor described as “unprecedented.” Matheson awoke to an overflowing rain gauge, hail damage and 300 acres — a quarter of his cropland — destroyed by flooding. A promising year with “unreal” early-season germination was quashed overnight.

Since then, his herd of 100 cow-calf pairs has been plagued by insects and hoof rot, a bacterial infection triggered by muddy conditions. Harvest hasn’t gone much better. During a recent tour of his property 30 kilometres north of Winnipeg, Matheson points out patchy wheat and flax fields with poor yields and subpar plant quality. He’s also fighting weeds that have thrived in damaged fields.

Matheson, 42, is the sixth generation of his family to farm this land. Despite several recent years of drought, the extreme weather of 2026 stands out.

“It’s the worst Dad’s seen. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Matheson says. “But we just make do, pick ourselves up and try to not let it get in our head. … You’ve just gotta roll with the punches.”

Extreme weather events, from floods to droughts to wildfires, are expected to become more frequent and severe with climate change. Those in Manitoba’s agriculture sector are split on how to prepare for these kinds of unpredictable events and whether mitigation is even possible.

‘Keep the wolves at bay’: Insurance payouts in the millions keep farmers afloat

Matheson is one of hundreds of farmers to make insurance claims with the Manitoba Agricultural Services Corporation related to overland flooding this season. The provincial Crown corporation, which covers weather-related farm perils, paid out $11 million this year for 478 excess moisture claims on about 157,000 acres that were too wet to seed, David Van Deynze, the corporation’s chief product officer, says. It also received 790 crop damage claims across 180,000 acres; those payouts won’t be tallied until after harvest season.

Since most farmers pay for seed and inputs like fertilizer upfront, often through loans, insurance can be an important business tool when the weather goes sideways, Van Deynze says in an interview.

“Requirements to pay off those loans on an annual basis don’t stop, whether you have a good crop or a bad crop,” he says. “We hope insurance can keep the wolves at bay and allow them to continue to farm.”

Van Deynze says excess moisture insurance has become a “very major” part of the corporation’s portfolio since it was introduced in 2000, with drought being the other main cause of crop loss in Manitoba. 

He believes losses from the extreme drought of 2021, which saw Manitoba Agricultural Services Corporation pay a record $570 million in indemnities, would’ve been worse without modern farming adaptations, such as new crop varieties and minimum tillage, which aims to limit the amount of soil plowed during seeding and after harvest.

At the same time, Van Deynze says there’s often little farmers can do to prepare for localized natural disasters. 

“No matter how hard you try … to mitigate losses, it seems like there’s still times where Mother Nature’s going to win out,” he says.

Farmers see risks, but also benefits, from a changing climate

Despite the spectre of extreme weather, many who spoke with The Narwhal/Free Press are optimistic about the possible agricultural benefits of climate change — such as warmer temperatures and longer growing seasons.

“I live in northern Manitoba, if the environment is warming, it’s good for me from an economic perspective,” rancher Peter Tokar says. “It will bring about new pests and whatnot, but I think with the way I manage things … I should be the most resilient when it happens.”

Tokar grows cash crops and manages 450 head of cattle on 2,200 acres of grassland near Swan River, Man. He credits regenerative farming practices for saving his season after the region 500 kilometres northwest of Winnipeg was hit with a once-in-a-200-year flash flood in June, followed by a second major downpour less than a month later. It was Swan River’s fourth-wettest summer on record, according to Environment and Climate Change Canada.

When the water receded, part of his pastureland was covered with more than a foot of silt deposited from the nearby Duck Mountain Provincial Park escarpment. 

The shelterbelts around Tokar’s property kept floodwater debris at bay and his pastures recovered quickly thanks to years of rotational grazing, a practice of moving livestock frequently through small sections of pasture which allows grazed areas to regrow and helps improve soil structure, carbon sequestration and water dynamics. He expects the silt-covered fields to bounce back over the next year.

“What I have been doing actually worked really, really well,” he says.

While Tokar enjoys the environmental benefits of rotational grazing, he ultimately adopted the practice for cost-saving reasons. His cows need less feed because they’re able to graze for longer and leaving fields idle requires less fuel, labour and fewer chemicals, like pesticides, he says.

Tokar has found like-minded peers through the Manitoba Forage & Grassland Association, which promotes regenerative agricultural practices within the livestock industry. Soil and water health are “vitally important” to extreme weather and climate resilience, Duncan Morrison, the association’s executive director, says.

The grassland association has developed a climate forecasting tool, called Aquanty, to help local producers understand how extreme weather and heat will impact their groundwater supply and what kinds of management tools, such as rotational grazing, can be deployed today to protect those resources.

“We’re interested in how we can recharge the aquifer through grasslands and wetlands, which are both key parts of grazing systems,” Morrison says.

The Aquanty project recently expanded to several cattle-producing regions in Alberta, B.C., Ontario and Quebec with funding from Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada.

Manitoba has 14 watershed districts that provide farmers with funding for projects that protect local water resources and improve regional climate resilience. The Prairie Watersheds Climate Program, for example, incentivizes the use of rotational grazing, nitrogen management and cover cropping to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and improve soil health.

The Swan Lake Watershed District — which encompasses Swan River and a 7,200-square-kilometre section of Manitoba’s northern parkland region — has been inundated by applications from farmers for stream-bank-stabilization projects to shore up on-farm riverbanks eroded by this year’s flooding. 

“I had eight projects for 2027 and that just got blown out of the water,” district manager Edward Shao says. “I think I have 45 file folders on my desk that were brought in after July.” 

Shao spends much of his time encouraging farmers to maintain the natural features of their land — like shelterbelts, wetlands and riparian zones — that act as buffers during extreme weather events. Preventative measures can be a hard sell in normal times, due to the financial pressures of industrial farming, he says. 

“A lot of producers farm up to the water’s edge and crop every inch of land,” Shao says, adding the worst damage occurred on farms without the aforementioned buffers.

“There might not be any effects when there’s no flooding, but in a year like this you see a lot of impact.” 

Shao acknowledges there’s no one-size-fits-all approach to climate resilience, but hopes this year’s flood helps locals prepare for future extreme weather events.

‘I don’t have that crystal ball’: farmers prepare for a future of reacting to change

Back in Stonewall, Nick Matheson isn’t planning on changing how he manages his farm in light of this year’s flooding. He says he already practices minimal tillage, plants cover crops between annual harvests and keeps wetlands on his property intact.

“I don’t think there’s a lot I can plan for because I don’t have that crystal ball to see further in the future, so I’ll probably just carry on with what I’m doing,” he says.

Robert Misko, a grain farmer and head of council for the Municipality of Roblin, agrees that extreme weather is hard to plan for — even with the cutting-edge management practices.

“We try to use whatever technology that’s going to make us more efficient and more sustainable. Farmers, we’re pretty adaptive,” Misko, who manages a 7,000-acre grain operation, says.

Agriculture accounts for 27 per cent of Manitoba’s greenhouse gas emissions, but, at the moment, Misko doesn’t see many viable alternatives for individual farmers to make a dent in that number.

“We rely on diesel. I can’t buy an electric combine. I can’t buy an electric tractor to pull an air seeder,” he says.

“Climate change is sadly something that, as farmers, we have very limited control over and we don’t really have a lot of levers that we can pull to slow it down. We just have to try to adapt to it,” he adds.

Eva Wasney is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

A group of students, residents and environmental advocates gathered in Winnipeg on Friday afternoon to discuss Indigenous sovereignty and the future of northern Manitoba.

The event at the University of Manitoba was the final stop on the Arctic Crossroads tour, an Indigenous-led public engagement campaign highlighting the potential impacts of proposed major infrastructure projects on northern First Nation communities. The tour also stopped in Nisichawayasihk Cree Nation, Churchill and Brandon, Man., this week.

Event host Clayton Thomas-Müller — a local climate activist, author and member of Pukatawagan Cree Nation — said concerns raised by attendees run counter to Premier Wab Kinew’s assertion earlier this year that there is no Indigenous opposition to a proposed liquefied natural gas (LNG) pipeline to Churchill.

“There is a ton of Indigenous concern, as well as fear to speak out,” Thomas-Müller, the Arctic and Hudson Bay campaigner for Climate Reality Project Canada, said in an interview ahead of Friday’s event. 

“A lot of folks in Churchill are arm’s length away from government-funded agencies — the ecotourism industry is very much wrapped up in both federal and provincial interests and funding streams — and so folks don’t want to speak out.”

The federal and provincial governments want to introduce year-round shipping and build an offshore LNG terminal at the Port of Churchill, which is owned by the Arctic Gateway Group. The proposal to expand the deep-water Arctic port includes a new energy corridor, an all-weather road, critical mineral storage and an upgraded rail line through northern Manitoba.

In an emailed statement, Environment and Climate Change Minister Mike Moyes described the Port of Churchill expansion as a historic opportunity and said his government is committed to working closely with Indigenous and northern communities on the project. He pointed to provincial and federal efforts to establish a national marine conservation area in western Hudson Bay as a way to balance economic growth and environmental stewardship.

Feasibility studies related to the port expansion have flagged concerns about the impact of increased shipping on Hudson Bay’s sensitive marine ecosystem and resident species, including polar bears and beluga whales.  

During the tour, participants expressed worries about the cumulative effects of climate change and increased industrial activity on access to traditional hunting, trapping and fishing grounds, Thomas-Müller said. 

“There’s no Safeway up where I come from in Pukatawagan, and a lot of our people still depend on country foods,” he adds. Pukatawagan is one of 29 First Nations with an ownership stake in the Arctic Gateway Group.

Attendees also raised concerns about the social implications of the proposed northern resource projects.

“A community member in Churchill said one of his biggest fears is Churchill becoming one giant ‘man camp,’ and what that would mean for the safety of not only his sisters but future women and girls in the community,” panelist Kakeká ThunderSky, an Anishinaabkwe member of Poplar River First Nation, said.

The National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls found high rates of violence against Indigenous women connected to work camps, or “man camps,” associated with the resource extraction industry.

In Winnipeg, ThunderSky also emphasized the importance of thinking about the multigenerational impacts of energy and mining projects. “Whatever we do to the land, we do to the children,” she said.

Questions and comments from those in attendance ranged from tactics for engaging future generations in resource-development resistance to Treaty Rights to self-care.

ThunderSky, the northern and rural coordinator for Climate Action Team Manitoba, was joined on the panel by Indigenous youth organizers and land defenders from Ontario and British Columbia who have advocated for better government consultation and opposed industrial development projects in their home communities. 

“It’s important to bring people who have had these experiences and have gone through similar things in their territories, to share and talk about what the reality is and what it actually is like and to push back on these narratives,” ThunderSky said. “We’re not alone in this.”

Denzel Sutherland-Wilson hails from the Gitxsan village of Anspayaxw in northwestern B.C. and is a member of the Fireweed Clan of the house of Git’luuhl’um’hetxw’it. He was arrested by the RCMP’s Community-Industry Response Group — a unit tasked with policing resource extraction protests — in 2021 while resisting the construction of the Coastal GasLink pipeline on unceded Wet’suwet’en territory. 

Sutherland-Wilson sought to share what he learned during that experience with Manitoba audiences. He believes Indigenous solidarity will be integral as Prime Minister Mark Carney seeks to fast-track major national projects through Bill C-39, the Build Canada Strong Act. First Nation leaders across the country have opposed the bill, which would centralize Indigenous consultations and limit the timeline for environmental assessments.

“We need to find creative and new ways to resist on our own terms,” Sutherland-Wilson said. “We have to have our own people’s safety and security [in mind]. We have to develop strong protocols and … collectives that are accountable to one another, rooted in our own culture, in our ceremonies and our ways of life.”

Thomas-Müller hopes this week’s speaking tour inspires political engagement locally and nationally. Climate Action Team Manitoba has launched a petition opposing the LNG pipeline to Churchill. 

“We need to go back to the drawing board and create economic plans that don’t create sacrifice zones across the country … disproportionately in Indigenous communities, in our lands that we depend on,” he said.

Eva Wasney is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

It’s a grey September afternoon, and a small group is gathered for a special behind-the-scenes visit with Assiniboine Park Zoo’s newest resident. 

“Heeeeere, bubba,” animal-care specialist Caitlin Gordon-Hall hollers from between a double layer of chain-link fencing.

After a beat, a small white face appears at the entrance of the private enclosure. The polar bear cub sniffs the air before trundling toward the fence, where his keepers have been working to encourage calm behaviour around humans ahead of his public debut today.

Gordon-Hall offers sing-song affirmations while the cub, who is nearly 200 pounds and 10 or 11 months old, observes the fawning strangers with guarded curiosity. 

The young bear is objectively cute. With his round, fluffy frame and oversized paws, he looks more like a gift-shop stuffie than an apex predator.

A low, persistent growl, however, is a reminder that his natural instincts are still intact. 

“In the wild, his mama would have taught him: if there’s people there, make yourself big, make noise,” Gordon-Hall says. 

But his mama isn’t here. The cub, whose official zoo name will be chosen by public voting, is an orphan.

It’s been an intensive period of relearning for the cub, who, prior to arriving at the zoo in August, spent his days roaming the tundra near Churchill, Man. 

Today’s 20-minute visit is part of a series of exposure sessions designed to desensitize the bear to the zoo’s forthcoming crowds. A few minutes into the exercise and the cub is busy scratching his back on the fence, seemingly content that the nearby photojournalist’s long lens and camera shutter pose no threat. 

This isn’t the first polar bear cub to make the trek from the shore of Hudson Bay to a zoo enclosure. And he won’t be the last.

The plight of polar bears in the face of climate change has been well-documented, and the fate of bears with less sea ice has meant they get into trouble with humans more often, with bears usually paying the price. Policy has shifted over the decades, but young orphan cubs still stand little chance of survival in the wild. Life in a zoo may be an imperfect solution — but it’s one that keeps the bear alive.

As the session ends, the group heads through the locked gate of the cub care centre, where a pair of zoo visitors are peering through the slats. They pepper the staff with questions: How is the cub doing? Will he be rooming with the other six bears? When will we be able to see him?

It’s been nine years since the last orphaned cub was transferred from Churchill, the “Polar Bear Capital of the World,” to the Winnipeg zoo. Public excitement in the south is palpable, while some northern residents are wary of a previously wild animal spending the rest of its life in captivity.

Orphan cub’s mother was found near the Churchill dump — which has long posed issues for polar bears

Kelsey Eliasson, a Churchill polar bear guide and filmmaker, encountered the bear and his mother when they lived in the wild. He knew them by the nicknames “Marrón” or “Maury” and “Blanca” — Spanish for brown and white, respectively. 

“She was a super clean, super white bear, and then Marrón was kind of dirty and muddy, like every cub,” Eliasson says over the phone. 

Eliasson spent several days documenting the pair this summer as they hunkered down in the rocks along the shore of Hudson Bay. During the warmer months, bears can often be found in an area east of town hunting for seals while trying to beat the heat and bugs.

Blanca, who was recognizable by a scar on her ear, looked healthy while she wrestled and rested with her cub, Eliasson says.

But in mid-August, the mother bear was found dead roughly a kilometre from the Churchill garbage dump. Her cause of death remains unknown, and the results of a necropsy are still pending, a provincial spokesperson said in an emailed statement.

Bears have been visiting the dump with more frequency since the spring of 2024, when the town’s enclosed waste transfer facility was destroyed in a fire.

“Last year it was non-stop,” Geoff York, vice-president of science and policy for Polar Bears International, a non-profit research and conservation organization, says over a video call.

Sending orphan cubs to Winnipeg zoo has a complicated history

For a long time, there were few rules governing the lives of polar bears in Manitoba. 

The provincial government frequently exported orphaned cubs and problem bears to zoos around the world until the late 1990s, when three Churchill-born bears were discovered performing in a travelling Mexican circus. The bears had been purchased from a zoo in Germany and were living in sweltering conditions without access to water.

Widespread media coverage and public condemnation led to the creation of Manitoba’s Polar Bear Protection Act, which regulates the care and treatment of polar bears in captivity. Under the legislation, the province retains ownership of captive bears sent elsewhere, and their offspring, in perpetuity. 

The act changed Assiniboine Park Zoo’s relationship with the charismatic predators as well.

The zoo has housed polar bears since at least 1939, when an orphaned seven-week-old cub, dubbed Charmichael, arrived via train after his mother was shot by a trapper on the shore of Hudson Bay, according to a Winnipeg Tribune article from the time. 

Bears remained a popular fixture at the zoo until the death of Debby, the world’s oldest known polar bear, in 2008 at the age of 41. Her concrete enclosure was deemed too small and ill-equipped by Manitoba Conservation standards to host a new bear without significant renovations.

Amendments to the Polar Bear Protection Act created rules for rescuing orphaned cubs and paved the way for the Leatherdale International Polar Bear Conservation Centre. The $4.5-million research lab and cub transition centre opened at the zoo in 2012, followed by three new polar bear habitats at the 10-acre Journey to Churchill exhibit in 2014.

Decisions to send an orphaned cub to Winnipeg are made on a case-by-case basis with input from an advisory committee of provincial appointees, zoo administrators and polar bear experts. Age is a significant consideration since polar bear cubs typically spend two years with their mothers learning to hunt and navigate. Orphans less than a year old stand little chance of survival in the wild.

Eleven cubs were transferred to the zoo between 2013 and 2017 — a pace that sparked public outrage in Churchill and pushed the Winnipeg facility’s capacity to the limit. The zoo is currently home to seven rescued polar bears, including the new cub. 

 “There’s definitely been times when we were worried about our ability to take new bears,” Stephen Petersen, Assiniboine Park Conservancy’s director of conservation and research, says, referring to space constraints.

There are few other options. The province has conducted two foster parenting studies with the Born Free Foundation, a British animal welfare organization, to determine if mother polar bears with one healthy cub would adopt a second. The project was cancelled due to lack of success. 

A rare case of wild adoption was observed in Manitoba last year, when a mother polar bear was seen travelling with a second cub. It was the 13th documented case of adoption in the western Hudson Bay subpopulation.

Orphaned cubs raised in captivity can’t currently be returned to the wild because they lack hunting skills and natural instincts.

That leaves the zoo. The province has updated its cub management policy since the first influx of orphans and the zoo now only takes bears whose mothers have died through suspected conflict with humans, Petersen says.

One of those points of conflict can come from garbage dumps.

‘Polar bears will break into everything’: Churchill garbage dump struggles to keep bears out

Dealing with municipal garbage in a northern community like Churchill, which is surrounded by rocky, intermittently frozen ground and hundreds of polar bears, poses challenges. While the previous facility allowed for indoor garbage sorting and storage, the 2024 fire forced the Town of Churchill to return to an open-dump system with an electrified fence. 

“The trash doesn’t just sit nicely inside this little fenced-in area. It gets pulled out by animals, and it gets blown out by the wind. So it’s created quite an attractant,” York, who specializes in reducing conflict between bears and humans, says.

Dozens of bears were able to break into the dump site when the electric fence failed during a storm, he adds. The barrier has since been upgraded with funding from Polar Bears International. The group plans to install new bear-deterrent technology in the town and dumpsite.

Churchill is in the process of rebuilding its garbage facility and is developing a long-term waste management strategy, a municipal spokesperson said in an emailed statement. The town also plans to revisit the feasibility of trash incineration — a concept that was shelved following the fire but has proven beneficial in other northern communities, like Nuuk, Greenland, where the energy generated from burning household garbage is used to heat homes. 

Eliasson thinks incineration should be given higher priority.

“Churchill has been talking about an incinerator [for a long time] and … we’re just not building one. It’s the only solution,” he says. “Polar bears will break into everything else.”

Polar bears, impacted by climate change, are increasingly moving into towns

The western Hudson Bay subpopulation, which includes Churchill and ranges from Chesterfield Inlet in Nunavut to the Manitoba-Ontario border, is the most researched group of polar bears in the world, according to Polar Bears International. 

There are roughly 800 bears living in the territory today, representing a 30 per cent population decline over the last 46 years due to shrinking sea ice caused by climate change, Evan Richardson, a polar bear research scientist with Environment and Climate Change Canada, says.

“This is one of the most southern polar bear populations in the world, and it was among the first to show impacts of reduced sea ice availability on individual body condition, growth, reproduction and survival,” Richardson says. 

Polar bears make their living on the ice, using the frozen platforms to hunt for seals. Open water makes the speedy prey increasingly harder to catch. 

The Hudson Bay population is experiencing an era of relative stability thanks to several good ice seasons, Richardson says. While this gives current generations of bears a positive start, the survival of the species is dependent on the long-term health of their environment.  

“Polar bears don’t occur anywhere where there’s not persistent annual sea ice, and so as the habitat melts, it threatens the bears’ existence,” he says.

Climate change is further straining the coexistence of bears and humans in northern Manitoba. 

“It’s a bit of a perfect storm,” York says. “Less ice means the area is more accessible to more human activity. At the same time, more bears are spending more time on shore.”

As the ice-free season grows longer, Hudson Bay is seeing more traffic, whether it be freight, tourism or research. In Manitoba, the provincial and federal governments are keen to expand operations at the Port of Churchill to include year-round shipping, an all-weather road, an upgraded rail line and a liquefied natural gas terminal — all of which will bring more people and disturbance to the region. 

To ease the pressure on residents — bears and humans alike — York believes the governments should focus on shoring up local infrastructure, including Churchill’s garbage facility, before embarking on major national projects in remote northern communities.

“Take a quick step back and say, ‘Hey, what’s needed here today for the people who are there now?’ ” he says. “This waste management need has been acute, and we haven’t had the best luck getting the attention we think it merits, from the human-health side, but also the environmental-health and wildlife-health side.”

There have been 159 bear sightings and encounters reported so far this year in Churchill to the province’s Polar Bear Alert Program — a 24-hour hotline designed to minimize dangerous interactions while the animals move ashore from mid-July to mid-November.

If a bear is reported near the town or dump, Manitoba Conservation officers will chase them away with non-lethal scaring devices, such as noisemakers or flares. “Problem bears” that return repeatedly or refuse to leave the area are placed in the province’s polar bear holding facility near the Churchill airport and relocated more remotely via helicopter. Seven bears have been flown out of town this year.

The holding facility, colloquially known as polar bear jail, is also where orphaned cubs begin their journey to Winnipeg.

‘A really smart little bear, and he’s doing very well’

After his mother died, the zoo’s new cub was captured by conservation officers and held in polar bear jail while decisions were made about his future. Within a week, he was on a plane to Winnipeg accompanied by veterinary staff from the zoo. 

His first 30 days were spent in medical quarantine at the cub care centre, which includes indoor and outdoor enclosure space with a shallow pool, foliage and natural ground cover for digging. 

The cub’s introduction to captivity has been closely managed by a small circle of trainers.

“It has gone through a traumatic event of losing its mother,” Jackie Enberg, the zoo’s curator of animal care, says. “We’re here to offer a safe home and daily care. … A lot of that is relationship building and a good diet.”

Enberg has overseen the transitions for all of the cubs transferred to the zoo. Unsurprisingly, food is the fastest way to a polar bear’s heart.

Once the cub’s stomach adjusted to his new diet of ground meat, fish and “marine mammal chow” — a kind of dry kibble — his trainers added tong-feeding sessions to the menu. The goal is to associate humans with food delivery and reward calm behaviour, which can help with future vet checkups. 

Visitor exposure sessions were added post-quarantine. Over several weeks, the cub’s trainers paid close attention to his behaviour as larger groups of zoo staff and patrons stopped by his enclosure for longer periods of time. If he showed signs of distress, such as charging the fence or growling, the process was slowed, Enberg says.

So far, the cub has adapted to captivity as well as expected. (A fecal cortisol study conducted on bears at the zoo, and published in the Canadian Journal of Zoology earlier this year, found orphaned cubs can adjust to living under human care within two weeks of relocation.)

“I’m really impressed with how far he’s gotten. He’s just a really smart little bear, and he’s doing very well,” Enberg says. “And he’s spunky.” 

That spunky temperament may come into play when the cub is big enough to integrate with the zoo’s adult polar bears. Staff use personality assessments developed in the onsite research lab to determine which bears will mesh well together. The cub joins a long line of Assiniboine Park polar bears involved in local and international research programs — from non-invasive tracking techniques to whiskerprint identification to thermal imaging. Scientists at the zoo are also studying how climate change is impacting denning in the Arctic and how stress affects a bear’s DNA. 

“We really want the bears in our care to participate in as much research that contributes to wild bear and bear welfare overall as possible,” Petersen says.

For the zoo, the new cub promises to boost ticket sales as a novel attraction while serving as an ambassador for his northern brethren. 

It’s a tough sell for Eliasson, the Churchill polar bear guide, who would rather see orphaned cubs returned to the wild or paired with adoptive mothers. 

“It’s 2026, and Manitoba has a polar bear cub rehabilitation centre where the only option is to fly the cub to Winnipeg and put it in a zoo. To me, that doesn’t sound like rehabilitation,” he says. 

Petersen, however, says release isn’t a viable option. 

“Putting a grown, healthy bear that has relied on humans for all its food back on the landscape is just a huge risk to communities further north,” he says. 

Meanwhile, the cub is spending his days climbing logs and splashing in the pool of his enclosure as visitors watch from beyond the fence.

And soon, he’ll have a new name. The public can vote for Duke, Marly, Fletcher or Mantayo — ideas compiled by students from the Duke of Marlborough School in Churchill that speak to landmarks in the North.

Updated Oct. 13, 2026 at 11:56 a.m. CT: This story has been updated to correct the fact that Nuuk is located in Greenland, not Nunavut as previously stated.

Eva Wasney is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

Patricia Dutchak was devastated when she first saw the wide swaths of crushed grass and upturned soil at Winnipeg’s Rotary Prairie Nature Park, a municipal heritage site.

“This is a very rare ecosystem, a remnant of tallgrass prairie, there’s barely any left in the world, and to come here and see all this damage was heartbreaking,” Dutchak, chair of the Transcona Rotary Club’s parks committee, says. 

The club is responsible for maintaining the protected green space, which was significantly damaged this summer when a fence between the park and the neighbouring Amazon distribution centre was relocated.

The eight-hectare nature preserve is situated on a narrow tract of land on Regent Avenue West in the commercial heart of Winnipeg’s Transcona neighbourhood. The park received its municipal heritage designation in 1992 and is, today, surrounded by high-traffic streets, industrial warehouses and car dealerships. 

In early August, a contractor hired by Amazon moved a section of chain-link fence running along the distribution centre’s parking lot a couple of metres to the west toward the park. The work was carried out to allow for safer snow and ice removal over the winter, an Amazon spokesperson said in an email statement. 

During the process, grass and shrubs along both sides of the fence were mowed down and dumped in the park without permission from the Rotary Club. Wooden fence posts marking the western perimeter of the preserve were removed, leaving deep holes in the soil, and a black plastic pipe originating from the Amazon facility was left snaking through the grass.

Dutchak was alerted to the situation by a member of the public, who shared footage of a skid steer being driven inside the park, leaving wide tracks of trampled greenery. 

“The person I would really like to talk to is the operator of the equipment. What were you thinking? At the minimum, it’s trespassing,” Dutchak says during an interview at the site last Thursday.

She hopes those responsible for the damage will be held accountable for the park’s restoration.

The city is investigating and working toward a resolution, a city spokesperson said in a statement. 

The Amazon spokesperson says the company is reviewing its internal procedures, its oversight of the third-party contractor and plans to make a financial contribution to support the stewardship of the park. The Bezos Earth Fund, an environmental charity started by Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, has committed $2 billion globally to nature conservation projects.

New threats to an already-threatened tallgrass prairie landscape

Tallgrass prairie was once ubiquitous across North America, covering the central plains of the continent from southern Manitoba to the Gulf of Mexico. As European settlers colonized the prairies, much of the existing grassland was converted to farmland. 

Today, less than one per cent of the original tallgrass prairie habitat remains, making it one of the most endangered ecosystems in the world.

The Rotary Prairie Nature Park is an example of “wet” tallgrass prairie, meaning its heavy clay soil is especially effective at diverting and storing surface water, Rafael Otfinowski, associate professor of biology at the University of Winnipeg, says. 

“That could give away why it’s still conserved,” Otfinowski says. “If you’re trying to build or farm, often you go for the best land first. So some of the areas that are best preserved in Manitoba for tallgrass prairie … are very rocky and very poorly drained.”

In passing, the Rotary nature preserve looks like an overgrown field with a narrow walking path and a smattering of aspen. The ecological reality is much more complex. 

The area is a remnant prairie ecosystem, meaning it has never been ploughed. Surveys by the city’s naturalist services branch have identified 142 different plant species in the park since 1993. The site is also home to a number of rare native Manitoba plants, including blue flowering gentians, mountain sneezeweed and whorled milkweed. Small songbirds can be seen among the flora.

The park’s iconic grass, big bluestem, is commemorated in a metal sculpture at its southern entrance. Unlike the shallow root systems of lawn and ornamental grasses, bluestem roots can extend several metres underground. 

“They have very, very deep root systems, which means they can build, essentially, a composter that goes deep into the soil and does all kinds of wonderful things — from nutrients to carbon [sequestration] to water storage,” Otfinowski says. “That takes many years to develop … so they really do require a special, long-term, undisturbed environment where they can thrive.”

Winnipeg has several hectares of unconnected tallgrass prairie preserves. These islands act as important seasonal “cafeterias” for pollinators and migrating birds since native plants tend to have longer blooming periods than their cultivated counterparts.

Beyond the ecological benefits, the preservation of these sites can serve as a form of reconciliation, Otfinowski says.

“The cultural reasons, the historic reasons, the social reasons are huge — especially inside an urban area,” he says. “It’s a form of acknowledging what our ecosystems were before settlement.”

Dutchak worries about the external threats facing the green space. 

She has documented unauthorized encampments and fire pits on the grounds and has heard rumblings from residents about turning the grassland into sports fields.  

“I don’t want to be living in the generation where this is going to disappear,” she says.

How to bring back a tallgrass prairies

Restoring damaged tallgrass prairie is a time-sensitive process. 

“Within a year or two of disturbance happening, you can have a really bad non-native species takeover,” John Morgan, a retired ecologist who spent most of his career restoring tallgrass prairie ecosystems in Manitoba, says. 

Native prairie plants evolved under different circumstances than the opportunistic weeds brought over from Europe during colonization, Morgan explains. 

Most non-native species, such as dandelions and Canada thistle, have adapted to grow quickly in bare soil because they evolved alongside western agriculture, where the ground is tilled annually. Tallgrass prairies in North America, on the other hand, grew alongside 60 million grazing bison, Morgan says.

While prairie grasslands can withstand harsh above-ground conditions thanks to deep, slow-growing root systems, they struggle to compete with more aggressive plants when their landscape is disturbed. 

“They’re very tough as far as the climate goes and the vagaries of floods and droughts,” Morgan says. 

“[But] most of the grassland species here, with very few exceptions, are not really competitive. They didn’t have to be for thousands of years.”

Within the first few months of damage to a tall grass prairie, Morgan recommends replanting with native seeds and developing a long-term plan for weed control. It can be a challenging but worthwhile endeavour, he says.

“Every little bit that you lose is a significant amount of the remainder,” he says. “We all hear about the South American rainforest and how fast that’s disappearing … in Manitoba we have what I call the rainforest of the prairies, which is the tallgrass prairie.”

Eva Wasney is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

Updated Oct. 6, 2026 at 12:08 p.m. CT: This article was updated to remove an image and a map that depicted grasslands that were not specifically tallgrass prairie grasslands.

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.

As other western provinces struggle to address the environmental and economic fallout from thousands of orphan oil and gas wells, only a tiny portion of Manitoba’s petroleum infrastructure is sitting idle and unclaimed. 

But it’s unclear, however, if the province’s small roster of orphan wells is the byproduct of effective regulation — or a historic lack of departmental oversight. Manitoba’s oil and gas industry is relatively small and generally opaque. None of the experts contacted for this story had direct knowledge of the province’s orphan-well landscape.

“My lab has probably measured the most non-producing wells in the country. I don’t think anybody I know is working on it [in Manitoba] who are in the academic realm,” Mary Kang, an associate professor in civil engineering at McGill University, says.

The province’s petroleum branch has only been compiling and sharing orphan-well data for the past five years. Its 2025 inventory lists 31 well sites without a legally or financially responsible owner, which make up less than one per cent of the 4,000 wells currently producing oil in Manitoba.

The reasons for this are many: Manitoba’s oil and gas industry is smaller than other western provinces, allowing for regular inspections of batteries and most producing wells, according to an emailed statement from a provincial spokesperson.

But the intricacies of regulation also differ across the provinces. At the same time, the government body tasked with keeping tabs on the issue has been chronically understaffed. Whether Manitoba offers a lesson for other provinces or if it should be eyeing the rapidly escalating orphan well inventories of its neighbours with caution remains to be seen.

Environmental impacts of old wells can include methane, contamination

Orphan wells are oil or gas drilling sites that have been left to languish without being properly cleaned up, often because the company that owns them has gone bankrupt. Wells are often thousands of metres deep and these sites can leak methane, a potent and volatile greenhouse gas, and contaminate soil, air and groundwater.

A 2025 study co-authored by Kang suggests Canada’s non-producing oil and gas wells emit a combined 230 kilotonnes of methane per year — a figure seven times higher than estimates from Environment and Climate Change Canada. Wells that have been properly sealed with cement and decommissioned are referred to as plugged or “abandoned.” Most orphan wells are not yet plugged.

“In general, plugged wells emit less [methane] and are less of an environmental concern,” Kang says, adding unplugged wells are a bigger concern. “But even among unplugged wells, some emit nothing and some emit a lot.”

Orphan well inventories can grow ‘in leaps and bounds’

Orphan wells are an issue that can expand quickly.

“The concern is that the inventory can grow in leaps and bounds from year to year. We just saw that happen here in Alberta,” Amanda Bryant, manager of the oil and gas program at the Pembina Institute, an Alberta-based environmental think tank, says. 

Alberta’s orphan-well inventory ballooned to more than 7,300 sites this year after thousands of wells owned by an insolvent Calgary-based oil company were transferred to the province’s Orphan Well Association.

The association — a non-profit funded by industry — is responsible for decommissioning and cleaning up orphan oil and gas sites. Alberta had fewer than 300 orphan wells when the organization was founded in 2002.

That exponential growth is due to poor provincial regulation, Bryant says. 

“The main problem is that there’s nothing stopping companies from deferring the costs of closure and cleanup,” she says. “The other half is the so-called liability-dumping behaviour that a lot of companies engage in.”

The practice of liability dumping cited by Bryant has made insolvency a growing concern as larger companies sell off risky assets to smaller companies, which critics say happens with too little financial vetting from the regulator.

As in Manitoba, oil and gas companies in Alberta are legally required to clean up well sites that are no longer in use. Yet, because the Alberta Energy Regulator provides no concrete timelines for closing unused wells, operators often leave the sites for years or decades to avoid paying clean-up costs. 

If a company files for bankruptcy prior to remediation, that cost is passed on to the Orphan Well Association. Taxpayers can be left footing some of  the bill for closure costs — which carry an estimated $1.66-billion price tag — due the association’s lack of adequate funding, while also covering delinquent oil and gas companies’ unpaid oil and gas land rent and taxes owed to municipalities.

To address the issue, the Pembina Institute has recommended increasing the orphan-well levy, enacting an escalating inactive-well fee and introducing strict timelines for cleanup.

The situation is similar in Saskatchewan, which has nearly 4,500 orphan wells, and British Columbia, which has 998.

Manitoba’s unique regulatory environment

Manitoba’s oil and gas industry is an outlier in several ways. 

For one, it has a comparatively small oil patch, which is concentrated in the southwest corner of the province and dominated by Tundra Oil & Gas — a locally owned subsidiary of James Richardson & Sons. 

It also differs in provincial regulation. Operators have to submit an application to suspend drilling at a well site to the petroleum branch. Suspensions are valid for a maximum of three years, after which the company needs to apply for an extension.

“What it means is that Manitoba has a much lower proportion of its wells that are in a suspended state,” Bryant says. “If [wells] sit there in a state of inactivity for a long time … there’s a risk that they’ll end up orphans, and so that’s a positive policy move that the province has taken.”

Unlike other provinces, where insolvency is a driving force, most of Manitoba’s orphan wells are the result of petroleum branch seizures following non-compliance of shutdown orders or failure to meet regulatory requirements, a provincial spokesperson said. 

If a seized well is capable of producing oil, the province can sell the facility or transfer the licence to a new owner.  

Nearly all of the companies with orphan wells are still actively drilling elsewhere in the oil patch.

Four inspectors are now employed in Manitoba’s petroleum branch, up from one

Manitoba has been addressing orphan wells for many years, according to the province, but only released its first consolidated inventory in 2021, with an update posted publicly last year. 

Of the 23 wells listed on the original inventory, all but six remained orphaned in 2025, according to a Narwhal/Free Press analysis of the publicly available records. The others were removed from the list after their status was updated to abandoned (as in, properly plugged) in 2022.

The 2025 batch of 25 seized wells is largely due to improved staffing capacity, allowing the department to clear a backlog of investigations, the spokesperson said.

Manitoba currently has four provincial petroleum inspectors, up from the single inspector employed in early 2024, when a major Imperial Oil pipeline shutdown prompted the government to address gaps in its monitoring program.

Mya Wheeler, a Winnipeg-based social scientist and researcher whose PhD thesis focused on the local oil and gas industry, found staffing was a perennial problem that undermined departmental efforts to adhere to legislated regulations. 

“As the ramping up of oil wells occurred, there was the same and then less staff, and there was a 600 per cent increase in drilling during the fracking boom,” she says.

“There’s not a lot of ability to make compliance happen because of low staffing.”

Eva Wasney is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

It’s been a whirlwind year for tornado researchers in Manitoba. 

“It’s the busiest we’ve ever been, by far,” John Hanesiak, a professor in the department of environment and geography at the University of Manitoba, says. 

Hanesiak is a collaborator with the Northern Tornadoes Project, a national research program based at Western University that aims to better understand tornadoes in Canada.

Since late May, Hanesiak and his team have spent 43 days in the field surveying damage caused by tornadoes and severe weather events across Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Previous seasons have required a maximum of 19 days on the road. 

Fifteen tornadoes have touched down in Manitoba so far in 2026, including two within the city of Winnipeg — and that number could still rise as other storms are evaluated. It’s a substantial  jump from the six to eight that typically occur in the province each summer, but doesn’t surpass the record of 18 tornadoes set in 1991.

It’s been a similarly busy season nationally, with 121 tornadoes recorded from northern Alberta to Nova Scotia. According to the federal government, Canada records an average of 97 tornadoes annually. 

“This may end up being a year where we have the biggest tornado count overall,” David Sills, director of the Northern Tornadoes Project, says. 

And the season isn’t over yet. 

Why have there been so many tornadoes in Manitoba this year?

High levels of humidity and a series of particularly strong weather systems have resulted in the above-average tornado season, Hanesiak explains. 

A tornado is a rapidly rotating vortex of air that stretches from the base of a thunderstorm cloud to the ground. Four ingredients are needed to generate thunderstorms capable of producing tornadoes.

The first is high humidity, which acts as atmospheric fuel and can lead to more intense storms. Second is a high degree of instability in the upper atmosphere due to temperature changes. Third is a trigger that moves air upwards, such as a low-pressure trough or weather front that causes warm surface-level air to rise vertically like a hot air balloon. And fourth is wind shear, or sudden changes in wind speed and direction at higher altitudes.

After several years of drought conditions in Manitoba, these ingredients have been converging more frequently this summer thanks to a deluge of rain in June that led to widespread flash flooding. 

“That just helps humidity, so you have a lot of potential storm energy available,” Hanesiak says. “And we’ve had some pretty intense weather systems.” 

The tornado-producing storms in Manitoba and Saskatchewan in early June caused more than $840 million in insured damage, according to the Insurance Bureau of Canada.

Why does it take so long to confirm if a tornado has touched down?

Tornadoes are small, fast-moving events that can’t be tracked in real time with existing weather radar technology. Suspected tornadoes can only be verified through damage surveys; as well as reports, photos and videos from witnesses — the analysis of which takes time. 

Researchers use the Enhanced Fujita scale to determine a tornado’s intensity based on the extent and degree of damage to foliage, vehicles and infrastructure. The weakest tornadoes are rated EF-0 and have a minimum estimated wind speed of 90 kilometres per hour, while the strongest are rated EF-5 and can reach wind speeds of 315 kilometres per hour or higher — about as fast as the top speed of a Formula 1 race car.

Most tornadoes fall on the weaker end of the spectrum. The strongest to hit Manitoba this year was an EF-3 near Rossburn, Man., which reached a maximum estimated wind speed of 230 kilometres per hour, destroyed two homes and levelled trees. Canada’s only recorded EF-5 tornado landed in Elie, Man., in 2007.  

Tornadoes that occur in remote, unpopulated areas are often confirmed well after they make landfall. At the end of the season, Northern Tornadoes Project staff spend hundreds of hours combing through satellite imagery of Canadian forests to find evidence of unreported tornadoes, which look like long narrow scars from above. 

“We usually find somewhere between 15 and 30 new tornadoes that we didn’t know about,” Sills says. 

The project also tracks downbursts, which can produce damaging winds when air drops rapidly toward the ground during a thunderstorm. There have been five confirmed downbursts in Manitoba, including in Selkirk and Caddy Lake, and 47 across the country this year.

When and where do tornadoes occur in Manitoba?

The severe storm season typically begins in May and ends in September. While most occur in southern Manitoba, tornadoes have been reported as far north as Churchill, according to historic data from Environment and Climate Change Canada.

The majority of tornadoes take place in rural areas because most of the province is rural — but they can happen anywhere. Case in point: two EF-1 tornadoes landed within the city of Winnipeg this year.

The first destroyed a home in the Whyte Ridge neighbourhood and travelled more than six kilometres through southwest Winnipeg in June. The second tore through the River Heights neighbourhood on Sunday with estimated wind speeds of 155 kilometres per hour. No one was injured, but the storm left thousands of residents without power.

It’s a common misconception cities are less likely to experience tornadoes due to their taller buildings or higher temperatures (a.k.a. the urban heat island effect). This is false, according to Hanesiak. Urban tornadoes are rarer simply because cities make up a smaller proportion of the map. 

“It certainly happens,” Hanesiak says, adding urban sprawl may affect this dynamic in the future. “As cities get larger there’s a higher probability of actually getting hit.”

Changing storm trends may also increase the likelihood of tornado activity more broadly, Sills adds.

How is climate change affecting tornadoes?

More research is needed to understand the complex relationship between tornadoes and climate change, but Canada’s warm-weather storm season appears to be starting earlier and ending later, according to Sills.

“We believe that the severe storm season is actually extending,” he says. “If you have a longer season, there’s more chances for tornadoes, more chances for the really big stuff.” 

A warming planet is likely to alter weather patterns in ways that both encourage and hinder the development of tornadoes.

Wildfires, for example, are becoming more frequent and can produce their own extreme weather events, such as lightning and tornadoes. At the same time, drifting smoke can cut down on the amount of sunlight that reaches the ground, Sills explains, creating cooler temperatures and reducing the amount of solar energy available for thunderstorms. 

“It’s really not just a case of climate change equals more tornadoes. It’s changing by region, changing by season,” he says.

North America’s “tornado alley” is also moving eastward. Over the past 40 years in Canada, the number of tornadoes in the Prairies has gone down, while the number of tornadoes in Ontario and Quebec has gone up. This trend carries into the United States, representing a subtle but significant continental shift, Sills says.

Is tornado forecasting improving in Canada?

Yes, gradually. 

Environment and Climate Change Canada is responsible for issuing tornado warnings and severe weather alerts across the country. In August, the department rolled out a new system called Convective Alert Modernization, which was designed to reduce “alert fatigue” by enabling forecasters to deliver more precise warnings to targeted areas.

The timeliness and accuracy of the department’s tornado warnings have improved from an F to a C since 2019, according to independent annual report cards issued by the Northern Tornadoes Project.

The project’s scope has grown since its founding in 2017. The project is now under the umbrella of the new Canadian Severe Storms Laboratory, which also collects data on hail storms. Flash flooding — a worsening phenomenon owing to climate change — is the lab’s next priority. 

“Anything we can do as a community to help improve community resilience, improve the way the prediction is done, it all helps us adapt to this new reality,” Sills says.

Days after Sills spoke with The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press, staff at the Northern Tornadoes Project were busy analyzing the aftermath of another Manitoba storm using ground and drone surveys.

The project confirmed two more tornadoes touched down in the province on Sunday — the one in River Heights, the second west of Elie — leaving swaths of splintered trees, toppled Hydro poles and damaged cars and homes in their wake.

Eva Wasney is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

Summary

• The Manitoba Métis Federation and U.K.-based Renewable Energy Systems are proposing a 200-megawatt wind farm in rural Manitoba as part of a provincial push to install 600 megawatts of majority Indigenous-owned wind power by 2035.
• Residents of Polonia, Man., are opposed to the plan. They worry it would be a blight on the beautiful landscape, cause negative health impacts and saddle the local community with new expenses.
• Manitoba lags behind other provinces when it comes to wind power capacity, and the provincial utility says new wind projects could help to address a looming electricity shortfall and make progress toward net-zero targets.

Leonard Kaspick can list just about every household in Polonia, Man. 

“There’s someone living right across the northeast, someone living behind here, about a quarter mile there’s a house there, then a half mile there’s another house there, I’m here, and then on top of the hill there’s someone else there,” he says, standing in the heartbeat of the hamlet: a community hall just off the main road. 

Besides the hall and the smattering of homes, there’s a historic (though out-of-commission) church next door and a single general store further down the road. 

“There’s less people here now than there was in 1885,” 83-year-old Kaspick jokes as he wraps up a condensed history of the Western Manitoba community. 

“The people that come here like the solitude and the beauty of the area.”

Polonia itself isn’t in the census, but together with the five nearby towns that make up the Rural Municipality of Rosedale, the population is listed at just over 1,500. Situated 13 kilometres beyond the southern tip of Riding Mountain National Park and more than 200 kilometres west of Winnipeg, it sits along the edge of the Manitoba Escarpment, a steep ridgeline carved out by the glacial Lake Agassiz thousands of years ago.

It is not a typical Prairie landscape. Instead of open patchwork fields stretching flat across the horizon, the valley is all rolling hills, dotted with cattle farms, crop lands, wetlands and forests. The ecology is unique; microclimates and fertile soils allow for rare and diverse species of plants and animals.

It’s unique in another way too: thanks in part to the ridgeline, this pocket of the province boasts some of the strongest winds in southern Manitoba, according to federal wind atlas data. And with its proximity to the Manitoba Hydro substation in Neepawa, it’s an ideal place for wind turbines.

In April, the Manitoba Métis Federation and U.K.-based Renewable Energy Systems announced a joint proposal to build a 200-megawatt wind farm in the area. 

The Fleury Winds project, majority owned by the Métis Federation, would consist of about 30 turbines, each more than 700 feet tall, situated on private farmland in and around Polonia.

The pitch is part of a provincial initiative to install 600 megawatts of majority Indigenous-owned wind power by 2035 to both address a looming electricity shortfall and progress toward net-zero targets.

“When we think about these projects and the meaningfulness for us, it’s as much about provision of energy for the province and the opportunity to participate economically as it is … a source of pride to be part of a project of this size and scope for our people,” Lorne Pelletier, senior economic advisor to Manitoba Métis Federation president David Chartrand, says in an interview.

Fleury Winds is the first energy infrastructure project to be undertaken by the Red River Métis Power Corporation, a newly created arm of the Métis Federation.

But many in Polonia aren’t sold on the project.

Some object to wind turbines disrupting the region’s beauty and tranquility, Kaspick says. Others worry the turbines could cause negative health effects, disturb wildlife habitat and migratory birds or strain the municipality’s infrastructure. 

“I looked at the map and where my house is located, straight out my picture window, I will see a roughly 705-foot-tall wind tower,” Polonia resident Trevor Bennett says. “And they say I will not only see it, I potentially will hear it all the time and will potentially even feel it.” 

While the Métis Federation and the energy company have been putting the final touches on a proposal that will be presented to Manitoba Hydro in July, some Rosedale residents, including Bennett, have formed a citizen group that’s working to elevate community concerns and preserve their “piece of heaven.”

Fleury Winds turbines would tower over every other structure in the region

Bennett works in the agricultural equipment industry and has a young family. After about 15 years working in nearby Neepawa, he moved his family to Polonia a little over a year ago for “the peace and quiet and tranquility,” he says. 

“I moved here because there wasn’t stuff like that [the wind farm] here.” 

Several months ago, he started hearing “rumblings” his countryside oasis was being considered as the site for a major wind-power development. 

He later learned the project proponents were meeting with landowners to secure lease agreements that would allow wind towers to be built on their land in exchange for financial compensation. 

In April, some landowners who have signed agreements with the Fleury Winds project told the Brandon Sun the opposition may not reflect the feelings of all community members. Pelletier says the project has “a strong base of landowner support.”

But according to James Mitchell, another Polonia-based member of Piece of Heaven, the citizen group opposing the Fleury Winds project, those early whispers created a sense of secrecy around the development. The first time Mitchell and Bennett heard any concrete details was during an open house at the community hall in April. 

“It went from ‘that’s just a rumour’ to a reality for me,” Bennett says.

The town hall was structured as a drop-in information session. Representatives from the Métis Federation and Renewable Energy Systems were stationed around the room with poster boards outlining the basic details of the proposal.

The project would consist of between 28 and 36 wind turbines, situated on private farmlands between the towns of Neepawa, Minnedosa, Birnie and Hilltop. A project map highlighted the 40-odd properties that had already signed agreements, the locations of nearby houses and the proposed turbine sites.

Each of these “modern” turbines would be up to 210 metres (705 feet) tall, including the length of the blades, and built atop concrete foundations more than 20 metres wide and buried four metres deep. 

They would generate between six and eight megawatts each for a total project capacity of 200 megawatts — enough to power 59,000 homes — in ideal circumstances. This energy would be linked to the Manitoba Hydro grid via buried cables connected to an existing substation in Neepawa. 

“It’s an incredible way of generating energy and electricity for Manitobans,” Pelletier, who attended the open house, says. 

“It means a lot to our people: the job creation that it entails, the opportunity that it presents for us to be … contributors in the economy, and the benefits that it will bring not just for Red River Métis but all Manitobans.”

But some Polonia residents, including Mitchell and Bennett, believe the company should have done more to build trust in the community in advance. Now that the proposal is in motion, it feels like it can’t be stopped, Bennett says.

“I think they were trying to label it as a consultation. I really don’t feel that was a consultation at all,” Bennett says.

As a father, Bennett worries how living so close to a tower might affect the well-being of his children.

As wind turbines have become more common worldwide, several jurisdictions have reported receiving complaints of hearing issues, heart palpitations, vertigo, poor sleep, migraines and other noise-related health impacts from people living in close proximity to the towers. The majority of peer-reviewed research has found no direct correlation between these symptoms and turbine noise. Many studies do, however, acknowledge turbines can cause “annoyance.”     

Other residents in Polonia worry about the impacts of shadow flicker — a term for the intermittent shadows created by spinning turbine blades. And they are concerned for the birds, bats and other wildlife that criss-cross the region’s fields and could be driven away — or killed — by the turbines.

The area is, as Mitchell describes it, “strictly rural.” The largest industrial developments are a handful of gravel quarries. Off the main highway, the roads are all gravel; some are hardly more than twin tire tracks scything through the rugged hills. The tallest structure around is a spindly 250-foot-tall cell tower. 

“Imagine something two-and-a-half times as high on a base that’s 100 feet in diameter. It’s not just a little pole up in the air, it’s a massive, massive structure,” Mitchell says. 

To put it in perspective, the tallest building in downtown Winnipeg — 300 Main St. — is about 465 feet tall. The turbines at Manitoba’s existing wind farms are about 120 metres, or 400 feet. The proposed Fleury Winds turbines would dwarf them both.

Mitchell worries the equipment needed to build these behemoth towers — cement and gravel trucks, massive trailers hauling 90-metre-long turbine blades — will cause costly damage to the town’s roads.

When the towers reach the end of their life 30 years down the line, Bennett and Mitchell worry Polonia will be left to clean up the aging infrastructure while the company takes its money elsewhere. 

“My big concern is that the proposed economic benefits to individuals and the [rural municipality] … is not even going to come close to outweighing the drawbacks,” Mitchell says.

Manitoba Métis Federation surprised at pushback, while opponents say consultation was lacking

With these and many other questions in mind, a group of residents took to the hall’s stage partway through the April open house, turning what was conceived as a smattering of one-on-one conversations into a community-led question-and-answer period. While Mitchell believes the company’s representatives were trying their best, the information they offered was broad, and many of the questions remained unanswered.

At the Manitoba Métis Federation, Pelletier says the meeting’s spontaneous turn came as a surprise. While he understands that some community members felt the open house lacked transparency, the project group thought it would be more respectful to speak directly with residents and answer questions as they arose, he explains.

“We went there with the intent to talk about the project, present the project, but really to engage one-on-one with the community,” he says. 

The project is still in early stages; the open house is just the beginning of the planned consultation. While figuring out the timing of engagement sessions like the open house can be “tricky,” the Métis Federation takes the community’s concerns seriously, he adds. If the project is selected, the organizations expect to undergo two years of licensing and permitting before construction would begin in 2029.  

“The project is proposed within our homeland as Indigenous people, and we have a long-standing and very strong commitment on the part of our government for environmental stewardship,” Pelletier says.

Renewable Energy Systems Canada’s director of development, Isabelle Deguise, said in a statement: “There will be real opportunity in the months and years ahead to sit down with people in the Polonia area again, hear what matters to them and shape this project together.” 

“We know residents have questions, and we want to listen. Our commitment is to keep turning up, keep listening and keep working with this community throughout the life of the project.”

Manitoba and federal governments see wind farms as the future of power

Wind power developments are not new in Manitoba. The St. Leon and St. Joseph wind farms, built in 2006 and 2011 respectively, are located about 100 kilometres south of Winnipeg and together produce about four per cent of the provincial power supply.

St. Leon has about 70 turbines; St. Joseph has 60. Each produces approximately two megawatts and their towers, including the blades, stand roughly 120 metres tall.

Pattern Energy, which operates the St. Joseph farm, estimates that over the project’s first 27-year power sale contract, it will pay $44 million in property taxes and generate $38 million in revenues for landowners.  

At the time it was built, St. Joseph was one of the largest wind farms in Canada, according to then-premier Greg Selinger. 

“This project builds on Manitoba’s position as a leader in renewable energy development, complementing our existing hydroelectricity supply, geothermal activities, biofuel production and aggressive energy-conservation programming,” Selinger said in a news release the day the turbines started spinning.

But momentum for wind power developments petered out after St. Joseph was built. As of 2025, Manitoba has installed fewer than 260 megawatts of wind power, while neighbouring Saskatchewan has more than 800 megawatts, Quebec has more than 4,000 megawatts and Ontario and Alberta have more than 5,500 megawatts each. 

Some in the province would like to see Manitoba pick up the pace of wind-power development. According to research from Climate Action Team Manitoba, the technology is well-suited to winter production, with Manitoba’s existing wind farms already generating more energy in fall and winter than summer and the province is no stranger to the kinds of high-wind speeds that make turbines a sensible investment. At the national level, the Canada Energy Regulator projects wind will make up about 70 per cent of renewable energy growth in the coming years. 

Scott Blyth, a retired doctor from nearby Brandon, volunteers with the Manitoba committee of Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment. Following the open house, he wrote an opinion article criticizing Polonia residents for “hijacking” the meeting. 

Reflecting on that article in an interview last month, Blyth said he could “understand people’s concerns” about the turbine development, but stressed his excitement for renewable energy projects in the province. 

“There’s so much good that can come from this approach to generating energy, and boy, my bottom line is, get rid of fossil fuels … and why haven’t we done this sooner?” he says.

Fleury Winds is part of a provincial initiative that looks to turn the tide on wind power in Manitoba by installing 600 megawatts of majority Indigenous-owned, utility-scale wind farms.

The initiative was first introduced as part of the provincial government’s 2024 affordable energy plan, then re-affirmed in 2025, when Hydro released a roadmap outlining its path to a reliable net-zero energy grid. 

The initiative is intended to help add capacity to the province’s strained energy grid, while providing Indigenous Nations “new opportunities to participate and benefit from the energy transition,” according to the affordable energy plan.

The additional grid capacity is necessary to address a projected shortfall as soon as 2030, the utility noted in 2025. Other measures outlined included efficiency programs to reduce demand, enhancements to the existing hydropower grid, new natural gas-powered combustion turbines (currently slated to be built in Brandon) and the addition of five megawatts of utility-scale battery storage.

While the best-case scenario for wind power in the province is 600-megawatts of production, the reality is that wind — and the power it produces — is intermittent. Manitoba Hydro expects that in reality, the wind power developments will generate 120 megawatts of reliable, accredited capacity.

Hydro issued the official call for proposals in March, with submissions due by early July. 

It received proposals from 11 eligible proponents representing seven Indigenous Nations (including the Métis Federation, Swan Lake, Dakota Tipi, Gambler and Pinaymootang First Nations, Fisher River Cree Nation, and Keeseekoowenin Ojibway First Nation) and six established wind power companies.  

The utility is expected to announce its preferred proponents in spring 2027, with projects complete by 2035.

Polonia isn’t the only community pushing back against the proposed developments. 

A wind farm proposed by Swan Lake First Nation and Innergex Renewable Energy is facing opposition from residents from the Rural Municipality of Lorne, some 150 kilometres southwest of Winnipeg. They worry about negative environmental and economic impacts in the agriculture-dominant region, and would like to see towers built on Crown land, or further north.

Polonia, Man., wind farm wouldn’t come online until 2035

Progress will be slow. The proposed turbines are not expected to come online until 2035, according to Manitoba Hydro. 

In the meantime, proponents whose projects are selected by Hydro will need to complete environmental licensing processes to address a myriad of environmental and community impacts. 

The provincial wind power guidelines require companies to assess the extent of shadow flicker within 1.5 kilometres of each turbine, the impact of noise across the entire development and the potential impacts to wildlife including migratory birds, bats, roosting and foraging habitats and endangered species.

As for human impacts, a 2013 Health Canada study that surveyed about 1,200 Ontario and P.E.I. households in proximity to wind towers found no correlation between negative symptoms such as headaches, tinnitus and dizziness and turbine noise levels. 

The study did, however, find a correlation between turbine noise and community annoyance, with participants highlighting the effects of shadow flicker, vibrations, sound, visual impacts and blinking lights. 

Long-term annoyance was linked to stress indicators such as high blood pressure and cortisol, the study found, particularly for those living closest to the turbines.

As a result, best practices indicate turbines should not be built within close proximity to people’s homes. In Manitoba, turbines may not be within one kilometre of a residence.

Pelletier stresses the well-being of community members and the local environment is paramount for the Métis.

“These are our lands too, right? We’re not just a corporation coming in from afar. We live in the area, we demonstrate a strong commitment to environmental stewardship,” he says.

Turbine technology has evolved, he adds, and many of the community’s concerns can be mitigated by choosing turbines with lower noise specifications, conducting thorough environmental assessments and by taking responsibility for the turbines through their lifetime and decommissioning. 

“For us, it’s not just about meeting the regulatory requirements, it’s pushing beyond that. From an Indigenous perspective, these are things that are integrated in the way we think,” he says.   

The Piece of Heaven group plans to keep making their voices heard. Most recently, they organized a letter-writing campaign delivering a list of concerns to municipal councillors, MLAs and provincial ministers.

Response from Rosedale councillors has been positive, Bennett says. Some have reached out to arrange meetings and hear more about residents’ concerns, while the provincial government sent acknowledgement letters, he adds. 

Bennett could envision a version of the project with smaller towers, larger setbacks and more equity for landowners. He would like to see more stringent regulations on where the turbines are placed, given the existing rules were written for smaller turbines. 

But there are others, like Mitchell, who would rather the project be moved out of the area entirely. In his mind, the rewards will never outweigh the risks.

Julia-Simone Rutgers is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

Summary

• The Montreal-based tech firm Deep Sky is proposing to build a direct air carbon capture facility in southern Manitoba, and documents obtained by The Narwhal show the company has garnered support from First Nations, rural municipalities and at least one bank.
• Direct air carbon capture involves sucking carbon out of the atmosphere and then burying it deep underground. Deep Sky says its technology is “viable,” but critics have expressed skepticism.
• If built, the facility will require 15 megawatts of electricity to run — which is about enough to power 10,000 homes. Deep Sky hopes to connect to Manitoba’s electrical grid to obtain that energy.

A direct air carbon capture facility proposed for southwestern Manitoba has been shoring up allies in local and Indigenous governments and large corporations, as Montreal-based Deep Sky aims to convince the provincial government its project is ready to launch.

The venture-capital-backed tech firm sent the province a package of support letters late last year encouraging the government to provide the regulatory support and electric power supply needed for Deep Sky’s Manitoba facility to move forward, according to documents obtained by the Free Press and The Narwhal.

“Deep Sky Manitoba is not a speculative concept,” the company wrote in a December letter. 

“It is a commercially viable infrastructure project that is backed by real market demand and presents an economic opportunity for Manitoba on a global scale.”

Deep Sky is proposing a 145-acre facility in the agriculture- and oil-dominant southwestern region that will scrub 30,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide directly from the atmosphere each year and inject it into porous rock formations 1,000 metres below ground. The company says it will use technology first tested at its existing accelerator in Innisfail, Alta., and will finance the $200-million Manitoba project by selling carbon credits.

Deep Sky will need up to 15 megawatts of power — roughly the power draw of 10,000 homes — for the first stage of the project, CEO Alex Petre told The Narwhal and Free Press in December. 

The package included term sheets and letters of intent from five customers and investors, as well as support from local communities. 

While some of the documents are redacted under a section of the freedom of information act that protects corporate privacy, The Narwhal and the Free Press obtained copies of letters from the Dakota Grand Council, the rural municipalities of Pipestone and Two Borders, Frontier and the Bank of Montreal. 

“These documents illustrate that this project is ready to break ground,” the company wrote. 

“We have the customers and the support to bring this investment to the province. We are simply waiting for the final regulatory framework and the confirmation of power supply to unlock this investment.”

Direct air carbon capture: big promises, yet to be proven

Deep Sky’s proposal has been met with skepticism from area residents and climate action groups, who have posed questions about the safety, affordability and long-term impacts of direct air carbon capture. 

While oil and gas companies and some climate experts view the technology as a useful tool to help achieve global net-zero targets, critics say it is prohibitively expensive and not guaranteed to work.

Despite energy agencies, including the Canada Energy Regulator and Manitoba Hydro, predicting direct air capture will sequester millions of tonnes of emissions annually by 2050, facilities aren’t yet keeping pace. The two dozen facilities currently operating worldwide capture less than 10,000 tonnes per year.

But Deep Sky maintains its project will be able to succeed given Manitoba’s “natural advantages,” including suitable geologic conditions, a low-cost hydroelectric grid and a local workforce familiar with oil and gas operations.

The company recently sold North America’s first verified carbon removal credits after successfully storing carbon at its Innisfail facility, according to a press release Monday.

According to the December letter, it has now also secured “strong local buy-in” after hosting information sessions through the fall and winter. 

“Over the past year, we’ve engaged with Indigenous communities, municipalities, provincial partners and regional stakeholders across Manitoba to better understand local priorities and explore how this industry can create lasting economic opportunities for Manitoba,” Jason Vanderheyden, Deep Sky’s vice-president of government affairs and public policy said in an emailed statement. 

“All of these conversations continue to inform our approach as the project advances.”

Deep Sky points to First Nations support for proposed facility

Vanderheyden noted the company’s partnership with the Dakota Grand Council, a collaborative organization representing Manitoba’s Dakota nations.

In a letter to the province dated Dec. 5, 2025, Dakota Chiefs Dennis Pashe and Raymond Brown expressed “strong support for the Deep Sky Manitoba project,” noting it presents an opportunity to reverse “decades of economic exclusion in the region.” 

The project is anticipated to create between 750 and 1,000 jobs during construction, with around 100 permanent positions during operation. The Dakota council said it is working with Deep Sky to ensure its members are prioritized for these roles, and will explore equity opportunities through the relationship agreement. 

“Deep Sky’s Manitoba executive team engaged with us early, right from the start of the project and we found them to be extremely transparent,” Pashe said in an emailed statement. 

“They were also very informative when explaining the project and carbon removal technology, which is important when communities consider something new.”

The company will still need to complete impact and benefit agreements to receive consent from the Dakota Nation, he added.

Local rural governments come out in support of Deep Sky project

The package also included resolutions passed by the rural municipalities of Pipestone and Two Borders in early 2025 declaring support for carbon capture and storage projects, including the Deep Sky initiative, and urging Manitoba to amend its carbon storage rules in collaboration with the company.

Manitoba passed the Captured Carbon Storage Act in May 2024, outlining the legal framework for such projects. The accompanying regulations, which will outline the finer details of a company’s responsibilities when storing captured carbon, were initially expected this spring, according to a December interview with Manitoba’s Business, Mining, Trade and Economic Development Minister Jamie Moses.

It’s not yet clear when the regulations will be finalized.

In response to detailed questions from The Narwhal and the Free Press regarding the province’s support for Deep Sky’s proposal, progress on carbon storage regulations and the company’s power supply request, Moses’ office said in a three-sentence reply, “any decisions regarding that project will be communicated in the coming months” and consultation will continue to take place with affected communities.

Deep Sky looks for connection to provincial grid and hydroelectric power

Alongside local support, Deep Sky has the backing of several large corporations in the technology and finance sectors. 

Frontier is an advanced market commitment group representing some of the world’s largest tech and financial companies — including Stripe, Google, Shopify and Anthropic — in an effort to stimulate the carbon storage industry. 

The company is “actively evaluating Deep Sky for future offtake agreements and are encouraged by the pace of their technical progress,” according to a letter included in the Deep Sky package.

“However, to unlock this global market demand for Manitoba,” the company states, “two critical enablers are required: the allocation of hydroelectric power and a finalized regulatory framework.”

Bank of Montreal executive Grégoire Baillargeon, who serves as a board member for Carbon Removal Canada, wrote a similar letter of support urging the province to “grant the project a high-priority hydro allocation so that construction can begin and Manitoba can secure a leadership position in this emerging market.” 

Neither company responded to follow-up questions.

Any facility needing to draw more than five megawatts must submit a large power supply application, according to Manitoba Hydro (Deep Sky will need up to 15 megawatts of power in its first phase). In an email, media relations officer Peter Chura explained Hydro reviews applications thoroughly to determine feasibility, then forwards requests to the province for review and prioritization. 

Chura said Hydro could not confirm whether it had received a request for power from Deep Sky, as the Crown utility does not publicly discuss customers, applications or proposed developments. He confirmed Hydro has not received any directives from the Manitoba government regarding the Deep Sky proposal.

Julia-Simone Rutgers is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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 Sayisi Dene First Nation has purchased one of the largest hunting and fishing lodges in Manitoba’s Seal River Watershed, marking a return to the community’s traditional lands and an economic development opportunity for the northern nation. 

The Lodge at Little Duck sits nestled between Neganilini and Little Duck lakes, more than 1,000 kilometres north of Winnipeg. It is located in the Seal River Watershed, a 50,000-square-kilometre subarctic ecosystem relatively untouched by industrial development, and centred on the last major river in Manitoba without a hydroelectric dam. A network of provincial and federal parks has been proposed to protect the region. 

“The Sayisi Dene people have a real connection to the lands, especially around where the lodge sits,” Chief Kelly-Ann Thom-Duck said in an interview. “We have plans to use the area and see where it goes.” 

The fly-in only hunting, fishing and eco-tourism destination has its own airstrip, lounge and cabins. According to manager Shawn Paul, it regularly sees more than 100 guests every summer and fall for its guided caribou hunts and fishing trips.

After more than 40 years of operation under several ownership groups — most recently a shareholder group that included Winnipeg-based business scion James Richardson — the lodge was sold to the Sayisi Dene First Nation this spring. 

“It’s an amazing, full-circle event,” Paul said in an interview. “With the Sayisi Dene and their history at Little Duck Lake … and having the opportunity now to essentially own what was rightfully theirs — I think it’s spectacular.” 

The Sayisi Dene community was forcibly relocated in the 1950s

Thom-Duck said hunting and fishing trips will continue under the nation’s ownership, along with paddling expeditions and other eco-tourism experiences. But the Sayisi Dene also see an opportunity to use the lodge — and 18 square kilometres of nearby reserve lands formally transferred in 2024 — to help members reconnect to their roots.

The Sayisi Dene were historically nomadic, she explained, and spent summers living along the lake as they followed the Qamanirjuaq caribou herd. In 1956, the community was forcibly relocated to Churchill, Man., more than 200 kilometres away. 

The relocation was devastating; many of the impacts, Thom-Duck said, are still felt today.

When news of the lodge acquisition was announced in early May to a crowd of members that included several Elders who had experienced the relocation, Thom-Duck said the reaction was powerful. 

“There was just an outcry of joy, people were banging on tables and cheering, some people were crying,” she said. 

Community voices will be key to deciding the future of the lodge and nearby reserve lands, Thom-Duck said. While nothing will be formalized until consultations have taken place, she acknowledged there has been “a real outcry for our people to find treatment centres or healing land-based activities that could help them reconnect to identity.” 

Her vision is to see the lodge and nearby lands used both for the hunting, fishing and eco-tourism trips, and as a healing space for members. She would also like to see the lodge incorporate Dene laws and traditions so visitors can learn about the community’s culture and values. 

“That was a major driving point for the leadership here: going back to our homelands is a good opportunity for our local members to start that journey. At the same time, it operates as a hunting and fishing lodge, so there’s also opportunity for economic development,” Thom-Duck said.

The Seal River Watershed could be permanently protected under new proposal

The ownership transfer comes as the Sayisi Dene, Northlands Denesuline and Barren Lands First Nations, as well as the O-Pipon-Na-Piwin Cree Nation — united under the banner of the Seal River Watershed Alliance — are taking steps to establish the watershed as a protected area. 

As of this spring, the Manitoba government, federal government and governments of the allied First Nations have proposed a mosaic of federal and provincial parks that would permanently protect the watershed from industrial development while creating opportunities for tourism, job creation and Indigenous-led stewardship. 

For now, Paul said, it’s business as usual at The Lodge at Little Duck. He and his wife will be headed north to open the fishing lodge in the coming days.

“We’re excited about moving forward together with the new ownership, really looking forward to it,” he said. 

Julia-Simone Rutgers is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.

Summary

• Urban forests cool city streets, sequester and store carbon and absorb stormwater runoff, among other benefits.
• But city trees face compounding stressors, from disease and pests to heat waves and droughts, which makes looking after them an intensive process.
• In Winnipeg, the municipal government has increased its efforts to nurture the urban forest, with a goal of growing canopy coverage to 24 per cent by 2065.

Only a handful of years ago, the outlook for Winnipeg’s iconic urban forest was grim. 

The ash and elm-dominated canopy, best known for its elegant boulevard archways, had fallen into the clutches of Dutch elm disease and a scourge of emerald ash borer beetles. The city was losing public trees far faster than they could be replaced, planting just one tree for every three removed, according to the city’s 2021 “State of the Urban Forest” report.

But the introduction of Winnipeg’s urban forest strategy in 2023 changed the trajectory. 

The comprehensive planning document laid out a 20-year path to restore forest health, grow the city’s picturesque tree canopy and minimize the risks to tree assets.  

In response, the city hired more forestry staff and increased the department’s spending from approximately $11 million (where it had hovered since 2016) to an average of more than $17 million between 2023 and 2025, according to a review of city budgets.

Results followed: Winnipeg had planted an average 2,500 public trees each year between 2018 and 2022. In the years since the urban forest strategy was finalized, it has planted more than 6,000 per year.

Since 2023, the city has replaced felled trees on public lands at about a one-to-one pace (though this does not account for trees on private property or in natural areas such as the Assiniboine forest or the city’s riverbanks). 

But planting alone does not guarantee Winnipeg will make progress toward the urban forest strategy’s ultimate goal: to grow the city’s tree canopy cover from 17 to 24 per cent by 2065. 

Young trees must survive heat waves, droughts, severe storms, pests and disease to reach maturity and deliver the full benefits of the urban canopy. 

How a municipality cares for its trees — especially under increasing climate pressures — is just as critical to forest health as planting.

Planting a tree is just the first step. Then comes the weekly watering and the hand-weeding

According to Dave Domke, Winnipeg’s manager of parks and open space, the city’s trees are managed by a mosaic of forest stewards. Trees in new neighbourhoods are planted and maintained by developers, while the city’s urban forestry crews are responsible for replacing felled trees on boulevards or in parks. 

Community groups, neighbourhood associations and volunteers also plant and care for smaller trees in natural areas. Typically, these trees are planted as seedlings.

Domke calls the bigger trees the city looks after “large, ornamental trees.” These trees leave the nurseries when they are between seven and 10 years old and their trunks have grown to a 60-millimetre diameter.

“They need to be a substantial size in order to withstand our snow,” Domke said in an interview. “It also gives a nice aesthetic and it’s quite a nice size to grow on into the future.” 

After planting, volunteer groups, developers and city staff are then responsible for two years of dedicated tree maintenance called the “establishment period.”

“When you remove a tree from the nursery, you’re leaving about 80 per cent of the roots in the ground. You’re trying to get the trees re-established as quickly as you can,” Domke said.

During this time, trees are watered, weeded, mulched and protected according to a detailed list laid out in the city’s tree-planting and maintenance specification. 

Crews are expected to water trees immediately upon planting, then every one to two weeks throughout the summer. Trees should be hand-weeded during this time, the specifications say, and supported with protection collars and stakes.

Domke said the city’s maintenance work has been successful. Newly planted trees on boulevards and in parks survive about 90 per cent of the time, he said, about on par with the city’s expectations. 

Smaller trees in natural areas have a much lower survival rate, between 50 and 80 per cent, because they face more environmental challenges, he noted. The city compensates for the higher mortality rate by over-planting trees in these areas.

“We’re dealing with living things here, and you’re not going to be 100 per cent successful,” he said.

A healthy urban tree cools city streets and sequesters carbon — and costs at least $1,000

Healthy and mature trees provide a variety of environmental, health and affordability benefits to communities. 

A robust tree canopy provides shade, which can cool city streets, reduce the risk of heat-related illness and reduce air conditioner use by up to 30 per cent, according to the urban forest strategy. Winnipeg’s forest also stores an estimated 500,000 tonnes of carbon and sequesters nearly 40,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide each year — roughly double the city’s annual emissions from building electricity. At the same time, the city’s trees scrub pollutants from the air and produce approximately 15,000 tonnes of oxygen annually. Trees also absorb stormwater runoff, reducing strain on sewer systems.

But these benefits don’t come without maintenance, according to the Green Municipal Fund, an endowment group that supports Canadian municipalities investing in sustainability projects, including urban forestry initiatives. 

“Trees should be considered valuable natural assets, and like all assets they require maintenance,” communications director Julie Smithers said in an email.

But unlike traditional, grey infrastructure, which has a peak value when it’s first installed and deteriorates over its lifetime, trees are least valuable when first planted, but mature into their peak value over a period of several decades. 

“Given that the benefits of trees grow with time, maximizing their health and life expectancy is essential,” Winnipeg’s urban forest strategy says. “Tree assets cost the most at the beginning and end of their life cycles (planting and removal), so extending their time in healthy maturity ensures the urban forest maximizes the return on investment in tree planting and maintenance.”

The strategy gives the example of a single linden tree planted on a Winnipeg street: the city pays for its planting and annual maintenance until its removal. If it lives a long life, the strategy says, it will produce enough benefits — including carbon storage, avoided runoff, energy savings and pollution scrubbing — to give the city a positive return on its investment. 

But if it dies before maturity and must be repeatedly replaced, that single linden tree can cost the city a net loss of $18,000 over 100 years. That figure doesn’t account for the lost opportunity costs of having a healthy, mature tree over the same time period.

Climate change makes maintenance more challenging. More frequent storms mean more pruning is necessary, and more frequent droughts and heat waves necessitate more watering — especially for young, vulnerable trees. 

While the city does not have exact figures outlining the cost to maintain a tree throughout its lifetime, Domke said the average public tree costs roughly $1,000 to plant and care for through the establishment period.

Winnipeg’s public tree inventory valued at up to $740 million

Winnipeg has used that $1,000 figure, called the replacement cost, as a baseline to define the value of its trees. The city’s 2018 asset management plan valued the public tree inventory at just $226 million, based on a replacement cost of $740 at the time.

“This replacement valuation did not account for the fact trees grow and their value increases with size, age and health,” the urban forest strategy noted. 

“Valuing trees based on their size and condition would provide a better indication of the true cost of replacing Winnipeg’s tree assets, and the cost avoided by investing in maintenance to maximize their safe useful life expectancy.”

The forestry strategy recommended valuing trees according to a diameter-based replacement system, which it already employed for trees removed for construction. Small trees, with diameters of less than 10 centimetres, are valued at $1,000, while larger trees must be appraised according to a standardized formula.

According to the strategy, this approach pegs the value of the city’s tree inventory between $683 million and $740 million — more than double the asset management plan’s previous assessment.

Cities across Canada are employing tree appraisals and other natural asset valuation systems to better account for the benefits of urban forests, according to Tree Canada, a national rural and urban forestry non-profit. 

Using remote sensing and mapping technologies, as well as on-the-ground sampling, cities are better able to quantify the ecological and economic benefits of the forest canopy, Tree Canada notes in its urban forestry guide. 

These valuations make it easier for municipalities to measure the return on investment in tree maintenance.

In 2014, TD Economics estimated the ecological and economic value of forests in Toronto, Vancouver, Halifax and Montreal, and found every dollar invested in maintenance generated between $1.88 and $12.70 in benefits. 

A similar valuation strategy is on the horizon in Winnipeg, Domke said. The city is planning a flyover to analyze the tree canopy cover and support a more robust quantification of the forest’s value. 

“We all know they look good and are beautiful, but how much carbon sequestration are they undertaking? How much of the stormwater sewer management do they contribute to? What oxygen production is coming out?” Domke said. 

“These are the kinds of things that other cities have started to quantify, and Winnipeg is now on the road to doing that.”

Julia-Simone Rutgers is a reporter covering environmental issues in Manitoba. Her position is part of a partnership between The Narwhal and the Winnipeg Free Press.

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.