More than 10,000 Starlink satellites currently orbit the Earth. We see them crawling across dark skies, no matter how remote our location, and streaking through images from research telescopes.

SpaceX recently announced that it wants to launch one million more of these satellites as orbital data centres for artificial intelligence computing power.

A few years ago, we wrote a paper predicting what the night sky would look like with 65,000 satellites from four planned megaconstellations: SpaceX’s Starlink, Amazon’s Kuiper (now Leo), the U.K.’s OneWeb and China’s Guowang. We calibrated our models to observations of real Starlink satellites and came up with a startling prediction: One in 15 visible points in the night sky would be a satellite, not a star.

A million satellites would be so much worse.

The human eye can see fewer than 4,500 stars in an unpolluted night sky. If we permit SpaceX to launch these satellites, we will see more satellites than stars — for large portions of the night and the year, throughout the world. This will severely damage the night sky for everyone on Earth.

SpaceX’s proposal also completely fails to account for atmospheric pollution, collision risk or how to develop the technology needed to disperse waste heat from orbital data centres.

Predicting the night sky

SpaceX has filed its million-satellite proposal to the United States Federal Communications Commission and has only provided bare-bones information about these new satellites so far.

We do know that the proposed constellation will have satellites in much higher orbits, making them visible for longer periods of the night.

We decided to build an updated simulation, using the website of astrophysicist Jonathan McDowell. This includes a set of orbits consistent with the limited information in SpaceX’s filing.

We used the observed brightness of Starlink satellites as a reference, scaling the brightness model by considering size jumps between Starlink V1, V2 and predictions for V3, and assuming even higher complexity and power requirements.

There are many factors we don’t know anything about, so there is some uncertainty in the brightness we predict.

In the figure above, each grey circle shows a simulation of the full night sky, as seen from latitude 50 degrees north at midnight on the summer solstice.

The left circle shows the night sky with SpaceX’s orbital data centres, and the right shows the night sky with 42,000 Starlink satellites for comparison.

The coloured points show the positions and brightness of satellites in the sky, with blue the faintest and yellow the brightest. Below each all-sky simulation we list the number of sunlit satellites in the sky and the number of naked-eye visible satellites, with tens of thousands predicted for SpaceX’s orbital data centres.

Each of our simulations shows there will be more visible satellites than stars for large portions of the night and the year.

It is hard to overstate this. Should a million new satellites be launched, in the orbits and with the sizes proposed, the stars we are able to see at night would be completely overwhelmed by artificial satellites — throughout the world.

This does not even account for additional large satellite system proposals filed to the International Telecommunication Union in recent years by numerous national governments.

A satellite crematorium

SpaceX’s proposal is that these new satellites will operate as orbital data centres.

Data centres on the ground are drawing increasing criticism for the huge amounts of water and electricity they use. In an impressive feat of greenwashing, SpaceX suggests that launching data centres into orbit is better for the environment. This is only true if you ignore all the consequences of satellite launch, orbital operations and re-entry.

We can already measure atmospheric pollution from “re-entries” when satellites fall back to Earth. We know that multiple satellites are falling every day and that if they do not fully burn up on re-entry, debris falls on the ground with risk for injury and death.

Increasing densities of satellites also drive up collision risks in orbit. And using the atmosphere as a satellite crematorium is changing the atmosphere in ways we don’t yet understand.

Practically, it is not at all clear whether the proposed orbital data centres are feasible any time soon. To operate data centres in orbit, they would need to disperse huge amounts of waste heat. Despite the greenwashing, this is actually very hard to do in space as they would have to manage the intense radiation from the sun, while cooling the satellite by radiation.

SpaceX should know this well: one of the first brightness mitigations they tested for Starlink was “darksat,” a Starlink satellite they effectively just painted black. The satellite overheated and the electronics fried.

A slap in the face for astronomers

SpaceX has done a lot of engineering work to make its Starlink satellites fainter. They are still too bright for research astronomy, but thanks to new coatings, their brightness has not increased dramatically even as SpaceX has launched larger and larger satellites.

SpaceX’s proposal for one million artificial intelligence data centre satellites with enormous power requirements does not include any discussion of the co-ordination agreement for dark and quiet skies required by the United States Federal Communications Commission.

It feels like a slap in the face after many astronomers have spent years working with SpaceX on ways to mitigate their Starlink megaconstellation and save the night sky.

Orbital space is a finite resource

The SpaceX filing does not include exact orbits, the size or shape of satellites or the casualty risk from de-orbiting (other than a vague promise that it won’t exceed 0.01 per cent per satellite). It doesn’t even include any information on how the company plans to develop the technology that does not currently exist but is needed to make this plan work.

Despite how shockingly little information SpaceX provided, the commission accepted SpaceX’s filing and opened the comment period within four days. Astronomers and dark sky advocates worldwide scrambled to write and submit comments in the short four weeks that the comment period was open.

The scientific process is slow and careful and it often takes months or years to publish a peer-reviewed result. Companies like SpaceX have stated repeatedly that their method is to “move fast and break things.” They are now close to breaking the atmosphere, the night sky and anything on the ground or in space that their satellites and rockets fall on or crash into.

Earth’s orbital space is a finite resource. There is an evolving set of international guidelines for operating in outer space, grounded in a set of high-level international rules. Yet, those rules and guidelines are inadequate.

One corporation based in one country should not be allowed to ruin orbit, the night sky and the atmosphere for everyone else in the world.

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The Arctic has been in the news a lot lately. Between the increased geopolitical interest in Greenland, claims over sovereignty, resource exploitation and the devastating impacts of climate change, the region has become a sentinel for global change.

But away from these headlines, a quieter crisis is unfolding that threatens Canada’s role in global environmental science, law and policy: the dismantling of research teams at the department responsible for Canada’s environmental policies and programs. The federal government’s plan to reduce the public service by 15 per cent over three years means that more than 800 positions at Environment and Climate Change Canada will be cut.

As an environmental scientist who has been involved in the Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Program since 2016 and an interdisciplinary legal scholar focused on water governance in Canada, we have seen how science can shape policy. For decades, Environment and Climate Change Canada research scientists have been integral to the work of the Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Program, a working group that provides advice and assessments to the Arctic Council.

This intergovernmental group comprised of Indigenous Peoples, Arctic states and non-Arctic states with observer status is the major platform for protecting the environment and coordinating sustainable development initiatives in the Arctic.

Scientists at Environment and Climate Change Canada have played a leading role in more than 20 international reports on persistent organic pollutants and mercury. In fact, department researchers have acted as the largest group of chapter leads in these global assessments since the 1990s.

Budget cuts at the department raise concerns about how governments will develop effective policies and laws that rely upon scientific research.

The risks from budget cuts

Many of the scientists who lead projects on the long-term trends of toxins in Arctic wildlife face cuts or might lose their jobs entirely. Department scientists are often the ones to identify and assess “chemicals of emerging Arctic concern” — newly discovered chemical threats to human and environmental health that scientists are only just beginning to understand.

Losing the scientists who lead and interpret contaminant data in Arctic wildlife will take much more from Canada than scientific expertise; we risk losing our ability to understand and effectively react to chemical threats and their potential environmental and health impacts.

Data collection for unique monitoring datasets spanning up to 50 years is at risk of being discontinued. Even more concerning is the potential loss of national tissue archives if monitoring and research projects are cut. Contaminant data in Canadian wildlife have been instrumental to the listing of toxins under the Stockholm Convention on Persistent Organic Pollutants, an international treaty to control the global production and use of particularly hazardous chemicals.

Similarly, monitoring for mercury in Arctic air and biota is an important part of the rationale for the Minamata Convention, a global treaty designed to protect human and environmental health from mercury contamination.

In many ways, these global agreements exist because Canadian data, produced by Environment and Climate Change Canada scientists, proved that chemicals used thousands of kilometres away end up in the bodies of Arctic wildlife and Indigenous Peoples who rely on healthy wildlife for food security and cultural identity and practices.

These international treaties set out the norms, legal principles and regulatory schemes that have been incorporated into Canadian law. They support the risk assessment and management of many toxic chemicals under the Canadian Environmental Protection Act.

Losing these samples and monitoring programs would set back Canadian and global contaminant research and reinforce criticisms that Canada is a laggard in environmental law and policy.

Risk for Indigenous communities

Budget cuts could also intimately impact the daily lives of those living in the Arctic and raise questions of environmental justice. Indigenous communities in the Arctic face higher exposure to many toxins than other Canadians due to their reliance on foods like fish, belugas and seals.

Despite global efforts, blood mercury levels in many Inuit communities remain higher than the general Canadian population. Furthermore, concentrations of per- and polyfluorinated alkyl substances, also known as “forever chemicals,” are consistently higher in these communities than in the south.

Without ongoing research, we risk creating a vacuum in environmental governance and law. Current legislation, like the Canadian Environmental Protection Act, aims to protect vulnerable populations and uphold the right to a healthy environment and environmental justice. But we cannot uphold these rights if we stop measuring how contaminants are impacting the health of the environment, food and water of the populations most affected by these chemicals.

Across Canada, the cuts undermine effective chemical management. Canada’s chemical management plan depends heavily on the expert assessment of government scientists. This expert-based risk assessment has enabled the discovery and monitoring of new chemical risks with comparatively few bureaucratic hurdles. However, it also means that the proposed cuts are particularly devastating to this program.

If we remove the scientists the regulatory system depends on, the system breaks. This means that these proposed cuts could not only cost jobs and reduce scientific excellence in Canada, but also leave the health of Canadians and our environment less protected.

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We are living through some pretty head-spinning political times, making it harder than ever to focus on longer-term, bigger-picture issues like climate change and biodiversity loss. Yet these problems are not only persisting — they are escalating.

As scientists, we know we simply cannot ignore the link between human health and well-being and the health and survival of wild species, ecosystems and our planet. No amount of economic growth is going to insulate us from the continued deterioration of critical life support systems. 

The growing impacts of climate change and biodiversity loss are becoming impossible to ignore, from record-breaking wildfires and extreme weather to the northward spread of disease-carrying insects. Even rising infant mortality rates have been linked to increased pesticide use, driven in part by the loss of natural insect control from species like bats.

Our political and social systems don’t just overlook the inconvenient fact that we can’t survive without healthy natural systems — they actively accelerate the unsustainable, extractive status quo, chipping away at the very systems that are vital for our well-being.

Research shows Canadian identity remains wrapped up in the idea that just outside our urban boundaries, landscapes stretching across endless expanses of forests teem with moose, wolves and bears. While Canada still holds some of the largest expanses of unroaded landscapes on the planet, many wildlife species have been pushed back by human settlement and displaced by resource development in Indigenous homelands. Caribou once ranged as far south as Algonquin Park and inhabited many parts of southern Canada. Now they struggle to survive in remote forests or, even more tenuously, on rugged mountain slopes. 

It’s the same story for hundreds of species — from fish to plants to our most iconic mammals. So far, where we have pursued industrial-scale extraction, efforts to mitigate impacts at the margins have largely failed. Industrial development has learned little from the original Indigenous stewards of these lands. 

And now, as we confront mounting political threats, we seem poised to double down and push even harder to leverage our natural resources, further entrenching an extractive-driven model of development.

The scale of the challenges facing wildlife and wild places today demands a different and bolder approach — one that acknowledges that while past efforts have helped slow the pace of loss, they have not been enough to reverse it. Incremental, piecemeal responses — through a jumble of after-the-fact assessment processes, mitigation measures, patchwork resource regulations and even efforts to recreate what has been lost — have consistently failed to keep pace with accelerating threats. This system will not work any better with minor tweaks or so-called “red tape” cutting. 

We can start to make actual progress by changing the frame through which we view these challenges — shifting from seeing the health of the natural world as a fringe, distant concern to recognizing it as a central, immediate necessity embedded in decision-making from the outset. This shift will allow us to plan beyond the short term and adopt a mindset where mobilizing adequate funds and resources is not an afterthought or a discretionary expense, but an essential investment in the well-being and resilience of future generations.

Making conservation investments more effective (and productive) requires proactive approaches to addressing growing threats to nature — and ourselves. For example, this can mean planning at a regional scale before major industrial developments, such as road development and mineral extraction in Indigenous homelands. Or it could mean implementing serious forward-looking measures to control ship noise in increasingly ice-free Arctic waters. 

Proactive action is far more likely to succeed than reactive efforts — whether attempting to restore waterways contaminated by mine waste or cajoling ship operators to shift routes away from whale-calving areas only after harm has been done.

If that sounds radical, it is — but only because it requires a fundamental shift in how we prioritize the systems that sustain us. 

Assigning proper value to wildlife and ecosystems will drive investments in their protection, benefitting society today and even more so for future generations. This is not anti-development or blind to economic realities — it is practical, forward-looking and essential for long-term prosperity and survival.

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Picture this: you’re a male clownfish moving on up within clownfish society. The local anemone is bustling, and for society to function, each fish, including you, fills a specific role in the pecking order. Over time, you swim your way up the ranks and eventually make it to be second in command — vice-clownfish, if you will.

One day, the alpha clownfish dies, leaving a gaping leadership void. 

In this fish version of Succession, there aren’t terrible adult children all vying to become top dog. There’s no actually-not-the-eldest boy Kendall Roy primed to step in, Roman Roy having a meltdown, or Tom Wambsgams scheming to ultimately take it all. No, it’s meant to be you and only you! But to do that, one big thing about you has to change — because in clownfish society, a female is always in charge.

So you, the clownfish heir-apparent, do the obvious thing: you become a female. 

Seems simple enough right? Something triggers genetically, and your little clownfish body changes to suit your new role. Research has shown again and again and again that in the clownfish world, that’s how you get ahead. Those are, to borrow a phrase from U.S. President Donald Trump, the “biological facts.” 

When it comes to transgender and non-binary human beings, some intolerant politicians seem endlessly fixated on trying to prove biology wrong and declare that a rigid gender binary is the only truth there is. 

But they couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Evolutionary expressions of variability in sex are also present in humans. It’s one of the reasons a number of politicians — in Canada, too — have such a hard time actually defining “biological sex,” because there will always be exceptions. 

Intersex people exist, chromosomal differences are most definitely a thing, hormones vary wildly and there are medical accounts of all sorts of variations in physical sex characteristics. Transgender people have existed for centuries and have pursued mainstream medical transition since the middle of the 20th century. 

Sure, people who transition aren’t triggered by some environmental cue in the exact same way that sex-changing clownfish is. But it’s still biological. It’s still evolutionary. And it’s still natural — just with the added sentience and agency that makes us human. 

Name a gender, any gender!

In a recent interview for CP24, Conservative Party of Canada leader Pierre Poilievre claimed there are only two genders. It was a comment delivered with a smirk and a challenge, simultaneously an anti-transgender declaration and a trap, inviting opponents to resist his declared “reality” and wade into a fraught debate where human rights, science, culture and opinion churn together into zero-sum muck. 

Poilievre likely felt empowered to say such a thing thanks to the freshly inaugurated Trump, who used the first hours of his presidency to sign an executive order declaring there are “only two genders.” His administration has since targeted everything from gender-affirming care for young people to trans youth in school sports to restricting — even reportedly confiscating — trans peoples’ passports in an all-out attack on transgender rights. 

Then again, a wave of legislation limiting the rights of trans children and their parents in New Brunswick, Alberta and Saskatchewan in recent years shows Poilievre’s comments are not the first attack levied against trans youth by Canadian politicians. 

Former New Brunswick Progressive Conservative premier Blaine Higgs called gender dysmorphia “trendy” — a particularly hurtful statement given how at-risk transgender youth are — while rolling back protections for trans and non-binary students (which current Premier Susan Holt has thankfully reversed). Alberta’s United Conservative Party Premier Danielle Smith’s slate of policies are the most restrictive anti-trans legislation in Canada yet, framing trans kids as confused and misguided and trans girls as a “threat” to women’s sport (neither of which is true).  

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But Trump has the biggest stage, and Poilievre has indicated he might lean into many of the American’s policies on this front. And his government’s statements continuously reiterate an idea of “biological reality” or “biological truth” to sex (which relates to physical characteristics you’re born with, usually) and gender (a socially-constructed category of actions, dress and manner, often assumed based on sex). 

They suggest that gender — or sex, for that matter — is unchangeable, and the existence of trans and non-binary people is merely performance or resistance. 

Nevermind the fact humans are constantly “resisting” biological reality. If this is your argument against hormone replacement therapy or gender-affirming surgery, you should also take issue with chemotherapy, laser eye surgery and Viagra, because those are equally “unnatural.”

Every day, surgeries are performed to force people’s vastly unique bodies to conform to traditional gender expressions. The obsession with gender-affirming surgery for young trans people is particularly misinformed. Just look at the numbers: a 2019 study by the Harvard University school of public health found that, for every one trans kid getting top surgery in the U.S., there were 32 cisgender boys getting surgical chest reductions. Those procedures, of course, aren’t deemed unnatural.

All of this supposed science talk — from an administration gutting crucial, public health and climate science — is just political bluster. It’s not about biological reality, it’s about control. Trump’s policies aim to tamp down any non-conformity, including straight-up writing gender out of scientific research. 

Such weaponization, unsurprisingly, disproportionately affects people marginalized in other ways, such as the spectacle of targeting non-white female athletes like Castor Semenya, Dutee Chand, Imane Kheif and Lin Yu-Ting for “gender testing” in competition. 

The evolutionary advantage of switching sexes — or being more than one

From clownfish to cardinals, sex in the natural world is malleable — in fact, that malleability is a key part of evolutionary advantage. The real biological reality is constant change. 

Hawkfish typically start off as females, before transitioning to males, thanks to environmental cues. And they can change back if the environment calls for it, such as if their social group loses too many females or if a larger male challenges them.

Butterflies have been observed with intersex traits — that is, multiple sex characteristics — including  wing patterns typical of both male and female insects. Thanks to coloration, intersex traits are easy to spot in birds such as cardinals, which have been observed showing an even split down the middle of bright male colouring and brown female colouring. 

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Most earthbound slugs and snails are born hermaphrodites: they always have both sex characteristics, and can self-reproduce if necessary. 

Female lions have been spotted growing manes and exhibiting “male-like” behaviour such as mounting other females (we love a butch top). 

Frogs who spontaneously transition from male to female were thought to do so because of exposure to estrogen from human pollution — but new research shows that happens naturally in the wild too.

None of these discoveries are particularly new. Research on the malleability of sex in the natural world has been conducted for decades. It’s not trendy — and it’s not being done to try to justify trans humans’ existence. 

Being trans is an expression of humanity and the power of personal choice

While science — and biological facts — overwhelmingly support a variety of creatures transitioning, I’m not here to tell you that animals can be transgender. As much as I love the idea of a transsexual creature of any kind, I actually don’t think being trans is something animals outside of humans can be. 

Clownfish can change their sex when it is evolutionarily necessary. Birds and butterflies can be multiple sexes at once. Slugs can reproduce asexually. Female lions can grow manes. 

But gender, and specifically the idea of two genders, is a uniquely human construction. A non-human animal can’t be transgender, just as it can’t be a man or a woman. These fish don’t know they’re changing from “boy” to “girl.” They’re just doing what they have to do to survive. For so many animals, the biological reality is that sex is meant to change. 

But being transgender is a uniquely human label for a uniquely human experience — in a good way. What separates humans from animals is our sentience, our big brains full of thought and consideration and choice and identity. We can choose to change our reality for the better, and modern medicine exists to support that. 

The clownfish doesn’t have any say in its sex change. Nor does the bird, or the frog. But people are able to examine our reality and choose something better for ourselves. Transitioning is the ultimate act of human biological and philosophical reality, the same as choosing to save a life by cutting out a malignant tumour, or choosing to put a cast on a broken bone to help it heal. 

Non-binary writer Sabrina Imbler’s 2022 memoir, How Far The Light Reaches, is a luminescent book that looks at aspects of their life through the science of 10 sea creatures. In an interview following its release, Imbler frames transness in the natural world as a distinctly human projection.

“Our understanding of being transgender is very specific to our own experience as a species. I tried to understand the limits of the metaphor and not equate one thing to another, and I tried to celebrate all of these different ways of having a body and being with another body that exists in the ocean,” they said. 

The only real biological reality is change, and that’s what trans people represent. 

We’re the living embodiment of one of humanity’s deepest traits — personhood and autonomy. When a male clownfish becomes a female clownfish, it’s doing it to survive. When a person transitions, we’re also doing it to survive. 

But unlike the clownfish, at least consciously, we’re also choosing to do it, and choosing to survive. The independence, intellect and autonomy to choose one’s own path is one of the most human things I can imagine. It’s what separates us from animals. 

And that’s what politicians like Poilievre and Trump are most afraid of — the choice, possibility and hope for a better, more human life that being trans represents. 

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“If I wasn’t playing hockey, I think I’d be doing research for National Geographic,” Raygan Kirk says. The Toronto Sceptres goaltender owes her love of nature to yard-work, after a neighbour in her hometown of Ste. Anne, Man., enlisted her help. It sprouted a fascination with growing things that carried all the way through a degree in environmental science.

But Kirk is playing hockey, as a rookie member of a rookie team, having joined the Professional Women’s Hockey League, or PWHL, in its second season. Starting something new is hard, and the Sceptres wobbled on the ice to start the season. 

Yet Kirk has shone, including stopping 33 out of 35 shots taken by the Ottawa Charge on Feb. 16, helping the team hit a four-game winning streak. It’s not really a surprise given her college career in the U.S., which included helping the Ohio Buckeyes women’s team land its first National Collegiate Athletic Association title in 2022. 

If you’re yet to catch Kirk in action, CBC, TSN and Prime Video Canada are broadcasting the Sceptres and the rest of the PWHL. And when she’s not in net, she’s probably out hiking, as she told The Narwhal when she took our Moose Questionnaire.The interview has been edited for length and clarity — all opinions are the subject’s own.

What’s the most awe-inspiring natural sight you’ve witnessed between the Pacific, Atlantic, 49th parallel and Hudson Bay, i.e Canada? 

Hiking with my family through Burnaby Mountain park in B.C. was the first time I had seen tree species of that size. Massive Douglas firs. 

What’s the most awe-inspiring sight you’ve seen outside of Canada? 

Hiking a portion of Crow Pass in the Chugach National Forest, Alaska, this past summer was the coolest experience ever. The views of Eagle River and Raven Glacier at our turnaround point were incredible and any photos I have truly do not do it justice. 

Think of three iconic Canadian animals. Choose one each to kiss, marry and kill. 

Kiss: A beaver. They are adorable and one of the smartest creatures. They’re literally engineers! 

Marry: A moose. Simply because they are so cool. 

Kill: I hate to kill anything, but I wouldn’t mind getting rid of Canada geese since I have a bad habit of stepping in their droppings. 

Name a person or group doing something meaningful for the environment that everyone should know about.  

David Attenborough! I think he has done so much to advocate for environmental causes and inspire people to care about nature through his work on The Blue Planet and Our Planet. I think his documentary A Life on Our Planet is something everyone should watch. 

Outdoor cats, yes or no? 

I am a cat fan, but would have to give a hard no to outdoor cats since they are one of the top killers of birds. 

Tell us about a time that you changed your mind about something, environmental or otherwise.  

Getting a bachelor’s degree in environmental science was truly an eye-opening five years for me. A perspective I had that changed a lot was the concept of wildland fires. I think the image of acres of burned forest land can seem upsetting, but many of my classes in university taught me about the importance of wildland fires for specific tree species, and how this can actually benefit the ecosystem long term. I learned a lot about the history of fire suppression across North America and the changes that have been made to restore natural fire regimes. 

Yes, you have to choose: Rocky Mountains or Great Lakes? 

This is a tough one since driving through the upper peninsula of Michigan is one of my favourite trips to do. But I would have to say the Rocky Mountains. I would love to visit the southern range of the Rockies someday. 

If you could dip a toe off Canada’s coastline, which ocean would it be in?   

I have never been to the Maritimes, so I would have to say the Atlantic Ocean. 

What’s the farthest north you’ve been and what did you do there? 

Anchorage, Alaska. I took a trip with some of my old teammates this summer and it was incredible. We did a lot of hiking, explored lots of small towns, camped outside and took a fishing charter out of Homer. 

What’s one way you interact with the natural world on a daily basis? 

I love to go on walks. No matter what city I am living in, it is a simple thing to do to go outside and stay in touch with the outdoors. 

Who in your life has had the greatest impact on your connection to nature? 

When I was in high school, a neighbour of mine hired my brother and me to help with her very large garden and backyard. I think those summers helped me realize how much I cared about the environment and pushed me to pursue a degree in environmental science with a specialization in ecosystem restoration. (Thank you, Erika!)

Camping: yes or no? 

Yes! If done responsibly it is a great way to connect with nature and get a break from suburban life.

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The village of Kiix̣in was built to face the heavens. Standing between mossy ancient forests and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, Kiix̣in (pronounced kee-hin) was the capital of the Huu-ay-aht First Nation, whose members lived on the rugged edge of what is now called Vancouver Island. They lived there for more than 5,500 years, until the end of the 19th century.  

Today, the skeletal remains of the village’s longhouses — remnants of massive carved pillars and doorways, now entwined with the roots of spruces towering overhead — reveal the close connection between the Huu-ay-aht people and the skies above them. The archway of the big house was oriented toward the three stars of what many call the Big Dipper, explains Qiic Qiica (Robert Dennis Jr.), a knowledge keeper and cultural ambassador for the nation. “The stars represent all points in time,” he says: past, present and future. 

Like their neighbouring Indigenous communities, Huu-ay-aht was a nation of ocean voyagers who travelled and traded widely. “The sea was our highway,” Qiic Qiica says, and the skies were the road map. They marked the changes in seasons, harvests and natural cycles. Sailors navigated by the stars, while whalers used them to determine when to hunt. 

“Think about what teenagers do — sneaking out at night to go to a skate park or a party,” Qiic Qiica says. “Well, we would sneak out and go down to Pachena Bay beach at night, just so we could watch the stars.” On a clear night, the sky dances with light, every bit as lively and lush as the sea below.

The skies overhead are just as starry as they were when Qiic Qiica was a kid climbing over his roof to gaze at them; in his lifetime, he says, it hasn’t changed much at all. That makes Huu-ay-aht the rare exception on a continent that is getting more saturated with artificial light every year.

Artificial lighting has only been around for around 150 years; before that, we slept each night under radiant, undimmed skies. In the 1970s, astronomers first began raising the alarm about the interference of brightening skies on their research. Today, you don’t need a telescope to see the impact. Just look up at night from any city or town in Canada, where only a faint smattering of stars can be seen among the thousands of satellites now criss-crossing the night. As of 2016, 80 per cent of North Americans could no longer glimpse the Milky Way. Since then, the night sky has doubled in brightness as a result of artificial lighting. Each year, the light pollution grows thicker, like smog.

Huu-ay-aht wants to protect its stars. The nation is developing a dark sky festival, one it hopes will bolster economic development, preserve astronomical traditions and draw attention to our endangered, irreplaceable view of the stars. 

Huu-ay-aht First Nation hopes dark skies will draw visitors

Located 300 kilometres northwest of Victoria, B.C., Huu-ay-aht First Nation is a member of the Nuu-chah-nulth Tribal Council. The first ancestors of the nation came down from the heavens: Nutchkoa, the first man, and Ho-miniki, the first woman, who was born from the moon. Twelve-metre-tall cedar carvings of Nutchkoa and Ho-miniki welcomed visitors to Kiix̣in until they were taken without permission from the abandoned village in 1911; the captive ancestors now greet visitors to the Royal BC Museum in Victoria. 

The heart of their homeland is Pachena Bay, a scenic coastal enclave. Three hundred and twenty-five years ago, their Pachena Bay village, Anacla, was devastated by a tsunami after a mega-earthquake (a historic record confirmed by western scientists and researchers centuries later.) Soon after, colonizers arrived, bringing diseases. By the 19th century, an estimated 90 per cent of Huu-ay-aht members had died. 

Like many First Nations decimated by colonization, Huu-ay-aht is working to protect and restore the knowledge, traditions and language of the nation. Among those are the stories and legends of the night skies, passed down across generations. Qiic Qiica learned them from his grandfather, Art Peters, and now shares them as a tour guide, leading visitors along a winding trail through the verdant rainforest and across the beach to Kiix̣in, which is recognized as a national historic site. “A big part of what I talk about as a tour guide is our connection to the stars, and to the night sky,” he says. 

The nearest town to Kiix̣in, 15 minutes up Pachena Road, is Bamfield: a tiny community of roughly 200 residents cleaved by an inlet. The east side is home to an inn, a market and the renowned Bamfield Marine Sciences Centre. On the west side, reachable only by boat, a smattering of restaurants, businesses and residences are tucked into the trees above a wooden boardwalk. Water taxis ferry passengers across the inlet, advertising their services on hand-painted signs. Other signs caution visitors and residents alike of their proximity to tsunami zones and evacuation sites. 

Until recently, Bamfield could only be accessed by two winding gravel roads, but in 2023 — following a devastating bus crash in 2019 that took the lives of two university students — the route from Port Alberni was paved.

That new road has transformed access to the community and brought a swelling number of campers, fishers and day-trippers to Huu-ay-aht territory. 

Patrick Schmidt, the chief executive officer overseeing the business arm of the Huu-ay-aht First Nation, calls the new road an economic catalyst — particularly outside the summer months. “From an economic development perspective, we’re looking for ways to expand tourism,” he says. With access taken care of, they just need to give people a reason to visit in the shoulder seasons. 

“Tofino has storm-watching,” Schmidt says. “But we have darker skies.” 

Indigenous cosmologies also preserved by protecting the night skies

Indigenous nations across what’s now called Canada all have their own cosmologies. Wilfred Buck, a Cree astronomer, grew up under the northern lights in Opaskwayak Cree Nation, in Treaty 5 territory in Manitoba. In a video with the Manitoba First Nations Education Resource Centre, Buck says that in Cree, they’re called cîpiyak nîmehitowak, which means “the spirits are dancing.” 

What some call the Big Dipper and Huu-ay-aht calls the Three Stars, Buck calls mista muskwa — the Big Bear. As an educator, he tells the legend of mista muskwa, who was chased off the land and into the heavens by seven birds.

Buck has written about the significance of learning Cree astronomy after being taught the constellations as they were identified in ancient Greece. “As children, the stories of Orion the Hunter and the Great Bear were presented to our impressionable young minds as knowledge given from great cultures; no other alternative viewpoints were presented,” he wrote. “Such experiences left me with the impression that my people were not smart enough to have such perspectives as those that can be associated with the heavens.”

In recent years, there has been an embrace of Indigenous-led conservation as both a recognition of Indigenous Rights and sovereignty, and a critical strategy for protecting imperiled lands and waters in the face of escalating climate change. But for Indigenous nations, protecting the land, water and sky is indistinguishable from protecting language, culture and knowledge. 

When an old-growth tree is felled, or oil spilled into the ocean, many people will recognize this as a profound loss of something ancient and irreplaceable: a wounding of the world. But the unobstructed night sky is a similarly precious natural resource, one we’re losing a little more of each year, and with it the opportunity to learn the teachings and stories woven into the stars. 

Achieving a dark sky certification in Canada is a lengthy process

Dark sky conservation is still a relatively new concept. The first dark sky preserve in Canada, Torrance Barrens near Muskoka, Ont., was established in 1999 — only the second such site in the world, according to Bob King, chair of the light-pollution abatement committee for the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada. There are now 22 across the country. 

To receive a designation as a dark sky area, it’s not enough to just be incidentally dark. The astronomical society has three levels of designation: dark sky preserves, which have no artificial lighting within their borders, as well as urban star parks and nocturnal preserves, which must adhere to strict light-limiting measures.

“A dark sky preserve not only protects the nocturnal environment, it also provides a place for amateur astronomers to go and observe the dark skies,” King explains. In comparison, Canada’s three nocturnal preserves are focused on benefits to wildlife — like frogs, who sing at night to attract potential mates — not stargazers. 

“And if you want to go a bit brighter, we have an urban star park,” King says. There are just two of these parks, bookending the western and eastern edges of Canada: Cattle Point in Victoria and Irving Nature Park, just south of Saint John, N.B.

The astronomical society fields a handful of inquiries about setting up new preserves and parks each year. The process of getting a designation is lengthy, Roland Dechesne, also a member of the light pollution abatement committee, says. After a community’s application is reviewed, the site is assessed for current artificial lighting, as well as any development plans in nearby communities that could make things brighter. 

“There has to be a visitor experience plan in place — how are we going to educate them about responsible lighting and the nocturnal environment?” Compliance may involve retrofitting or replacing lighting, Dechesne adds. 

All of this takes time, typically a few years or more. If Huu-ay-aht pursues a designation, they could be the first Indigenous nation to achieve it. Piyush Pushkarna, director of economic development for Huu-ay-aht, says Huu-ay-aht’s process would involve additional steps — for instance, determining what lands would be part of the protected area. 

“To identify those lands, it has to go to the lands committee, to the ḥaw̓iiḥ council [of Hereditary Chiefs], so there’s a lot of work to do,” he says. “But it will happen. We’re positive.” 

Humans love artificial lighting — but it’s bad for us, and also for the environment

King and Dechesne have been involved in the astronomical society since 1977, when astronomers were just beginning to sound the alarm about light pollution. The rate of change has accelerated in last 10 or 15 years with the widespread adoption of light-emitting diodes, or LEDs. The bulbs are cheaper, longer-lasting and more energy-efficient than their predecessors but also brighter: our eyes are more sensitive to the cold blue light they emit, compared to the warmer tones of halogen lights. 

“They’re perceived to be environmentally benign and very efficient,” Dechesne says. “So there’s no harm in adding two or three more, or using brighter LEDs, or adding them to your home as decorations. But what we’re trying to show is that, in fact, they’re not benign.” 

Light pollution has extensive ecological impacts, particularly on nocturnal creatures, who exhibit changes to their hunting, mating and migration patterns in response to artificial light. Confused songbirds sing at the wrong time, breeding too early in the year for their hatchlings to survive. Disoriented baby sea turtles can’t find the ocean. Bats, already threatened across most of North America, are driven out of their habitat by the scourge of artificial lighting. Insects, fish and even plants are affected. So are humans: artificial light at night has been found to negatively impact sleep, worsen mood disorders and even elevate breast cancer risk. 

Despite these extensive drawbacks, many people believe lighting at night offers worthwhile benefits for public safety — though a U.K. research study did not find reduced street lighting led to an increase in crime or traffic accidents.  

“We’ve cultivated a story, especially in western cultures, that light equals safe,” Niki Wilson, a science journalist and host of the Jasper Dark Sky Festival, says. “And I suppose there might be instances where that’s true — lighting a busy intersection, you know, on a rural highway or something like that. But a lot of those perceptions aren’t really grounded in what we’re seeing in terms of science.” 

Wilson grew up in the town of Jasper, Alta., located within the national park. “You don’t have to go far off the beaten track here to find yourself in complete darkness,” she says. Also designated as the second-largest dark sky preserve in Canada, Jasper National Park has been hosting a dark sky festival since 2011. Wilson’s been a part of it for the last decade, but she’s been mesmerized by the stars for much longer.

“You only have to stand near someone who is looking into a deep-space telescope for the first time to understand what a deeper connection with the cosmos does for people,” she says. “In a world that’s very polarized, you see people coming from all walks of life to share in the wonder, and to connect with something bigger than themselves.” 

Wilson also happens to be a family friend of Schmidt’s, and when Huu-ay-aht started exploring the possibility of putting together a dark sky festival of their own, he asked her to help. 

For Wilson, dark sky festivals offer visitors a unique opportunity to connect to the cosmos, and spark their desire to conserve it. “I think it’s hard to ask people to protect something they have no relationship to,” she says. “But by coming to places like Jasper or Bamfield, and cultivating your relationship to the sky, and giving people these hopeful messages — that’s something they can get behind.” 

In a language lesson, a vision of the past

The entrance to the House of Huu-ay-aht is flanked by carvings of their first ancestors, who welcome visitors inside. Majestic white Sitka spruce beams, more than 42 metres long, hold up the roof of the longhouse. Slightly more humble basketball hoops adorn the walls. Like many First Nations gathering places, it serves multiple functions. 

Today, it is hosting a language lesson by Hinatinyis, a Huu-ay-aht member and Nuu-chah-nulth language warrior. Nuu-chah-nulth is carried by a small but growing number of fluent speakers, Hinatinyis among them. She was given her name by her grandmother; it’s pronounced high-nah-tin-ee-ous, and means “she is always welcoming.” 

The word for star in the Nuu-chah-nulth language is t̓at̓uus, Hinatinyis says. Tat-oose. The second t is emphasized — what linguists would call an aspirated consonant, accompanied by a little puff of air. The Nuu-chah-nulth dialect spoken in Barkley Sound has lots of deep “h” sounds, which sound like a breath fogging glass. Short and long vowels give the language its rhythms, like water rushing over rocks, or oars propelling a boat through the oceanic highway, under the starlight of a heavenly atlas. 

Artificial lighting is not an oil spill or a felled tree. Unlike other forms of environmental devastation, we can undo much of it with the flick of a switch. It might not be so simple as that, but it’s possible to restore some of what we’ve lost, and protect what we still have. 

A sacred value of Huu-ay-aht is hišuk ma c’awak, which means that everything is connected. As Qiic Qiica says, “We’re all one and the same under the stars.” It’s easy to forget the interconnectedness of the world until it’s right in front of us: the trees nourished by ancient house poles, the fog swallowing the land, the artificial lights blotting out the stars. On that morning in Bamfield, the horizon was swaddled by clouds, a soft grey blur obscuring the point where the sea ended and the sky began.

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On a cloudy evening in early September, fisherman Darren Porter pulls an aluminum boat up to shore on Lake Pisiquid, a small body of water bordering the Nova Scotia community of Windsor. Two fish scientists aboard his boat hop out and begin dragging a seine net through the long grass poking out of the shallows, looking for juvenile fish.

For seven years, a monitoring team made up of the Mi’kmaw Conservation Group, Acadia University and Porter has been testing this site, along with others on the Avon and on an unobstructed tidal river across the bay, to establish the relative abundance of fish.

It’s a windless evening, and as the team brings the net to the beach to check its contents, the water mirrors the pastel sky above.

But Porter knows the situation on this lake is anything but calm.

“I got my car hit by a baseball bat a month ago, I got my truck keyed three weeks ago — it’s insane,” Porter says.

“This is very political now. It started out different.”

Lake Pisiquid is an artificial reservoir created by the construction of a causeway across the Avon River more than 50 years ago.

For much of its existence, the causeway — and the tidal gate, or aboiteau, built into the causeway to allow the Avon to flow out to the Bay of Fundy — has maintained the lake and protected land upstream. But because that protection has required the gate to be almost constantly closed, it’s come at the expense of the fish travelling upriver to spawn. 

In 2017, when the Nova Scotia government began the process to twin the highway running across the causeway, it convened an expert panel to find ways to improve fish passage at the aboiteau — work that included engaging Porter, the Mi’kmaw Conservation Group and Acadia University on monitoring. Then, in 2021, a ministerial order from Fisheries and Oceans Canada (DFO) ordered the lake be drained and the aboiteau opened so fish could pass through.

Yet seven years later, fish passage remains obstructed, while the lake has been maintained by a provincial emergency order for over a year. Politically, the situation is at a stalemate, while the continued existence of the lake divides residents, places governments at a standoff and overrides the objections of the Mi’kmaq, who say their Treaty Rights are being violated.

At the centre of all of this is an ecosystem and a community that have been thrown out of balance. And both have reached a breaking point. 

Avon River becomes political wedge between lake community and environmental advocates

The Avon is one of the rivers flowing into the Bay of Fundy, an ecosystem that pulses with the rhythm of the world’s highest tides, sending saltwater and nutrients upriver and creating a shifting coastline downstream. 

For millennia, the tidal ecosystem sustained fish such as Atlantic sturgeon, Atlantic salmon and gaspereau (a kind of river herring), as well as Mi’kmaq communities who travelled the river and established settlements along its banks. In the 1600s, Windsor — an area originally known as Pesaquid or Pisiquid, a Mi’kmaq name meaning “junction of the waters” — was settled by Europeans. Two centuries later, a causeway was built across the mouth of the Avon to protect the community and surrounding agricultural lands from coastal flooding.

Work on the causeway began in 1968; even before it was finished, there were changes to the ecosystem. Sediment began accumulating on the seaward side, forming what is now an extensive saltmarsh that continues to expand. “We haven’t reached a new balance — the system is still adjusting,” Tony Bowron, CEO of a wetland restoration firm that has done work in the area, says. The Windsor saltmarsh is incredibly productive, Bowron says, but on the upstream side, saltmarshes disappeared as the river transitioned to a freshwater ecosystem. “What was one of our major tidal rivers is now essentially an impoundment,” he says.

Over time, different groups came to depend on that impoundment, including farmers, a ski hill, a canoe club and property owners and developers in Windsor and upstream.

Yet by 2017, it was clear something had to change. The highway had become dangerous and needed to be twinned, and the aboiteau had reached the end of its useful life, especially given climate change projections. But for the causeway highway project to proceed with federal funding, it had to have Fisheries Act authorization. Following Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s recommendation, the province put together a group of provincial and federal officials, fishers and Mi’kmaq to develop ideas for how to meet Fisheries Act requirements. The group members proposed an option that would have restored tidal flow, improving fish passage and flood protection, though with lower lake levels. 

But at a municipal council meeting for the area on Sept. 27, 2017, provincial officials explained the community had pushed back against the idea of changing lake levels and introduced a new option — option D — which would maintain the status quo but add additional fishways (structures to help fish navigate an obstacle). 

Paul LaFleche, who at the time was the deputy minister of transportation and infrastructure renewal (now the department of public works), told those gathered that the option could mean a future constitutional challenge. While LaFleche didn’t specify who that challenge might come from, constitutional challenges have been used by the Mi’kmaq to address violations of Treaty Rights.

Still, LaFleche said for his department, there were only two options at the time: option D, or leaving the aboiteau in place. 

For Porter, this marked the moment the process became political. 

“It’s simple: they were told what to do, then they had this meeting on the 27 of September, and they reversed it,” Porter says.

Mi’kmaq say Treaty Right to fish is being violated: ‘That, to me, is not reconciliation’

On the banks of the Avon River, on the opposite side of Lake Pisiquid from Windsor, two small buildings sit amid the marsh grass and the gravel of the stalled highway project.

In 2020, Nikki-Marie Lloyd, a member of Annapolis Valley First Nation, and other Mi’kmaq water protectors built a protest camp at this site. Llloyd called the site Treaty Truck House #2, a reference to the names used for trading posts between Europeans and Mi’kmaq that evokes the historic Mi’kmaq use of the river. “We wanted to bring a little bit of that back here.”

For months, Lloyd stayed at the site in protest of the aboiteau. On hot days, when there was very little water left on the downstream side of the barrier, she says she watched as thousands of migrating gaspereau struggled and died in the muddy water.

Even when the gates are open, passage is limited. And when they’re closed — as they are for more than 23 hours a day and for months at a time in the summer — the effects are clear. “It’s quite noticeable when the gate is not open,” Trevor Avery, a professor at Acadia University who’s working on the monitoring project, says. “The fish do not make it through.”

Meanwhile, at low tide, the water below the barrier is too warm and low in oxygen for fish to survive. Correspondence between Fisheries and Oceans Canada staff in June 2023 observed “large numbers of fish” dying as a result.

It’s too early to say whether there are any population level-effects for those species, as there are other rivers in the area where fish can spawn; that’s why long-term monitoring is important, Avery says. Yet the obstruction of one river can still have consequences for biodiversity. Research suggests some species of fish found in the river, like gaspereau, largely return to their birthplace to spawn, giving each river a unique genetic signature. If that site is lost, those genetics are lost too. 

Avery is wary of wading into politics — it’s not science, he notes — and the fate of the Avon has become very political. But on a personal level, he thinks the obstruction of the river is the wrong decision. “There’s just good advice that’s being ignored, in this case.” 

For Lloyd, the situation was especially infuriating; without fish being able to pass the barrier, there was no meaningful exercise of the Treaty Right to fish. “We hear a lot of talk about reconciliation, but then when you come here and you see everything that’s going on, especially politically, and you realize that a lake and a gated structure currently are trumping our rights — that, to me, is not reconciliation.”

Then, in March 2021, after Mi’kmaq groups raised concerns — and, according to a briefing note, after Mi’kmaq chiefs passed a resolution to pursue legal action if Fisheries and Oceans didn’t act — the department issued a ministerial order requiring the gate be opened for fish passage (which the department then renewed every two weeks). The lake quickly became a dry, and then dusty, plain.

For many Windsor residents, the resulting dust storms were miserable. To mitigate the problem, a coalition of environmental groups, government officials and the Mi’kmaq planted vegetation on the dry lake bed. For a minute, everyone was working together, Lloyd says. The saltmarsh began regenerating, and fish not seen in the river for decades appeared. Travelling the river on a bright green pool floaty in August 2021, seeing the diversity of fish and the marsh grass “was my all-time favorite moment,” Lloyd says.

In March 2023, West Hants municipal council — which encompasses the community of Windsor — wrote a letter to the federal fisheries minister acknowledging the lake may not return and expressing interest in reimagining the Windsor waterfront and surrounding area to realign with the new operating scenario of the aboiteau.

Then wildfire season started.

Minister claims lake necessary for fighting wildfire, but fire chief says that’s ‘ridiculous’

In May 2023, wildfires tore across Nova Scotia, including one that burned 23,525 hectares, the largest in the province’s history.

On June 1, 2023, the province declared a state of emergency for the area around Windsor. The only action associated with the state of emergency was to order the gates at the aboiteau closed, overriding the federal order that had opened them. The provincial order came just two weeks after Premier Tim Houston released a video with area MLA Melissa Sheehy-Richard describing the dry lake as “appalling” and calling for it to be refilled. 

The provincial minister responsible for the emergency management office, whose deputy was LaFleche, formerly of the Department of Transportation and Infrastructure Renewal, said in a statement that the dry lake posed a “significant risk during this wildfire season.” (The province did not respond to a question about what role LaFleche, or staff from his former department, played in the decision to issue the emergency order.)

In an interview with CBC, the provincial minister responsible for the office of emergency management , John Lohr, said the request had come at the request of local fire chiefs.

Others have disputed that statement. 

In response to the state of emergency, Porter launched a lawsuit, attempting to stay the order and reopen the gate. In an affidavit provided for that lawsuit, Windsor fire chief Jamie Juteau said neither he nor anyone he was aware of in the department had made “any request to Minister Lohr or his department or anyone else for water resources in Lake Pisiquid or to ‘reinstate’ Lake Pisiquid.”

Since then, the province has renewed the emergency order every 30 days, even after historic rain and flooding, including in Windsor.

Brett Tetanish is the fire chief for Brooklyn, another community in the same municipality as Windsor. He says fire suppression appeared to be an excuse to close the gates.

“I just thought how ridiculous that was,” he says. “There’s actually no need.”

Tetanish is an experienced wildland firefighter, and when parts of Nova Scotia were burning in 2023, his department was dispatched to those fires.

If there were a need for water, Tetanish points out there are many other sources a helicopter could draw from. What’s more, because the presence of the causeway has caused silt to built up, much of the lake is only a little more than a meter deep — too shallow for fixed wing aircraft to use, Tetanish says. 

The existence of alternatives was also outlined in a July 2023 report by the municipality’s emergency management office. The report noted if lake levels dropped again, the Windsor fire department would go back to its previous plan for water, and that the department “is confident operating in both scenarios.”

“[The minister] is using the fire service to get what they want,” Tetanish says. “It’s very disheartening that the government would do that.”

Advocates say the existence of alternatives for fire safety suggests the preservation of the lake serves interests beyond fire safety. 

‘LEAVE LAKE ALONE’: Rift in community grows deeper as mayor pleads for unity

Developer Mitch Brison, brother of former Liberal MP Scott Brison, has a house on the lake, and his company, Brison Developments, has residential projects in Windsor and the surrounding area. He wants the lake full.

“Is the town better off to have a body of water in front of your town, or is the town better off to have something that smells and has no water — I prefer the water,” Brison says. “I don’t see the benefit of taking it out, I really don’t.”

Brison says the municipal council now supports the lake, “so we got that reversed.” (Abraham Zebian, the mayor of West Hants, says the council has no official position on the lake.) And while he acknowledges there was movement toward reconciliation, he and most people he knows are tired “with the stuff that’s going on and the money that’s being thrown around in that direction.” 

“It’s time for us all to live and cooperate.”

Ultimately, he says resolving the situation will take a change in the federal government. 

Zebian says his personal position is that the lake is an asset for recreation, firefighting and community well-being. 

Yet he’s acknowledged has divided the town, including last July, when bristol board signs appeared in the community reading “F*CK DARREN PORTER,”and “LEAVE LAKE ALONE.” 

In the aftermath, Zebian took to Facebook to make an impassioned plea for unity. “I’m so disappointed in our community for the things that are being said in regards to the Avon River and Lake Pisiquid,” he wrote. “United we can do anything. Divided we all lose. WEST HANTS… I KNOW YOU ARE BETTER! NOW LET ME SEE IT!”

Over a year later, Zebian says it’s unfortunate the town is still caught in the middle of a fight between the province and the federal government.

Avon River situation at a standstill, as provincial and federal governments fail to find a solution

Documents shed light on the dynamics in the standoff over that fight. At issue is which directive takes precedence — the federal order to open the gate, or the provincial emergency order to keep the gate closed and the lake full — and at whose feet blame for the delay in a resolution can be laid.

The federal department has a legal mandate to protect fish and fish habitat, but it has yet to reissue the ministerial order, which it let lapse after the provincial state of emergency was declared. Documents obtained through access to information requests suggest the department has struggled to get information from the province. 

In an email sent on Aug. 31, 2023, Fisheries and Oceans Canada officials said they were still waiting to receive results of a Nova Scotia emergency management office assessment supporting the emergency order. 

Two months later, in an email regarding a Mi’kmaq proposal to address fire safety while improving fish passage, Fisheries and Oceans Canada regional director general Doug Wentzell wrote, “Bottom line is that this letter presents what seems to [be]reasonable solutions to be able to draw water from the Avon river to support emergency response — which was the stated objective of the province in issuing their continued states of emergency. The key piece of the puzzle for our purposes will be to obtain the province’s assessment around whether these, or other options, have been considered.”

The following spring, an April 2024 letter from Fisheries Minister Diane Lebouthillier to provincial ministers asked the province to take measures to ensure proper fish passage, and to communicate with her ministry about efforts to reconcile that with fire safety. 

In response to a question from The Narwhal about the information it provided to the federal government, Nova Scotia’s department of public works said information requested by the federal government was submitted in January 2024, and that this was “one of a series of requests we have responded to from [Fisheries and Oceans Canada] over several years.”

But an August letter to Public Works from Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s department of Ecosystem Management (which Porter provided), shows that in January, what the province proposed was to maintain the lake — a proposal that, as the letter noted, the province had already been told would not pass fish (or the Fisheries Act) — and that the information included with the application was ‘incomplete or inadequate.”

In other words, the situation is gridlocked, with the province proposing an option Fisheries and Oceans Canada can’t approve. 

For Porter, these documents raise questions of why Fisheries and Oceans Canada is hesitating to enforce its own legislation, in the meantime. 

In a 2023 internal presentation, a slide describes Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s intention to continue reissuing ministerial orders until the aboiteau is replaced, but the department let the last order expire after the state of emergency was declared in June 2023.

In a statement, Fisheries and Oceans Canada spokesperson Christine Lyons did not directly answer a question about whether the emergency order takes precedence, instead saying questions about the order and its duration should be directed to the province. Gary Andrea, spokesperson for the department of public works, said the state of emergency will be renewed as long as it is needed for public safety. 

Fisheries and Oceans Canada said it’s working proactively with the Nova Scotia department of public works on the proposed aboiteau, and that it remains committed to consultation with the Mi’kmaq. After the emergency order was first issued, the Assembly of Mi’kmaq chiefs sent a letter to the province, stating the lake contravened Mi’kmaq rights and title. (The Assembly of Mi’kmaq chiefs did not respond to a request for an interview.)

The department also said the province has a legal requirement to operate the aboiteau to allow the passage of fish, and that voluntary compliance is the expected and preferred approach. 

To advocates, this looks like the federal department is avoiding a fight in advance of an election. 

“They don’t want to give the province a wedge issue,” Porter says. “So they backed off, and nature suffers, the fish suffer, there’s a whole bunch of things that suffer because of those decisions — and they’re simply political.”

Emergency order remains in place, with no clear path forward for resolution

In September, members of the monitoring team on Lake Pisiquid finish noting the fish they’ve caught in gill nets and minnow traps— one striped bass, a couple of tomcod — and then head back upriver, to turn in for the night.

For now, the situation is at a stalemate. While Porter has a court date in November for his lawsuit against the emergency order, he’s not optimistic that it will bring any change. 

With a municipal election approaching on Oct. 19, current mayor Zebian said the uncertainty around the causeway continues to pit “neighbor against neighbor and family member against family member, and I think unfairly so, for my community.” The project was supposed to be completed in 2022, he notes; two years later, there’s no clear indication of a way forward.

Yet in other contexts, communities have found solutions. 

Three hundred kilometres from the Avon, water flows under a bridge over the tidal Petitcodiac River in New Brunswick. In 2021, the bridge was completed to replace a causeway built in 1968, despite the opposition of some homeowners, and biologists are already reporting greater numbers of fish. 

To the south, Peskotomuhkati Nation was instrumental in removing an aging hydroelectric dam on the St Croix/Skutik River this year, which runs between Maine and New Brunswick, and restoring fish passage. 

By comparison, advocates say the current situation with the Avon River aboiteau is a missed opportunity, where new infrastructure is needed anyway, to fix a problem.

That problem is a system out of balance — and not just on the Avon. For 400 years, people have been building structures to hold back the Bay of Fundy’s tides. Asking people to imagine a different relationship with this system is challenging. Yet in the 21st century, the costs of drawing hard lines across the landscape have become clear, severing ties between animals, people and the environment in which they all live. 

Whether work on the Avon will ever restore those links is far from clear. But for better or for worse in this dynamic, shifting ecosystem, there’s no going back to the past.

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.

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

Get the inside scoop on The Narwhal’s environment and climate reporting by signing up for our free newsletter.

When Sarah Henderson began her doctorate in environmental epidemiology at the University of British Columbia, she planned to study how Canadian oil refineries impact air quality and the implications for human health. 

But in the summer of 2003, the Okanagan Mountain Park fire ripped through Kelowna, forcing 27,000 people to flee their homes. The fire destroyed 239 houses and smothered southern British Columbia in smoke. At the time, there was little research on how wildfire smoke impacts air quality — and how exposure to smoky air affects human health. 

So Henderson, who has a background in environmental engineering, changed the focus of her studies.

She did her PhD thesis on how the 2003 wildfires in B.C.’s southern Interior impacted air quality and has been studying the health effects of wildfire smoke exposure ever since. Today, she’s the scientific director of the BC Centre for Disease Control’s environmental health unit. 

“Even though the risk for any individual is small, because everybody has to breathe the air, those risks really pile up in the population,” Henderson said in an interview with The Narwhal.

Wildfire smoke may increase risks of dementia, heart disease and more

Wildfire smoke has three main ingredients. There are gases, such as carbon dioxide and sulphur dioxide, and volatile organic compounds, like benzene, toluene and butene. There is also particulate matter, which can include soot, dust, pollen and spores, as well as chemical particles. The particles are classified according to size and fine particulates — the really tiny ones, less than 2.5 microns in diameter and typically referred to as PM2.5 — pose the greatest threats to human health because they can travel deeper into the lungs than larger ones.

The more particulates in the air, the hazier it becomes. Extremely poor air quality due to wildfire smoke is hard to ignore, often resulting in new reports and public health warnings to stay indoors and take precautions. 

Research by Henderson and other scientists suggests even moderate levels of wildfire smoke can pose significant health risks, especially for people with chronic lung diseases like asthma or emphysema that make them more vulnerable to negative health impacts. Fine particulates found in smoke and other types of air pollution have been linked to damage in several organ systems, including the heart, brain and reproductive system. 

For example, research released at this year’s Alzheimer’s Association international conference found the risk of developing dementia following exposure to fine particulate matter from wildfire smoke was higher than the risk posed by other sources of air pollution, even when the exposure to wildfire smoke was less intense.

“Exposure to non-wildfire PM2.5 raised the risk of dementia diagnosis, but not as much as wildfire smoke,” the researchers concluded, noting it could also raise the risk of heart disease, asthma and low birth weight.

“There’s no way in which it’s good for you; it’s only bad for you,” Henderson said of wildfire smoke. “It’s not something to panic about, but it is a form of air pollution that can affect your health and the more you reduce your exposure, the more you protect yourself, both in the short term and long term.”

Most air quality advisories in Canada are now the result of wildfires, not other pollution

In 2023, Canada experienced the most destructive wildfire season ever recorded, with about 6,550 fires burning more than 184,900 square kilometres between April and October. The fires prompted evacuations in 200 communities from B.C. to Nova Scotia, including the Northwest Territories capital of Yellowknife, home to 20,000 people. 

On average, Canadians experienced eight days of poor air quality due to the 2023 fires, according to the science journal Nature. Some Canadians spent more than half their summer breathing air heavily contaminated by wildfire smoke. 

Wildfires are now the most common reason for air quality advisories, which are issued when concentrations of particulate matter and hazardous gases rise to levels that can negatively impact human health.

To help Canadians understand the health risks stemming from current air conditions, authorities use the Air Quality Health Index (AQHI), a colour-coded scale of one to 10 (with a plus sign if it’s off the charts), based on concentrations of ozone, particulate matter and nitrogen dioxide — the pollutants found to have the greatest health impacts. 

The higher the health index score, the greater the risk and the more precautions people — especially those with health conditions that make them vulnerable to poor air quality — may need to take to stay safe and comfortable. Avoiding polluted air by staying inside and using air purifiers is the most effective protection but avoiding strenuous outdoor activity and wearing a respirator can also help.

“We really need to build a culture of encouraging people to consider protecting themselves from those smoke exposures whenever smoke is affecting air quality, not just when things are orange and awful,” Henderson told The Narwhal.

Small amounts of wildfire smoke also come with long-term health risks

While it’s reasonable to assume wildfire smoke is bad for your health, pinpointing specific health risks from wildfire smoke exposure and separating them from the impacts of other types of air pollution — such as those from vehicle or industrial emissions — is not easy.

At the University of British Columbia, physician Chris Carlsten is leading an effort to shed light on how wildfire smoke affects human health over the short and long term. His team was recently awarded a federal grant to support its work.

Carlsten said the team is focusing on chronic exposure to any amount of wildfire smoke versus acute exposure to high levels, even though the short-term peaks are “problematic.” 

“There may be more health effects, ultimately, from the more common but lower-concentration exposures,” Carlsten said in an interview. The team will also explore how wildfire smoke affects people differently based on age, sex, genetics, exercise habits and socioeconomic status.

Better data will help improve public health policy and planning when wildfires flare, allowing people to make more informed choices about how to reduce their risk. 

Carlsten said researchers and public health officials have to “walk the line” between ensuring people are adequately informed and “excessive, intimidating and frightening messaging.”

“I think we already have a ton of data — a ton of appropriate and helpful data,” he told The Narwhal. “The bigger gap … is understanding how the population thinks and processes information, what’s important to them and giving them the information [they need].”

Offering people too little information risks failing to communicate the severity of a situation but too much detail can result in people tuning out, panicking or just failing to retain much, according to Cathy Slavik, a postdoctoral fellow at the University of Oregon’s Center for Science Communication Research who studies ways to improve communication about environmental health risks.

“As scientists, we often think that we need to share lots of information; we need to help people understand how we know what we know and what we don’t know,” Slavik said in an interview. “But oftentimes that isn’t actually super helpful for people who just want to know if they’re at risk and what they can do to protect themselves. … It might sound a little bit reductionist, but it’s true that most people will only remember the gist of what you tell them.”

Scientists are testing ways to communicate the message about risks

Figuring out the best way to communicate information about health risks — which often involves complicated and technical information — is challenging.

“We don’t necessarily always know what is the most effective way to communicate a particular kind of risk about a particular kind of hazard,” Slavik said.

Slavik and her colleagues at the centre recently set out to test how effective the U.S. Air Quality Index and Canadian Air Quality Health Index are at communicating the risk of wildfire smoke to parents. 

“One of the really most important aspects of crafting effective communications is testing them and unfortunately, we don’t do enough of that,” she said.

The two indexes broadly communicate the same thing — concentrations of hazardous gases and particulate matter in the air — but the Canadian index was designed to help people better understand health risks stemming from air conditions. It uses a one to 10+ scale while the U.S. index uses a zero to 500+ scale.

Study participants were shown infographics — either linear scales or gauges — representing various levels of air quality compromised by wildfire smoke. Researchers found intense smoke levels sparked similar levels of concern among participants — all of whom were parents — regardless of how the information was presented visually. 

But moderate concentrations of wildfire smoke were a different matter: participants who saw infographics based on the Canadian index reported being more concerned about the impact poor air quality could have on their kids and had stronger intentions to take action to protect them. Their reactions “more closely resembled those parents who had seen the infographics of high levels of smoke,” Slavik said.

The results indicate the Canadian index might be a better tool to help parents better understand that even moderate levels of wildfire smoke exposure can be hazardous to children’s health.

These days, new tools mean anyone can monitor and track air quality 

Advances in technology are making it easier to measure air quality where it affects people most — at home.

Until recently, air quality reports in Canada have been based on data gathered “at a finite number of government-run air quality monitoring stations in Canada using very expensive instrumentation,” Henderson told The Narwhal.

Government monitoring stations equipped with highly accurate $30,000 sensors can be dozens or even hundreds of kilometres away from the communities they were developing advisories for. Meanwhile, low-cost sensors can measure particulate matter concentrations almost as accurately as the government’s monitoring equipment — and at one-tenth the price tag. 

“We now have hundreds of these sensors running in places across Canada, especially in more remote areas, Indigenous communities — places where there were no big, expensive government centres,” Henderson said.

Even communities that are quite close together can be impacted very differently by nearby fires, because of wind and other atmospheric conditions, Peter Jackson, an atmospheric science professor with the University of Northern British Columbia’s geography, earth and environmental sciences department, said in an interview.

Jackson has become the face of a made-in-Canada effort to improve local data about air quality.

In 2023, he led a team of researchers, in partnership with Environment and Climate Change Canada, to launch the AirQuality map, which displays hourly data pulled from both government monitoring stations and hundreds of low-cost sensors installed at peoples’ homes. 

“By putting both kinds of data on the same map, we could evaluate in real time how the low-cost monitors compared with the regulatory monitors,” Jackson said.

The map now includes an overlay that shows where wildfires are burning and predicts where smoke will be blown. Jackson said the hope is to expand the map to cover more of North America and to allow its algorithm to update more quickly to reflect changing conditions.

As Canadian summers get drier and smokier, the air quality map and tools like it can help people prepare for wildfire smoke events, both moderate and intense.

“This is our lives now in British Columbia, and the more we can raise the bar on communicating about air quality and its risks, the better off the whole population is going to be,” Henderson said.

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Manpreet Kaur arrived in British Columbia from India in 2015 with all the knowledge needed to help Canada’s electrical sector transition to renewable energy. She had a bachelor’s degree in engineering and a master’s degree in nanotechnology, a branch of science and engineering that includes creating cells for solar panels.

Such specialized expertise is at the heart of Canada’s ambitious renewable energy goals, a core part of the planned transition to a net-zero economy. But Kaur’s degrees aren’t from a Canadian school: she studied at India’s Amity University and National Tsing Hua University in Taiwan. Even after earning a PhD in mechatronic systems engineering from Vancouver’s Simon Fraser University in 2019, Kaur faced significant hurdles to work as an engineer in Canada. 

After completing her PhD, Kaur had to earn her professional engineering licence. This meant a huge amount of paperwork, which Kaur calls one of the most onerous yet least appreciated requirements for skilled immigrants in her field. It requires providing not just course descriptions or degree certificates from institutions overseas, but signatures from instructors continents away, sometimes years after study.

“You really have to look back in time and think about the examples where you have met those competencies. The process of initiating the application to submitting and getting the approval takes almost a year,” Kaur said. 

Today, as an engineering professor at Simon Fraser’s school of sustainable energy engineering, Kaur said she “can see the demand in the industry” as she tries to find her students co-op placements. But despite this need, the hassles immigrant engineers must go through to obtain Canadian licensing mean the sector “prefers a candidate who has Canadian experience.”   

The federal government has promised to double clean electricity generation by 2028, both to serve Canada’s growing energy needs and to meet internationally ambitious, legally binding commitments to renewable energy. To meet these targets, Canada will require 28,000 additional electricity workers by 2028, according to Mark Chapeskie, vice-president of program development at Electricity Human Resources Canada. The non-profit organization supports the human resources needs of the Canadian electricity and renewable energy sector. It has found that by 2050, Canada’s growing solar and wind electricity sector will need to fill 130,000 jobs, in part because renewable power is more labour intensive than traditional hydro or coal-fired electrical generation. 

But qualified workers in the sector are already scarce, with retirements and demand outpacing the capacity of Canada’s economy. Between 2003 and 2023, the number of workers in electric power generation, transmission and distribution grew by only about 20,000 people, according to Statistics Canada. Kaur, Chapeskie and others say that, as with so many other fields, the length of time it takes for skilled immigrants to qualify to work here is a big part of the problem — and the issue will only get worse as the demand for green skills grows. 

“The reality is that immigration is an integral component for Canada to be able to meet its labour workforce needs,” Michelle Branigan, CEO of Electricity Human Resources Canada, told The Narwhal. 

Medical practice differs between countries but in engineering ‘the science is really the same’

The fundamental qualification for Canada’s electrical energy sector — the professional engineer’s licence, or P.Eng — creates one significant set of hurdles. No one wants to get rid of it, since it ensures engineers in Canada have fulfilled considerable health and safety training requirements. “We need people to meet a certain standard of performance and capability in order to perform in those roles,” Chapeskie said. 

The problem, he said, is that the licence and its safety standards are administered at the provincial level, instead of federally.

“If you were to emigrate to another country for a regulated occupation, the first thing you would probably ask is, ‘What’s the national organization or body to get my credentials recognized?’” Chapeskie said. In the United Kingdom, for instance, two organizations — the National Inspection Council for Electrical Installation and Contracting and the National Association of Professional Inspectors and Testers — issue certifications recognized throughout England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. 

In Canada, “We sometimes see labour market barriers for folks wanting to work from one province to the other, let alone international workers coming in,” Chapeskie said. Whether workers are born in Canada or abroad, transferring an apprentice engineering qualification between provinces can take as long as four years, he said.

“We don’t have good and consistent prior learning recognition in Canada,” Chapeskie said. “It’s hard for an immigrant coming in to identify ‘Where do I best fit?’ without having to go back to school to start all over. Four years is a long time to start over, especially if you’ve already been practising in your trade overseas.”

And as the process rolls along, Branigan, too, finds the bureaucracy excessive. “The paperwork — its time and effort — is so overwhelming that [skilled immigrants] feel that they don’t have the time to deal with it,” Branigan said. “It’s one of the biggest barriers I see for employers who may be interested in trying to support newcomers.” 

Mehran Ahmadi is also a professor at Simon Fraser University’s school of sustainable energy engineering. He earned his master of mechanical engineering at Iran’s Tehran Polytechnic before arriving in Canada in 2014 for a PhD fellowship, which included a brief placement with the B.C. engineering consultant firm Stirling Cooper. 

Without that placement, Ahmadi said, his journey to find work in the Canadian electricity sector “would have been hugely different” and “very challenging.” Networking is “the most crucial part of finding a good job, being an immigrant,” Ahmadi said. Even a short stint at a Canadian company means “you will see way more opportunities,” as well as gain a better understanding of how work experience abroad applies here. 

Electrical engineering is universal enough that qualifying in another country, let alone another province, should be relatively easy, Ahmadi said. 

“Medical sciences have different practices in different countries. But in engineering … the science is really the same,” he said. The fundamentals of a Canadian bachelor’s degree in engineering are entirely the same as his curriculum in Iran, he said, aside from lessons on Canadian engineering law.

No province ‘any better than any other’ in helping newcomer engineers enter Canadian job market

By the time Kaur’s training and paperwork were done, she had found it far easier to obtain work as a professor than in Canada’s electrical engineering sector. 

That sentiment was echoed by respondents to another 2023 Electricity Human Resources Canada report examining newcomer perspectives on working in Canada. Nearly 60 per cent of respondents found the electrical sector hard to get into, while 46 per cent said they had difficulty obtaining Canadian credentials. 

Networking came up, too: 36 per cent of the 500 newcomer respondents said not knowing others in the industry was a hurdle. A quarter felt they were disqualified because of their language skills, while 20 per cent said racism and discrimination kept them from entering the field. 

“I’m not blaming Canada or the Canadian system,” Ahamdi, who has heard anecdotes that support the report’s statistics from students and peers, said. “But there are these unconscious biases that we live with.” 

Branigan said Canada’s electrical engineering sector is taking steps to address non-governmental issues. She said one large engineering company told her it was increasingly relying on technology and pictures to address language barriers for newcomer employees.

Others are piloting engineer “training programs” to hasten their employees’ acquisition of the engineering licence. They see internationally accredited engineers working under a direct supervisor to earn the Canadian experience required. “They’re doing engineering work, but they can’t sign off on any of the designs without having somebody who’s got their certification,” Chapeskie said. 

As of July, B.C.’s International Credentials Recognition Act requires 18 regulatory bodies to remove barriers from dozens of trades professions under the guidance of a provincially appointed superintendent. “Skilled professionals from around the world move to B.C. hoping to put their skills to good use, but instead face huge obstacles and an often-confusing process to get their credentials recognized,” Premier David Eby acknowledged in a press release. 

Ontario, for its part, is experimenting with methods to improve the province’s registration and retention of tradespeople. Last year, Queen’s Park introduced a program meant to streamline recognition of interprovincial qualifications. But when it comes to easing the transition of skilled newcomers into the Canadian job market, Chapeskie said no province is “doing any better than any other.” 

In rural regions or less populous provinces that have fewer immigrant services, “it can be very challenging,” Chapeskie said. The solutions being pioneered by private companies demonstrate the need for better electrical engineering skills recognition standards at the federal level, he said.  

The addition of skilled immigrants, such as Kaur and Ahmadi, to the country’s electrical energy sector is a global advantage Canada shouldn’t take for granted, Chapeskie said. Immigration has allowed Canada’s population to grow faster than its G7 peers in recent years. 

“Most of those [G7] populations are actually going to head into a decline. Unless you can figure out how to boost the productivity of your population, [other G7 countries] are actually looking at some significant social challenges in the future,” Chapeskie said. 

“Canada is uniquely positioned in that our population continues to grow. We have a competitive advantage internationally. Unless we sort out our internal challenges around integrating internationally trained workers, we could lose that.”  

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Deep in northwestern Ontario is a collection of 58 small, pristine lakes where, for the past half century, scientists worried about water have gathered to take their laboratory outside. This is the world’s largest outdoor experimental freshwater research facility, allowing scientists to develop invaluable long-term data about the effects of pollutants, clean-up processes and climate change on a finite resource.

Known as the International Institute for Sustainable Development Experimental Lakes Area, the 27,000-hectare area is covered in thousands of little lakes set in bedrock and bordered by thick spruce and pine forests. It’s in Treaty 3 territory, and visitors who aren’t from an Indigenous community require a permit to use the lone gravel road that leads up to the water bodies. Together, the experimental lakes tell a story of the challenges facing Canada’s fresh water and provide a glimpse into what solutions might be possible. 

They’re also of global importance: every year, data requests pour in from academics from around the world, making the experimental lakes a crucial research connection between bacterial pathogens in Spain to algae blooms in western Ontario and beyond. 

“When an oil spill happens, when a pipeline ruptures, it happens in an area that likely hasn’t been well studied — the system isn’t well understood,” institute biologist Lauren Timlick said. “They go in and they clean it up as best they can, but how can they be positive that they’re bringing it back to normal if they don’t know what normal was to begin with?”

“There could be an entire species that is extirpated” — or locally extinct — “that they didn’t know was there,” Timlick, who focuses on ecotoxicology, said. “So our studies rely on this long-term dataset — this 50-plus years of data that we have for our climate change and ecological monitoring.”

The research facility first opened in 1968 because algae blooms were choking out oxygen and killing fish in Lake Erie. The cause was poorly understood, especially since multiple pollutants running to the lake from farms, cities and industrial zones made it difficult to pinpoint which one was responsible for triggering the blooms. 

Believing that whole-lake experiments might uncover the root issue, scientists came across this spot about two hours’ drive from Kenora, Ont.

And so, the naturally occurring lakes became experimental, as the scientists added different nutrients to different lakes to figure out what conditions led to strong algal growth. The result was the identification of high phosphorus inputs as a key factor driving algae blooms — and an iconic photograph that showed Lake 226, as it was dubbed, covered in a blanket of bright green algae from phosphorus.

The image convinced policymakers that phosphorus should be controlled, with the Canadian and U.S. governments passing legislation to ban phosphates in detergents in the 1970s.

“It’s one of the most famous limnological experiments in the world,” said researcher Scott Higgins of the Lake 226 project, referring to the study of inland water bodies. He added that the image is still used in textbooks around the world.

The Lake 226 project cascaded into research covering issues from phytoplankton to whitefish populations, underlining the value of real-world experiments and sparking an appetite for science-based policy. But after many successful, productive decades, the value of such rigorous study came into question. In 2014, the experimental lakes area was at risk of closing when the Stephen Harper government threatened to cut its funding. Although outrage from the scientific community and the public saved the project, it took a year for the government to agree to transfer the facilities to the International Institute of Sustainable Development. 

A think-tank based in Winnipeg with offices in Ontario and Geneva, the institute has more than 250 full-time staff worldwide, focused on five different program areas. About 40 are based at the experimental lakes area, supported by a mixture of government funding, research grants, non-profit funds and individual donors. 

Since its adoption by the International Institute for Sustainable Development, the experimental lakes project has put greater emphasis on public education and collaboration. With the support of Indigenous co-ordinator Dilber Yunis, it has begun partnerships with Grand Council Treaty #3  and nearby Sagkeeng First Nation and Eagle Lake First Nation, including monitoring projects and research into wild rice cultivation. Another initiative translates environmental information into the Ojibwe language, also known as Anishinaabemowin: Yunis helped translate “carbon dioxide” as “mitigoo-inanaamowin,” which means “(the air that) the trees breathe.” It’s a translation that shifts thinking away from a singular chemical compound towards an ecosystem level, based on relationships between beings.

Laura Horton, whose Anishinaabe name is Gini’w’ikwe, is a Dene Anishinaabe Elder from Rainy River First Nations, born and raised in Treaty 3 territory. A retired teacher, she first got to know the experimental lakes area by leading water offering ceremonies on site with the women’s council of Grand Council Treaty #3.

At the time, the women’s council was working on a collective sacred Nibi Declaration — nibi being the word for water in Anishinaabemowin — meant to formally record Anishinaabe water law and guide the Grand Council as it made decisions that could affect water.

“My work is primarily in the spiritual nature, lifting water and talking about how we make offerings to the water — what we do, why we do it, who she is, what her name is, some of the teachings about where she comes from and how it is we’re supposed to take care of her — and what a poor job we’re doing,” Horton said.

“If we didn’t have the water, we would not have life. Just the same as if there was no sun, and those two come together in balance. She’s sacred,” she said. “It isn’t the land that connects us. It’s the water that connects us and surrounds us and holds us in beauty.” 

The challenges and solutions in water

Horton recalls a drummer at a water ceremony circle sharing stories of fishing with his grandparents — back then, they could dip their cups and drink right from local lakes and rivers. That’s no longer possible because of pollutants from paper and pulp mills. “All of a sudden, you get a newsletter saying that we’re on a water advisory alert. And two years go by, and we’re still drinking water delivered to our door,” Horton said.

She believes the amounts of pollutants introduced at the experimental lakes area are “microscopic” compared to the level of industrial pollution in the lakes near her home, and that the research is part of a greater search for solutions to clean and protect fresh water.

“The changes are happening fast, within our lifetime … The waters are so sick because of human behaviours. We need to act to make amends and do better. Working together, spiritually, mentally, physically, socially and emotionally is a step in the right direction,” she said.

The sicknesses threatening fresh water are many. Recent experiments at the lakes include testing the impacts of acid rain, coal-fired power plant mercury and pharmaceuticals including birth control and anti-depressant pills. Other projects have focused on better understanding oil spills, microplastics and — particularly after the germophobia sparked by COVID-19 — disinfectant compounds from cleaning products. 

“A lot of times in science, we try to simplify things and ask questions in a beaker in a lab — which is very valuable and it provides a lot of information, but there’s always that question of what happens in the real world when everything is working together … All the pieces, all the elements, all the living organisms working together,” institute researcher Jose Luis Rodriguez Gil said.

“What happens with those interactions? And the only way to actually know about that is to actually look at the real world and have those interactions happen,” Rodriguez Gil said. “The little set-ups that we deploy in the lakes allows us to ask exactly that.”

In the first year of a project, a pilot study uses land-based microcosms — which resemble large bathtubs on land — to better understand how contaminants behave when introduced to fresh water. In the second stage, large enclosures are placed in a lake to observe how the contaminants may react in a real-world setting. Last comes a lake-level dosing of the contaminant, in order to get the big picture.

To protect the long-term health of the water, research proposals must include a contingency plan and a long-term monitoring plan to return the lake to its natural state. Experiments are simulations, not replications, of the real world: since contaminants are typically introduced to the lakes in small amounts, remediation for most projects can be achieved naturally by stopping the addition of new chemicals or manipulations. 

Oil spill experiments are different: rather than dosing an entire lake, researchers carefully contain how oil is released into studied areas, both by limiting the amount of oil and isolating it from the rest of the lake. Absorbent booms are installed around the isolated areas and at the lake outflow to protect against leakages. Leftover oil is removed once the study is completed.

Long-term data shows how climate change is affecting fresh water

Another strength of Ontario’s experimental lakes area is researchers’ ability to capture accurate data across long stretches of time — which could be particularly helpful in illuminating the effects of climate change as it unfolds across decades, even as its impacts become more immediate.

One team is tasked with collecting information such as number of fish, water quality and ice thickness on a weekly basis from lakes that remain unmanipulated. The most dramatic change they’ve noted is ice loss: ice is forming later and thinner than in the past, and lasts for shorter periods during the winter than it used to. 

As the effects of changes such as algal growth and ice loss compound, some species of fish may be impacted, such as lake trout, which require cold temperatures and highly oxygenated water to survive. For northern communities that often use ice roads for essential transportation and supplies, their way of living through the winter may be transformed permanently.

“One of the main things that we do out here, that impacts all of Canada, is research into climate change as a northern country. We’re going to be on the receiving end of some of the most extreme swings of climate change, so having a dataset that’s over 50 years long, that can really help us understand how those trends are moving and hopefully present that information to policymakers,” Timlick said.

This year’s federal budget saw Prime Minister Justin Trudeau repeat his pledge to establish the Canada Water Agency in Winnipeg, meant to be a collaborative “federal focal point for freshwater,” from the Great Lakes to the Mackenzie River in the Northwest Territories. It’s one sign of Canadians’ growing awareness that safeguarding our freshwater ecosystems is critical to the future of wildlife and habitat, as well as communities that depend on freshwater ecosystems. In a country that has access to upwards of 20 per cent of the world’s surface fresh water, that means all of us. 

Though few details about the agency have been released yet, its creation gives Elder Horton hope. In October, she attended a fall feast with experimental lakes area researchers, and said conversations there lead her to think that Treaty 3’s Nibi Declaration and water ceremonies have reframed how others think about water, leading them to a lens of respect and care.

She’s excited for shared knowledge and connections to bloom into more partnerships, with young people from the Treaty 3 communities becoming scientists themselves, harmonizing their teachings with Western research and finding more holistic answers to protect water — an issue that connects us all.

“[It’s about] always ending with: what else can we do to build relationships? What are the truths that we have about the water in our area and how can we reconcile the pollution, the injustices of the water and make sure that we’re paying attention to it?” she said. 

Updated on Nov. 10, 2023, at 9:14 a.m. ET: This story has been updated to correct which lake was in an iconic photo of experiments into the causes of algae. It is Lake 226, not Lake 227. Updated on Nov. 20, 2023, at 1:40 p.m. ET: This story has been updated to correct the name of the International Institute for Sustainable Development Experimental Lakes Area and to add the word “extirpated,” which had been misheard as “excavated” in a quote.

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Twenty-five years ago, after the collapse of the Atlantic cod fishery, Jeffrey Hutchings, a preeminent fisheries scientist and professor at Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia, sounded the alarm that Canada’s federal fisheries department was allowing “nonscience influences” in critical decision-making. Writing at the time, he said, “There is a clear and immediate need for Canadians to examine very seriously the role of bureaucrats and politicians in the management of Canada’s natural resources.”

Today, a new crop of researchers is once again imploring Fisheries and Oceans Canada (DFO) to change its ways. At the core of their concerns is a number of systemic and structural ways in which Fisheries and Oceans Canada gathers, parses, and handles scientific information, and how that advice is passed on to decision-makers.

“DFO has a legal duty to protect and conserve fish for Canada,” says Gideon Mordecai, a researcher at the University of British Columbia who specializes in fish viruses. “We’re saying that legal duty is not being met.”

In a new paper, Mordecai and his colleagues lay out their critiques of how Fisheries and Oceans Canada handles—or mishandles—scientific advice.

One of their prime criticisms is aimed at the Canadian Science Advisory Secretariat, which coordinates scientific peer review and science advice for Fisheries and Oceans Canada, including on fish stocks, marine ecology, and aquaculture. The problem, according to Mordecai and his colleagues, is that industry representatives sit on the secretariat and participate in debates on science advice to government. The fear, the paper states, is that “vested interests can manipulate the science policy process,” including “by seeding doubt about scientific consensus.”

The researchers are clear that science should not be the only consideration in fisheries management. “We understand that someone like the fisheries minister has a really difficult job,” Mordecai says. “But our thesis is that the science that leads into that process needs to be unfettered,” adding, “there’s always going to be a need for some involvement from industry with their data, with their knowledge, but it’s that vote at the table we take issue with.”

Researchers call for new, independent science advisory body

To highlight long-standing concerns that the federal government is failing to ensure it is making decisions with scientific “quality, integrity, and objectivity” free of political influence, the scientists put special focus on British Columbia’s highly controversial salmon aquaculture industry.

In particular, they highlight Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s long-criticized dual mandate. The department is tasked with both protecting wild salmon and promoting salmon farming. In British Columbia, where the presence of open-net-pen salmon aquaculture is associated with the spread of disease and pests, these two mandates can butt heads.

Mordecai and his colleagues’ concerns have a precedent: in 2012, a federal inquiry report recommended Fisheries and Oceans Canada focus on meeting its “paramount regulatory objective to conserve wild fish” and no longer promote “salmon farming as an industry and farmed salmon as a product.”

Similarly, a 2018 report by the Office of the Auditor General of Canada said Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s “commitment to advancing aquaculture” raises questions about precautionary fisheries management and how much risk the government deems acceptable to wild stocks. The litany of concerns continues. Mordecai and his coauthors also critique the aquaculture industry’s funding of federal salmon aquaculture research, which they argue can lead to biased results. “The research within DFO that is funded or coauthored by the salmon farming industry has often painted the activities of the industry in a positive light or as posing low risk,” the scientists write.

That Fisheries and Oceans Canada senior aquaculture officials and other staff routinely switch jobs back and forth with the salmon farming industry—the researchers describe it as a “revolving door”—“raises obvious questions about the impartiality of DFO employees charged with regulating an industry in order to safeguard wild fish populations,” they write.

Mordecai and his colleagues have recommendations they think could help resolve the problem.

Creating a new advisory body—a “politically independent organization of fisheries scientists” with a strict conflict of interest policy—would help, they say, in offering impartial, evidence-based, transparent, and independently reviewed scientific advice.

As a model, Mordecai points to the Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada, a body chaired by the late Hutchings from 2006 to 2010. This independent science group advises government on the conservation status of wild species. While its recommendations are not always adopted by the federal government, Mordecai says the presented science is at least sound and defensible.

Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s scientific processes have faced longstanding concerns

Not everyone agrees Fisheries and Oceans Canada should be keeping industry experts at arm’s length, however. That’s the stance taken by Brian Riddell, a science adviser with the Pacific Salmon Foundation — a British Columbia–based nonprofit focused on protecting and restoring wild Pacific salmon.

Riddell spent 30 years working in fisheries science at Fisheries and Oceans Canada, including in salmon aquaculture. He was not involved in Mordecai’s paper, but the Pacific Salmon Foundation currently employs or funds three of the paper’s five authors.

Barring industry participation in Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s scientific processes, Riddell says, “would continually call into question the balance and objectivity of a council that excluded that perspective.” If industry scientists commit to accepted scientific research procedures, they should be allowed to sit on an advisory board, he says.

Riddell also opposes Fisheries and Oceans Canada separating its dual mandate, though he does have some stern advice for the agency’s current employees. With aquaculture one of the many pressures on wild salmon, he says it’s something the government must address. (The Canadian federal government already has plans to end open-net-pen salmon farming in British Columbia by 2025.)

Other experts who were not involved in the paper support Mordecai and his colleagues’ assertions that Fisheries and Oceans Canada has structural problems, though they’re skeptical of the government’s determination to take strong action.

The paper’s authors “are spot on,” says Marvin Rosenau, a former provincial fish biologist and instructor at the British Columbia Institute of Technology who has offered expert fish testimony for and against Fisheries and Oceans Canada over the years in court cases ranging from gravel extraction to dam water releases.

“We need these independent reviewers, independent mechanisms to force the agencies to do the right thing,” he says.

Asked for comment, Brenda McCorquodale, Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s senior director of the aquaculture management division, referred questions to the department’s media relations office. In an emailed statement, the office says that “the department continuously reviews its peer review processes to ensure objective, impartial, and evidence-based science advice. This includes reviewing the recommendations in this study.”

The Canadian Science Advisory Secretariat involves “expert review and critical evaluation” of scientific information, and hears from a range of experts both from within and outside the government, the statement says, noting as well that Fisheries and Oceans Canada continues to “reinforce transparent, impartial, and evidence-based peer review and scientific advice for decision-makers.” To this end, in June, the department launched the Registry for External Science Experts, inviting authorities in relevant fields who do not work in government to participate in the review process.

“Debate among researchers is a normal and healthy part of the development of scientific knowledge and helps contribute to better research outcomes,” the statement says. In conclusion, Fisheries and Oceans Canada “continues to stand behind its science.”

Still, pressure is mounting to bring major changes to Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s foundations, including from politicians.

In March 2023, the House of Commons Standing Committee on Fisheries and Oceans made 48 recommendations related to Fisheries and Oceans Canada’s handling of science, including requests for the department to engage in “robust peer-reviewed, non-biased science”; for all Fisheries and Oceans Canada research and data to be publicly available; and for an investigation into the extent to which management is influencing the work of departmental scientists.

It all harkens back to Hutchings and his coauthors. In 1997, they wrote that a body of independent fisheries scientists operating outside of Fisheries and Oceans Canada represented a “timely idea that merits immediate, serious, and open debate.”

A quarter century later, researchers are still waiting.

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