The Tahltan Central Government is evicting Doubleview Gold Corp. from its territory after the mineral exploration company refused to respect Tahltan laws and policies. Last week, the government issued the company a notice of opposition and said it will do whatever is necessary to make sure the company leaves the territory. 

“They’ve been the most ignorant, tone deaf, disrespectful operators in any industry that I’ve ever come across in Tahltan territory,” Tahltan Central Government President Chad Norman Day said in an interview.

The Tahltan Nation in northwest B.C. is generally supportive of mining activity and is known for its collaborative approach to working with industry. The nation has partnered with several mining companies over the years and many of its members make a living working in mines on the territory and elsewhere in the province. 

But Vancouver-based Doubleview would not agree to the Tahltan Nation’s protocols.

The central government created an engagement framework, which ensures that mining activity on its territory is done in accordance with Tahltan law. The framework requires companies to meaningfully consult with the nation and respect its Rights and Title, which includes the right to declare areas off-limits to resource development. The framework also outlines communications protocols and policies on a collaborative decision-making process. More than 30 companies have signed onto the framework, but Day said Doubleview refused to do so.

“We want them out of the territory,” he said. “We’re setting an example of this company.”

Doubleview plans ‘aggressive’ exploration program in important hunting area

Doubleview has been test drilling intermittently for years in a region known to the Tahltan as Sheslay, about 50 kilometres north of Telegraph Creek. The Sheslay River is a tributary of the Taku River, which meets the Pacific Ocean near Juneau, Alaska. Historically, the area was a meeting place for trade between the Tahltan and Tlingit and there are old village sites and burial sites on the land. Some Elders were born and raised in Sheslay. 

The region’s mountains and river valley are home to caribou, moose, wolves, bears, salmon and other wildlife. This congregation of animals so close to the community means Sheslay is an important subsistence hunting area for the Tahltan Nation — but it’s also a potential source of gold, copper and cobalt.

On the mining company’s books, Sheslay is known as the Hat Property and is made up of 10 mineral tenures on 6,308 hectares. The province granted the company permits to drill at 45 sites, valid until 2025. 

Sheslay was a traditional meeting place for trade between the Tahltan and Tlingit and there are still remnants of old village sites, such as this cabin. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Doubleview Gold Corp. has been drilling near the Tahltan Sheslay settlement, which includes a traditional burial ground. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Sheslay’s mountains and river valley are home to caribou, moose, wolves, bears, salmon and other wildlife. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Gavin Smith, a lawyer with West Coast Environmental Law, told The Narwhal that B.C.’s Mineral Tenure Act does not consider Indigenous Rights and Title and allows any individual or company to purchase a tenure without consultation or consent. And when a conflict like this comes up, the province has few tools to address the situation except for buying back the tenures based on the price they would fetch on the free market.

He said reforming B.C.’s mining laws is essential as the province works on implementing the principles of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, which it adopted into legislation in 2019. 

“The whole regime is really problematic from start to finish in terms of setting the stage for the kinds of conflicts that I think we often see,” he said in an interview. “It is hard to imagine an act that is further from implementing UNDRIP than the Mineral Tenure Act.”

He said the legislation has to be changed to prevent situations like this from happening again.

“What we need is legislation that recognizes the role of nations making decisions up front, before a claim is granted, before this ball starts rolling down the hill and everyone has to chase after it.”

The Sheslay River is a tributary of the Taku River, which meets the Pacific Ocean near Juneau, Alaska, and is an important spawning ground for wild salmon. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

The Ministry of Energy, Mines and Low Carbon Innovation declined an interview request and said it supports mining projects that develop strong relationships with First Nations.  

Doubleview did not respond to requests for comment but according to the company’s website, it is planning “an aggressive 2021 exploration program.” 

Day said that’s not going to happen.

“If the company makes efforts to go out there and work the property, then there may be conflicts on the ground.”

Read more: Groups call on B.C. to fund Indigenous monitoring of mines in traditional territories

Mineral exploration company drilled without conducting required archaeological work

Conflict between the Tahltan Nation and Doubleview dates back to 2011, when the company announced its plans to conduct exploratory work in Sheslay. The Tahltan Nation voiced opposition, arguing the area was historically and culturally important. The nation also said that given the area’s history, an archaeological assessment was needed.  

The company eventually agreed to conduct preliminary archaeological studies in 2014 and discovered obsidian artifact fragments under its camp and identified areas where similar artifacts would likely be found. As a result of these findings, the province added a condition to the company’s drilling permit that required it to conduct an archaeological impact assessment before doing any more mineral exploration.   

Tahltan Central Government President Chad Norman Day says his nation has long opposed Doubleview Gold Corp.’s work in Sheslay, which is an important area for subsistence hunting. Photo: Adam Amir / Tahltan Central Government

But in 2015, the company started drilling again without doing so, contracting a local company mostly staffed by Tahltan community members to do the work. Concerned about the potential impacts, four Elders, accompanied by Day and Heather Hawkins, former vice-president of the central government, went out to the mining camp. 

The Elders asked to speak with the workers and told them the Tahltan people did not support mining in that area, explaining that Sheslay is a sacred place. Day asked them to stop drilling. Two days later, the employees agreed to respect the Elders’ wishes and left the site.

In response, Doubleview president and CEO Farshad Shirvani called the RCMP, described the meeting as a blockade and took the Elders and government leaders to court, seeking an injunction against them.

“What kind of mineral exploration company in Tahltan territory sues Tahltan leaders and Elders who were born in the area that they’re drilling in and making a mess of?” Day said.

The B.C. Supreme Court dismissed the case in 2016, but Doubleview never left the territory. Day said the Tahltan Central Government made repeated attempts to negotiate with the company, offering the same terms of engagement it provides other mining companies, in hopes of establishing a positive working relationship. 

Day said Doubleview’s plans to ramp up its exploratory work while refusing to meaningfully engage with the nation was the “straw that broke the camel’s back.” 

“We’re willing to be good partners, but we’re also willing to dig our heels in when people are disrespectful and want to test us,” he said.

With consultation and consent, mining companies can work on Tahltan territory

There are three operating mines and more than 70 active mineral exploration claims on Tahltan territory, according to the nation’s 2020 industry review. One of the active mines is Red Chris, about 20 kilometres from Iskut, a Tahltan community just south of the Stikine River. Formerly operated by Imperial Metals, the mine is now owned and run by Newcrest, an Australian mining company. The company acquired the mine in 2019, agreed to the Tahltan engagement framework and has been working closely with Tahltans since. 

Janine Bedford, superintendent of community relations for the mine, told The Narwhal in an email that Red Chris employs around 220 Tahltans and has an agreement with the nation to give priority to Tahltan job applicants.

Newcrest, owner of the Red Chris mine, works closely with the Tahltan Nation to ensure the community benefits from the project, whether through jobs or investments in health care and community development. The mine’s tailings pond facility is shown here. Photo: Garth Lenz / The Narwhal

She said the company also provides Tahltan communities with resources, including an advanced care paramedic, medivac support, medical and cleaning supplies, groceries and funding for cultural programs.

But while the Tahltan Nation will work with companies like Newcrest, there are places on the territory that are off-limits and activities the nation will not allow. The nation adamantly opposed industrial activity in the Sacred Headwaters, the source of the Stikine, Nass and Skeena rivers, successfully protecting the area from a proposed coalbed methane project in 2012 and from all industrial development in 2019. And, as The Narwhal previously reported, the Tahltan Central Government recently served a number of eviction notices to jade placer miners operating without consent on the territory.  

The Tahltan plan to protect one million hectares of territory, including Sheslay

As the nation continues to enforce its rules on the territory, it is also working on plans to permanently protect Sheslay. In 2019, the federal government committed $3.9 million through the Canada Nature Fund to support the nation’s land use plans, which include setting up Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas on the territory. Tahltan stewardship planning identified three areas the nation would focus on: Klappan, Ice Mountain (Mount Edziza) and Sheslay. In total, the proposed protection would span over one million hectares.  

The volcanic landscape surrounding Ice Mountain (Mount Edziza) is a source of obsidian, which the Tahltan traded with other nations around the province. Tahltan obsidian has been discovered as far away as the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in Alberta. Photo: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Arctic cotton tufts grow in Mount Edziza Provincial Park, which protects around 230,000 hectares of Tahltan territory in northwest B.C. Photo: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

The Tahltan Nation is hoping to establish Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas in several areas including Sheslay and Ice Mountain (Mount Edziza), shown here, part of which is already protected as a provincial park. Photo: Matt Simmons

The stewardship and land use planning is ongoing and Sheslay remains unprotected under provincial law. Day said he will be speaking with the province about what happens next with the conflict between the Tahltan Nation and Doubleview. 

“It’s going to be on the province to deal with us and to deal with the company to come up with some kind of a resolution,” Day said, adding that the nation has a good working relationship with the province and he expects they will be able to come to an agreement.

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After years of fighting to protect the Sacred Headwaters, the birthplace of the Stikine, Nass and Skeena rivers in northwest B.C., members of the Tahltan Nation gathered on the land to prepare for a meeting with mining company executives. The nation had just passed a unanimous resolution to protect the area from developments like a proposed open-pit coal mine that, if built, could cause irreparable damage to the watershed. Elders, matriarchs and community members were sitting around a fire, cooking moose meat and bannock, and planning what to say to the company. It was a serious conversation, but everyone cherished the opportunity to be together on the land.  

“We were laughing and we were sharing and it just felt really good to be with everybody, to be with our people,” recalls Annita McPhee, who was president of the Tahltan Central Government at the time. “It reminded me, this is what’s important, this is what I want to keep doing, what I want our people to keep doing.”

She paused, remembering, and laughed as she added, “I really love eating moose meat.”

The proposed coal mine wasn’t the first threat to the Sacred Headwaters, also known as Klabona. The Tahltan Nation fought for nearly a decade to prevent Shell Canada from developing a 4,000-square-kilometre coalbed methane project, achieving success in 2012 when B.C. announced a permanent ban on oil and gas exploration on the territory. McPhee credits unity to the success of the Tahltan movement to protect Klabona from industrial development and said alliances between First Nations and conservation groups are key to ensuring Indigenous-led protection of land, water and wildlife.

McPhee, who has a degree in law and social work, served three terms as president of the Tahltan Central Government, earning several accolades for conservation and community work.  

Last December, she became executive director of the B.C. chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society. She is the first Indigenous executive director of a chapter of the 58-year-old charity. 

The Narwhal spoke with McPhee about her new role and the importance of Indigenous leadership in conservation. 

McPhee and her fellow members of the Tahltan Nation fought for years to protected the Sacred Headwaters, shown here, from industrial development. Photo: Brian Huntington

How has your childhood and your connection with Tahltan territory and culture informed your work in conservation?

When my dad would go hunting and come back with a moose, my dad would say, “We don’t waste any of this. We will make sure we use everything on the moose. We use the hide to make clothes, we eat the meat.” 

A lot of people would throw away the moose organs — we don’t waste that either, we eat them. That’s the way that we’ve been taught, that we don’t waste anything. 

My dad always told me how important the land was to Tahltan people, and he taught me about Aboriginal Rights and Title at a very young age. He told me about how we are fighting for our land and how it’s always been our land. 

What does it mean to you to be the first Indigenous person to lead a Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society chapter?

I don’t take this position lightly. I really hope to be a bridge, a connection between environmental groups and the government and Indigenous people.

As Indigenous people, we’ve been protecting land and animals since time immemorial. We’ve been stewards of the land since time immemorial.

McPhee drums by the X̱wemelch’stn (Capilano River) in North Vancouver. Photo: Alana Paterson / The Narwhal

McPhee holds a drum that was given to her to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Tahltan Nation informing the government that their territory was unceded. Photo: Alana Paterson / The Narwhal

McPhee says alliances between First Nations and conservation groups are key to ensuring Indigenous-led protection of land, water and wildlife. Photo: Alana Paterson / The Narwhal

I’m really excited about this opportunity. I work with beautiful people who truly care about conservation — they care about the animals, they care about the ocean, they care about the land. I wanted to be here because I felt like their values align with [the values of] Indigenous people. I think through that alignment, in that collaboration, we’re going to be successful in protecting areas for generations to come. I honestly believe that.

For me, as an Indigenous woman leading a major environmental organization, I really hope to bring those voices out … that wouldn’t have been heard before.

We have to be more proactive in protecting our land and animals and I feel like I’m in an organization that helps to do that. It’s refreshing.

Why is Indigenous leadership important for finding solutions to protect land and wildlife?

Our people, we know what we want to see. We know all of the sacred places on our land. Our Elders, they know where we pick berries, they know where places are really important for fishing camps. There’s places that we know that other people couldn’t know about, or know why [they’re] important to us. 

Indigenous people are best suited to protect the land, or to know how to protect the land, because they’ve been living on this land, protecting this land, for thousands of years. That intimate knowledge is so valuable. 

The conservation movement has been criticized as a new colonial frontier. Conservation, from a settler perspective, is often seen as preserving “wilderness” and keeping out all human influence. But that  ignores the Indigenous worldview, which is that humans are part of the ecosystem. Can you speak to this tension and how you’re working to address that in your new role?

I think there is a narrative around conservation being colonialist, but I don’t believe that all conservation movements are like that. It’s true that sometimes conservation used to [be] a movement where protected areas would be [places] where nobody could utilize them. 

But I feel hopeful and positive because that’s changing. And it’s going to change more over time. Before you couldn’t utilize it, now you’re able to hunt and fish in that area and at the same time keep industrial development out. 

And I think there’s a genuine interest in working with Indigenous people and collaborating on Indigenous-led conservation. We all truly need to work together. We are in a deep biodiversity crisis, we’re in a water crisis, we’re in a climate crisis. 

We really need to rely on Indigenous teachings in order to help protect these beautiful lands and waters.

Canada is committed to protecting 25 per cent of land and water by 2025 and 30 per cent by 2030. How will your work at Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society help to meet these goals?

The success of conservation can only be achieved through Indigenous consent. When we consider the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, we must consider so many underlying factors such as jurisdiction and Rights and Title of Indigenous People. I honestly believe that protection cannot happen without First Nations participation. 

And it’s not just consultation, it’s consent. 

I want to ensure that First Nations are a partner or part of this process from the beginning. I’m really honoured that I’ve built a lot of valuable friendships and relationships and networks with Indigenous People across B.C. and across Canada. I’m hoping to bring that knowledge into CPAWS.

Tahltan territory is about 99 per cent wilderness. Industrial development is its biggest threat, according to McPhee. Photo: Adam Amir / Tahltan Central Government

You have a background in social work — what are some of the psychological benefits of conservation? 

My friend Chief Marie Quock would say, “I go up to the Klappan and it’s my spa.”

Every time I go back out there, it’s really healing for my heart and for my spirit. It brings me back to the connection [with] the land where I’m from. Anytime we can connect with our people and be out on the land, it’s such a beautiful feeling.

I just really like to see peace in people’s lives and also with our Earth. It’s always been a huge passion of mine to protect our spaces and places where we can find peace. 

In your view, what are the biggest threats facing B.C.’s land, water and wildlife?

If all the industrial development were allowed to happen at one time, what would that look like? That’s my biggest concern.

I’m really concerned about our wild salmon, particularly sockeye. And I worry about the potential devastation to our rivers and the impact from mining. 

I’m not anti-mining; I’m pro-salmon.

McPhee says the impact of industry on salmon is one of her main concerns. Photo: Ian McAllister

I think the most important thing is looking to the future as opposed to looking at what’s right in front of us right now. If we had all [the operating and proposed] mines going at once, it would benefit people economically but it would only be temporary. And what would happen afterwards, after everything’s developed and everything’s gone? What would we have left? 

If there’s anything I could say about the experience of protecting the headwaters, [it’s that] it required a lot of balance. It required a lot of unity and trust amongst the people and also having alliances with NGOs and nations. It takes a lot of people and a lot of work to protect an area. There are many, many different layers. 

Another thing I would say is you have to be patient. That’s difficult when you’re balancing economic interests and interests in the land and the water. What it really comes down to is a balance of values. What do we value? 

What are the most important issues and priorities you’ll be working on this year?

The priority is to work with Indigenous People on Indigenous-led conservation. We want to connect with First Nations who have protected areas in their territories and to connect with Indigenous People where protected areas are planned in the coming years.

We need to really focus on coming together. We want to be able to have these conversations and to see protection where we’ve never seen protection. And hear the priorities of Indigenous people when it comes to protection, of course [also] working with the public and working with governments. But at the forefront, we want to work with Indigenous People because conservation in the future [is] impossible without working with Indigenous People. We need that collaboration.

And they know what the priorities are — they always have.

This interview has been condensed and edited for brevity and clarity.

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

The four-year-old caribou is still on her feet, kicking and bucking like a Stampede bronc, as Clements Brace and Conrad Thiessen scramble toward her through the late October snow. 

There’s a thin white mist drifting over the ground from the rotor wash of the capture helicopter, but from the open door of a second chopper hovering a few hundred feet above, we have a clear view of the action. With her head and forelegs tangled in a bright orange net, the struggling caribou twists and stumbles as Thiessen, a wildlife biologist with the British Columbia government, quickly closes in. Brace, a camo-clad Indigenous guardian from the Tahltan Nation, runs a few steps behind.

They dodge sideways to avoid a lunge of the caribou’s antlers before swiftly stepping to her side, tackling her by the head and shoulders and muscling her to the ground. The two men have her controlled within seconds, and then we’re banking and dropping, the barren mountains tilting precipitously on the horizon as our pilot spirals down to land.

B.C government biologist Conrad Thiessen wrangles a caribou in the snow as part of a collaborative research project on the Tseneglode herd in the territory of the Tahltan First Nation. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

A helicopter from Canadian Wildlife Capture, carrying a net gunner, pursues the Tseneglode caribou herd. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The territory of the Tahltan First Nation in northwest B.C. is home to the Tseneglode caribou herd, which boasts a relatively healthy population when compared to the province’s southern herds. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Participants of a collaborative collaring project run in partnership between the Tahltan First Nation and the B.C. government rush to collar, tag and take samples from a captured caribou. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Tracking the pressured Tseneglode herd

Earlier that morning, we’d been standing with Brace at the Tundra Helicopters base in Dease Lake, in Tahltan territory, talking about how weird the weather had been.

The thermometer had been down to -20 C a few nights before, and on the drive north from Smithers photographer Jeremy Koreski and I had stopped to watch rafts of ice drift beneath the grates of the Stikine River bridge. But the temperatures had warmed again — so much so that rain had fallen at an elevation of 6,000 feet, creating an icy crust in the high alpine of the Cassiar Ranges, where we’d be capturing and collaring at risk northern mountain caribou.

“It’s just strange,” says Brace, one of six Guardians employed by the Tahltan Central Government to monitor and manage wildlife and habitat in the nation’s territory.

“Being local and living here so long, you feel the change automatically. Frick, your feet get soaked nowadays, and they never used to be soaked around this time. It used to be pretty cold.”

Clements Brace (left), an Indigenous guardian with the Tahltan nation, and B.C. government biologist, Oliver Holt, prepare for takeoff at the Tundra Helicopters base. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The Tahltan Nation received funding from the federal government’s Canada Nature Fund to increase its guardian activities on Tahltan territory. The financial support was used in part to purchase helicopter time and gear to gather data on the caribou herd. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Researchers at the helicopter base are seen here, preparing to head out to remote mountain ranges in search of the Tseneglode caribou herd. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The big swings in temperature that accompany an increasingly unstable climate can disrupt the signs caribou and other animals rely on for their movement, feeding and denning patterns. “A long time ago they had signs, when to den and things like that. The ground freezing at certain times, and they’d start to dig. Now the ground’s thawed out. It’s really strange how the environment is changing, and I guarantee it has a lot to do with how the animals are changing too,” Brace says.

The project Koreski and I had come to document — collaring 20 caribou from the little-studied Tseneglode herd — is part of the Tahltan Nation’s ongoing work to track how its lands and wildlife are responding to the accelerating effects of the climate emergency, as well as pressures from mineral exploration and hunting, along with unstable predator-prey dynamics.

With the help of its guardian program, introduced in 2016, the Tahltan Nation has been intensifying monitoring and research activities in its territory. When grant money from the federal government’s Canada Nature Fund became available this past year, the Tahltan Wildlife Department purchased helicopter time and the sophisticated GPS collars now arrayed behind us in Tundra Helicopters parking lot. The project to place the newly acquired collars on the Tseneglode herd is a partnership with B.C.’s provincial caribou recovery program and Thiessen and another government biologist, Oliver Holt, are along to help with the work and gather as much data as possible about the health of the herd.

A map showing the territory of the Tahltan First Nation in northwestern B.C. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

A caribou from the Tseneglode herd sports a new numbered collar that will now be tracked by the research team. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Ranging through wild terrain that surrounds the small community of Dease Lake, the Tseneglode caribou have long been harvested by Tahltan and other resident hunters. But despite the herd’s range being bisected by the area’s only paved highway — and made increasingly accessible from rough roads built for mineral exploration — the herd’s size and movements have remained unclear. In 2015, a B.C. government survey estimated the population contained 712 animals, making it the province’s eighth-largest caribou herd, but listed its long-term population trend as “unknown.” A few days prior to our arrival,  members of the Tahltan wildlife team conducted a survey flight over the Tseneglode range, counting slightly more than 600 individuals.

Though counting animal populations always has a certain margin of error, it’s clear that a lack of data has left the provincial government making management decisions about development, forestry and mining that affect the Tseneglode caribou — and the people who depend on them as a food source — without having much information at hand. Referring to northern caribou populations on the website of the provincial caribou recovery program, the government notes that “efforts to protect and better understand the herds are underway. … However, population data is variable and scarce, so scientists have less confidence in herd size estimates.”

Bolstering traditional knowledge with real-time information

The lack of capacity to collect adequate data is partly a budgeting issue. One of the paradoxes of caribou management in B.C. is that southern herds on the edge of extirpation receive much more attention and investment than still-healthy herds in the north. In 2017-2018, for example, the government spent $386,000 on management and monitoring of the 147-member Columbia North herd in the Kootenays, and only $37,000 on the far larger Tseneglode herd. Given the ongoing funding shortages, monitoring projects that operate in collaboration with First Nations, such as the Tseneglode collaring effort, may help fill some of the gaps.

Even with limited information, however, it’s widely accepted that caribou are in trouble throughout most of B.C. One century ago, there were an estimated 40,000 caribou in the province; today, there are estimated to be less than 18,000. Over 30 of B.C.’s 47 surviving caribou herds have decreasing or unknown population trends, and seven herds have been extirpated since 2003. The government cites climate change, habitat degradation and increased predation as likely drivers of the decline. Over the years, the Tahltan and many other First Nations have been directly affected by the loss.

These numbered caribou collars will be used to track individual caribou and will provide data on herd size, range and mortality events. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The Tahltan First Nation has relied on the Tseneglode caribou herd for generations. Data captured through the collaring program will be shared with the Kaska and Tlingit First Nations as part of the 3 Nations partnership. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

While Thiessen and Oliver prep capture nets, guns and sampling gear, and pilots Clint Walker and Bill Oestreich run through their safety checks, Brace tells us about some of the changes he’s witnessed over the course of his life.

“We’re just not seeing caribou in areas where they used to be plentiful,” he says. “There used to be lots of caribou right by the road. I go up there every year hunting to get one for my grandparents, and you could see the herd getting smaller and smaller. In the past you’d just drive up the highway and walk off the road, and they’d be there. Whereas now, you have to basically hire a helicopter to go get a caribou.”

“It’s the same with the moose, too,” he continues. “My grandparents used to go hunting up to Cottonwood, which is probably 90 kilometres from here, and they’d see at least 40. Now you’d be lucky to see even two. So the Elders are definitely talking about changes in the way of the animals.”

That’s where the collaring project comes in. The data will be shared by the Tahltan with the Kaska and Tlingit First Nations, all members of the 3 Nations partnership.

“We can join together on this project,” Brace says, “and see what effects are happening.”

Brace says Indigenous guardians are not seeing caribou in regions where they used to be plentiful. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Brace is part of the Tahltan First Nation’s guardian program, which supports the management and monitoring of natural resources in the nation’s territory. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

A curious fox takes notice of the research team at the helicopter base. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The peaks of the Cassiar Ranges provide habitat to caribou, Stone sheep, foxes and wolverines. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Evening light falls in the range of the Tseneglode caribou herd. In recent years, monitoring efforts have shown the population has a far greater range than previously thought. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

For the Tahltan, there’s considerable value in bolstering their countless generations of first-hand knowledge with collaring data and other remote sensing information that modern science can provide.

“Data always alleviates some of the unknown stresses when you’re a manager of the herd,” says Lance Nagwan, the wildlife director for the Tahltan Central Government.

Nagwan says caribou are culturally significant to the Tahltan and have been a reliable food source to the nation “for thousands of years.” He said the COVID-19 pandemic has emphasized how important caribou — or hodzih, pronounced like hoody, in Tāłtān — are for local food security. “It’s not good for us to see them in jeopardy or being stressed in any way, and with the information we’ll get from these collars, we can have better understanding, better management and better stewardship.”

GPS collaring has already provided some important insights to the Tahltan guardians. Two years ago, in the first Tseneglode collaring effort, the Tahltan wildlife team placed 12 collars in the field. They soon found the animals were travelling more widely than expected, ranging as far north as Good Hope Lake in Kaska territory, almost 140 kilometres to the north — meaning there’s a much larger area in which impacts on the herd need to be observed.  

“Their home range is a lot bigger than we assumed,” Nagwan notes. “So that’s another thing for us to pay close attention to.”

While providing more detail about the herd’s movements and patterns of habitat use, the collars will also help more precisely estimate its total population. Once the GPS collars are placed on the animals, gathering data is as simple as watching coloured blips on a screen. For a period of three years until they automatically release and drop off the animals, the collars transmit up-to-the-minute location data as the caribou go about their lives, and provide notification of a “mortality event” if a caribou stops moving for a certain number of hours, allowing the Tahltan guardians to quickly respond and investigate. As part of the Tahltan curriculum, schoolkids will also be naming the collared Tseneglode caribou and following their movements online.

But as we’d soon learn, getting the collars placed is far from child’s play. After personal temperature checks and a briefing on the government’s approved COVID-19 protocols, we mask up, cram in the last of our gear, squeeze into the choppers and lift away.

Net guns are loaded with specialized wildlife capture nets for use in the research project. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Wildlife biologist Oliver Holt works with the provincial government’s caribou recovery program. The government considers the long-term population trend for the Tseneglode caribou herd “unknown.” Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

GPS coordinates are used to track the collared caribou. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Holt takes notes on a caribou collared and sampled in the field. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

A 2015 B.C. government survey estimated the population of the Tseneglode caribou herd at 712 animals, making it the eighth-largest herd in the province. A recent aerial survey conducted by the Tahltan Nation counted 600 individuals. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

‘Picking the right time to shoot’

Once aloft, we speed over spruce forest and snowy valleys as we head for the areas where the Tahltan survey flight had found groups of caribou the week before. Below, we see the scar of the Jade-Boulder road and a maze of illegal ATV tracks, both of which have been leading more prospectors and hunters into the Tseneglode range in recent years.

Searching farther into the backcountry, Oestreich spots the first group of caribou on an alpine crest, and the work begins.

As we watch from a distance, the agile MD 500 helicopter descends on the caribou, which break into a run. Thiessen, the net gunner on this project, hangs out an open door as Walker, an experienced capture pilot who works for a specialty contractor called Canadian Wildlife Capture, flies as close as possible to the fleeing animals. He deftly uses the helicopter to separate an adult cow from the group; for a successful shot, a caribou must be on its own with the gunner placed just three metres or so above.

Though Walker has been flying for 24 years and says capture work is “about as much fun as you can have in a helicopter,” doing it safely at high speed is difficult and dangerous — think catching a deer with a Jeep, but with alpine wind, blowing snow and spinning blades added to the mix.

Pilot Clint Walker says flying for wildlife capture is “about as much fun as you can have in a helicopter.” Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Walker angles the helicopter to try to get within three metres of the caribou for a successful shot. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Author Malcolm Johnson (centre) and biologist Oliver Holt (right), run from their helicopter to support Theissen and Brace in their collaring and caribou sampling efforts. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

A caribou is successfully netted. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The safety of the animals is a key consideration during the collaring process. Tranquilizing caribou is considered more dangerous to the animals, so they remain awake and alert throughout the collaring process. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Brace prepares an ear tag. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Caribou are hobbled and blindfolded during the capture process to prevent injuries to the animals and the research team members. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

“Everyone has an essential role,” says Thiessen, who’s been doing this work for 12 years and is now the senior wildlife biologist for B.C.’s Skeena region. “But the pilot is really about 90 per cent of the capture. He puts you in the spot, and as a gunner it’s just a matter of picking the right time to shoot.” 

There’s often only a split-second to make an accurate shot, with the capture net fired forward by a specially-designed gun loaded with .303 blanks. The first capture we watch isn’t quite textbook — a 30-knot wind is whipping over the ridges, making the shot more challenging than usual, and the net snags on the caribou’s antlers without catching its feet. We see it streaming across the snow in a streak of orange as the heli circles around for a second shot.

The next one’s on target, and within a few minutes Brace, Thiessen and Holt have the caribou down on the snow. They blindfold her to keep her calm, extract her legs from the net and secure them with flexible hobbles. Then, working as quietly and efficiently as possible, they place the collar around her neck, attach a permanent ear tag and collect samples of blood, hair, skin and feces. There are other health checkups too — they use a plastic comb to check the caribou for ticks and examine its teeth to determine its age. Government guidelines stipulate that the entire process be performed in less than 15 minutes.

Thiessen combs a caribou to check for ticks. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Holt uses a syringe to distribute caribou blood samples to vials for further research. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Caribou blood, seen here on the snow, is drawn from individual animals from a leg vein and will be sent to the B.C. wildlife health program to test for disease, pregnancy and nutrition. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

A caribou is held down by a wildlife capture net. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

The caribou aren’t sedated during the capture. Despite their struggles while they’re being worked on, the use of tranquilizer darts is considered more dangerous to the animals. During a survey of a herd just south of the Tseneglode several decades ago, for example, a calf was killed by an errant dart and an adult female injured by slipping on ice as the drugs took effect. The current technique of net capturing isn’t without its risks, however — the mortality rate during captures is around two per cent, Thiessen notes, usually from broken limbs or necks suffered during the pursuit. But for Thiessen and other wildlife biologists, “the value of having a better understanding of the population as a whole outweighs that cost — because if we don’t know what’s going on with the population, we can’t help it.”

After the first few captures, the team falls into a predictable rhythm, and I’m able to step in to help. 

Brace, Thiessen and Walker land first and get the caribou down, then our helicopter follows. Holt and I climb out, duck under the rotors and plunge through the snow to help control the caribou as she’s extracted from the net — not always an easy task, as female caribou are powerful animals, averaging around 200 pounds, with sharp hooves and antler tines that, as we find out, can easily pierce a work glove and the skin beneath. Before the hobble straps are on, it often takes all of our strength to hold the animal in place, everyone’s breath fogging in the air as the caribou kicks out and its chest heaves up and down beneath us. When an animal needs to be repositioned to get the collar placed or to keep it from sucking in snow, Walker and Oestreich jump in too.

It’s backcountry rodeo, and as I learn from first-hand experience, everyone goes home with a few  aches and bruises at the end of the day.

From left to right: Brace, Thiessen and Walker. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Helicopter pilot Walker gathers up a net for reuse. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Caribou captured by the team are fitted with permanent ear tags. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Catch and release

For two full days, we fly circuitous routes through the Tseneglode range, our eyes scanning the alpine and buckbrush for the gangly outlines of caribou.

Transiting between capture zones, we get a cinematic view of some of the most beautiful terrain I’ve ever seen and the wildlife that inhabit it: moose foraging in the trees, Stone sheep on rocky skylines, a fox and wolverine scavenging a carcass in faded pink snow. At one point, we glimpse an injured bull caribou limping below us at the treeline. “Yeah, that one won’t be long for this world,” mutters Oestreich over the headset.

When we descend to each capture, the thud of the rotors and the scale of the landscape soon give way to hushed quiet and a sharp focus on the smallest details: the soft chestnut of caribou fur under our gloves, Thiessen showing Brace how to draw blood from a leg vein, Brace soothing a mother caribou with a rub of the neck. While we work to hold one caribou still, Brace reminds me to ease up as she calms: “You’re a bit on her lungs there, bud.”

Biologist Conrad Thiessen places his hand on a caribou. The researchers attempt to sooth the creatures as they work quickly to gather samples. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

A caribou is fixed with a collar. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

After samples are collected and the collar is attached, caribou are released from their binds and blindfold to run off. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

As the work finishes for each animal, the blindfold and hobbles are removed. Keeping hold of their antlers as they clamber to their feet, Brace points them to safety and lets go. They trot off away from us, some of them prancing only a few paces before stopping to look back, as if wondering, “what the heck just happened?” Then they disappear into the willows, or canter uphill until they’re over the ridge and gone.

Striving for stronger and more effective co-management

On the last night of our work, I join Thiessen in his room at a motel in Dease Lake. There’s a can of beer on the table and a sprawl of gear on the floor as he spins tubes of caribou blood in a small centrifuge. From here, the tubes will go to the B.C. government’s wildlife health program, where they’ll be used to test for pregnancy, nutrition, the presence of disease and other indicators of caribou health. This is the less glamorous majority of conservation work, the detailed science that’s done by people who love wild animals and the habitat on which they depend.

While he sorts through samples, Thiessen tells me these projects aren’t always enjoyable for him — doing it safely, he notes, takes a level of focus that doesn’t leave a lot of time for fun or reflection. But he likes the teamwork aspect of it, particularly working with Indigenous guardians like Brace and others with whom he’s collaborated throughout the north.

The government’s caribou strategy has a goal to “align science and recovery approaches with Canada and Indigenous governments where appropriate.” For Thiessen, who hopes to move toward a formal data sharing agreement with the Tahltan, there’s also a simpler and more personal guiding principle.

“It feels good at the end,” he says, “when we did it together and we’re all there together.”

Thiessen told The Narwhal he hopes more research collaboration can occur between government and the Tahltan Nation. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Caribou hooves are uniquely well-suited to navigating deep snow. Photo: Jeremy Koreski / The Narwhal

Given how long First Nations governments have been sidelined from conservation and land management in Canada, and how much Indigenous knowledge is still marginalized by Western science, doing shared work on the land seems like a promising step in the right direction.

Though there’s still much farther to go, striving for stronger collaboration and more effective co-management is a goal shared by the Tahltan.

As Brace tells me before we leave, it’s in everyone’s interest to “work together and expand our horizons and make it better for all of us.”

“With all the scientific knowledge we’re starting to gather as guardians I think we’re going to have a good effect,” he continues. “And there are some changes that need to be done, from what we know as Tahltan and what we’ve seen as guardians on the land. But I think we’re at the point where it’s not too late to make those changes. So we’re taking those steps, and we want to do it right.”

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In early July, Tahltan Central Government President Chad Norman Day boarded a helicopter in Dease Lake, flying to a nearby cluster of rogue mining claims exploiting one of the world’s richest deposits of nephrite jade.

“Jade mining has put a nasty facelift on the land,” says Day of what they saw on the flight. 

“They’ve built roads and ripped up a lot of land and forest.”

Jade miners have also built camps with outhouses and garbage dumps, he says, and the Tahltan suspect the waste is being buried instead of hauled out.

It’s becoming a cliché to say that British Columbia is a “wild west” for mining, but when it comes to nephrite jade, the official provincial gemstone, it’s no exaggeration. 

Location of Tahltan traditional territory in northeast B.C. Map: Tahltan Central Government

Jade placer mining operations occur without an environmental assessment. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Out on this remote landscape 1,750 kilometres north of Vancouver, critics say there is no active enforcement to speak of, no meaningful requirement for reclamation, and no necessity to consult and seek permission from the Tahltan Nation to work on the land. 

Back in June, Day sent a letter demanding the province take immediate steps to shut down the jade and gold placer mining (mining surface areas near streams and digging in old riverbeds) across the Tahltan Nation’s nearly 100,000 square kilometres of territory. 

Weeks later, Day showed up in person with a film crew to document his eviction of the biggest players, putting them on notice that the party was over. 

The growth of B.C. jade

The term “jade” refers to two different kinds of ornamental rocks — jadeite and nephrite, which have been revered in China since the Stone Age. Today British Columbia is the world’s largest producer of nephrite jade, with deposits documented in more than 50 sites — but nowhere is it more plentiful than in the northwest corner of B.C., including east of the Stewart Cassiar Highway near Dease lake. 

Jade is an unusual mining commodity, says Glenn Grande of the Fair Mining Collaborative: some miners finding it by placer mining, while others mine it from hard rock like other minerals. There’s an opportunistic element to it as well — sometimes big jade boulders are found randomly by miners looking for other things, like gold. 

“It can be a deliberate seek or an accidental find,” Grande says.

In recent years especially, there is a big cash incentive to look for jade. 

Jade scattered on the ground near a placer mining operation. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Jade claims near Dease Lake, B.C. Because of B.C.’s antiquated mining laws, anyone can stake a mining claim online, even in Indigenous territory.

According to a report from Visual Capitalist, the average AAA B.C. jade price jumped from less than $200 per kilogram in 2004, to around $1,400 per kilogram in 2016. During that same period, average yearly B.C. jade sales grew from fewer than 400 tonnes per year to about 1,000 tonnes per year.

Talk of this lucrative trade is a sore point for Day.

“In terms of Tahltan Nation benefits, revenue sharing, anything like that, benefits that would flow to the nation as a collective and in a significant way, there’s nothing.”

Day points to the “impact benefit agreements” the Tahltan has with other industries — including mining exploration, guide outfitting, logging and clean energy — and says the jade industry will need to follow these examples.

“We’re very experienced in terms of drawing up agreements to make sure that the Tahltan are intimately involved, in processes, especially around permitting and the environment, and that our people and our communities are receiving benefits and opportunities,” he said. “None of these things are currently [in place] with the jade industry at all.”

Placer mining in particular is a bust for the province too: according to research by the Fair Mining Collaborative, B.C. collected less than $79,000 in royalties from 558 permitted placer mines in 2017. That same year, placer gold sales alone were estimated at almost $16 million.

Reality TV catches Jade Fever

Excitement about Dease Lake-area riches has been fanned by the Discovery Channel reality show Jade Fever, which follows a group of financially stressed jade miners, working on and off for Chinese backers, as they do battle with the rough, mountainous topography of jade country.

Like other mining reality shows in recent years — there are at least 13, most dedicated to placer gold mining — Jade Fever is a clarion call to every weekend warrior with access to heavy machinery and dreams of making easy money plucking “million dollar” jade boulders from streambanks and out of mountainsides.

“This isn’t mining,” says one of the hapless miners on Jade Fever. “It’s treasure hunting.”

The drama doesn’t always stop when the camera cuts. In October 2017, CBC reported that Ken Foy, the star of the History Channel’s Yukon Gold was fined $145,000 for the environmental damage inflicted on his placer claim near Dawson City. The actual taxpayer cost was reportedly closer to $1 million.

If Jade Fever is any indication, you find jade not with geological knowledge, but with “your gut” — and by driving lots of heavy equipment through watercourses, drilling speculative holes, and digging big pits in the ground.

Clash of two legal systems

The conflict over jade in northwest B.C. is the result of two clashing legal systems. 

According to B.C. law, the gold rush that started in 1859 never ended; in many cases, mining remains the highest use of Crown land. 

The current system of free-entry not only allows you to stake claims online without physically touching the land, but once you’ve done so, your rights to access the subsurface trump most other land rights.

Jade miners have staked claims and applied for permits that give them the right, under provincial law, to be on the land exploring and mining for jade.

Jade placer mining operations on unceded territory of the Tahltan nation. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

But many of these same miners are coming on to unceded Tahltan Nation territory, without any contact or consultation with the First Nation, creating significant land disturbances and environmental harm as they go.

Although B.C. recently proposed some mining reforms, they only apply to the Mines Act and not the Mineral Tenure Act which undergirds the free-entry system. 

That’s why, when Day was flying around in a helicopter, he was evicting jade miners that have every right to be there under provincial law.

“The online staking regime, it’s definitely illegal under Tahltan law,” says Day. “I’m sure if we took this thing to court at the highest level, the Supreme Court of Canada would likely agree.”

President of the Tahltan Central Government, Chad Day, speaks with a placer miner during the process of handing out eviction notices. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Implementing new Indigenous rights framework

There is real hope that B.C. mining laws will be reformed in the near future, thanks to the NDP government’s unveiling of new legislation to implement the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People (UNDRIP).

Under article 32 the declaration grants Indigenous peoples “the right to determine and develop priorities and strategies for the development or use of their lands or territories and other resources.” 

It also requires governments to “consult and cooperate in good faith” with Indigenous peoples through their own representative institutions. 

When it comes to resource development like mines, UNDRIP mandates governments obtain free and informed consent of Indigenous peoples prior to the approval of “any project affecting their lands or territories and other resources, particularly in connection with the development, utilization or exploitation of mineral, water or other resources.”

Placer mining in some areas takes place along watercourses but has not been subject to an environmental assessment. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Members of the Tahltan survey placer mining operations from the air. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

B.C.’s proposed legislation, introduced through Bill 41 in late October, would require the province to work in tandem with Indigenous legal systems. 

But just what the integration of colonial and Indigenous law will look like on the ground and in places like Tahltan traditional territory remains unclear, although some have indicated it could be transformative when it comes to long-promised nation-to-nation decision-making. 

It is written into the mandate letter of Michelle Mungall, Minister of Energy, Mines and Petroleum Resources that her ministry participate in bringing “the principles of the [U.N.] declaration into action.”

Terry Teegee, regional chief of the B.C. Assembly of First Nations, said the new legislation is likely to bring more certainty to mining operations because it will more clearly establish what is required for gaining Indigenous consent. 

“Consent is about agreement. It is a process to achieving and maintaining agreement … about respecting our laws as equals and as partners,” Teegee said at the B.C. legislature, during Bill 41’s unveiling. 

“One of the greatest uncertainties for project development in B.C. is not knowing if a project has the consent of affected First Nations,” he said. “Laws that are co-developed … will deliver economic, legal certainty and predictability in this province.”

Placer mining operations in a valley. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

“The courts have been clear that Indigenous peoples have rights in their territories and the legislation will help provide a plan and a path forward for all of us,” Sarah Plank, a spokesperson for the Ministry of Indigenous Relations and Reconciliation, told The Narwhal.

In mid-September, Day attended meetings with the ministry to talk about what the implementation of UNDRIP will look like for the Tahltan.

“I think [UNDRIP] will definitely play a role in how to address these issues with jade mining,” says Day. “It’s a hopeful step, but the devil’s in the details.”

No shortage of solutions

Day says another part of the solution is to complete Tahltan land use planning — already under way for several years, buoyed by new funding, which will ultimately dictate where resource development happens in Tahltan territory.

“The big change that needs to take place is that Tahltan land use planning needs to take place ahead of time, to ensure that no outside interests can stake land that [we] have said is off limits.”

Mount Edziza Provincial Park in the territory of the Tahltan nation. Mining occurs on the outer boundaries of this park. Photo: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Day points to the success of the Klappan Plan, unveiled by the province and Tahltan this past summer, which has created three separate land use zones across about 640,000 square hectares, including the subalpine basin known as the Sacred Headwaters. 

In the recent past, this area has been a conflict flashpoint in conflict over coalbed methane extraction via fracking, coal mining, mineral exploration and moose poaching.

Future land use planning like in the Klappan, Day says, will not only determine where resource activities can happen, but will “ultimately bring more certainty to everybody, including industry.”

Make claims conditional

B.C. could solve a lot of problems by making mineral claims conditional, depending on what other activities and uses are competing for the same area, says Jessica Clogg, executive director and senior counsel at West Coast Environmental Law.

This would end the persistent idea, born in the 1860s gold rush era, that mining is always the highest and best use of B.C. land — and could spell the end to mining claims being staked in sensitive First Nations territory, important watersheds for drinking water and fisheries, and more.

“The idea that mineral claims are appropriate in any of these places is a bit crazy, really.”

Day walks around jade placer mining equipment while posting eviction notices at mining camps, some of which were empty. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

B.C. also needs to rethink the statutory right to compensation, introduced by the B.C. Liberals, which forces taxpayers to generously compensate miners if their claims to an area must be sidelined for things like park creation.

Clogg adds that updating B.C.’s mining laws will be a boon to industry.

“If we reform our mineral tenure system to be clearer about where mineral claims and mining activity is not appropriate, it will create greater certainty for industry, and avoid situations where millions and millions of dollars are expended, only to be mired in controversy and lawsuits.”

You only have to think of recent mining history for examples: the ongoing Taseko Mines debacle, the proposed Ajax mine near Kamloops city limits, and now, the rush for Dease Lake-area jade.

Preemptive changes already being made

The province says it has already made changes to begin meeting UNDRIP — including committing $500 million over 10 years to support the construction of Indigenous family housing, and $50 million to revitalize languages.

In mid-September, they also proposed a plan to modernize the environmental assessment process, which could potentially affect placer mining. 

The threshold that would trigger an environmental assessment for a placer mine has been lowered from 500,000 tonnes to 250,000 tonnes of annual “pay dirt.”

(Pay dirt is an old term for mined gravel that is processed in a sluice box, wash plant or other device for extracting precious metals.)

Jade placer mining operations. Photo: Tahltan Central Government

Perhaps the biggest problem is that the miners themselves, often working in very remote locations, would be expected to “self-report” when they reach the threshold to trigger an assessment which means a placer miner has to phone up the ministry and request an environmental assessment.

“Project proponents are responsible for making their own determination as to whether or not their proposed project falls within the thresholds set out in the Reviewable Projects Regulation,” wrote a spokesman from the B.C. Ministry of Climate Change and Environment. “[They] must identify themselves to the [Environmental Assessment Office] if they are reviewable.”

Sharing the benefits of jade

Back up near Dease Lake in July, Chad Norman Day is reading an eviction notice to Claudia Bunce and her husband Robin, the stars of the reality TV show Jade Fever, as the cameras roll.

It’s a strange moment: a film crew is already on the site filming the show, and the Tahltan have brought their own cameras to document the eviction process for their members.

“To be clear, your activities here are unlawful and deeply disrespectful to our Tahltan culture, people and ancestors who shed blood for these lands,” reads Day from the eviction notice he is delivering to Bunce. 

“This letter is your final notice to shut down.”

Months have passed since the eviction notices were presented to the jade miners in Tahltan territory. In the interim at least two miners have indicated to the Tahltan that they have ceased operations and are exploring options for moving forward.

The Tahltan Central Government also confirmed they are now working with the province to chart a path forward. 

The days of the roaring 1860s gold rush are long gone, and the Tahltan are determined to move British Columbia’s jade industry into the 21st century, one way or another.

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

The first time I met Curtis Rattray, I was going on four hours of sleep and waiting by the luggage carousel in the Terrace airport.

“You Carol?” Rattray asks, looking at my feet in the Terrace airport.

“I could tell by your boots,” he said, gesturing quizzically at my choice of footwear, a relic of my mother’s closet: Stone Ridge hikers, circa 1990 with a strangely high back heel.

Rattray, all arms and legs with a ginger beard and shoulder-length brown hair, hoists my pack onto his shoulder after I drag it like a dead beast from the luggage belt.

Looking much younger than his 57 years, Rattray is a member of the Tahltan First Nation and an experienced backcountry guide who’ll be leading me and three others on a six-day journey through the Spectrum Range.

As we drive five-hours north to Tatogga Lake, Rattray recounts his time as president of the Tahltan Central Council, in the military, trail clearing for B.C. Parks and gives a surprisingly detailed account of the history of naval architectural design and how it intersects with the consumption of fossil fuels. And this is just Day 1.

By the time we’ve reached our destination for the evening, Rattray has used scenes from the films Apocalypse Now, Smoke Signals, Whippet, Working the Curve and Spirit of the Sea to add pop cultural references to his reflections on everything from Indigenous identity to the struggles of adolescence to his aversion to purchasing store-bought salmon.

Tahltan cultural guide Curtis Rattray examines a topographical map in Mount Edziza Provincial Park.

Rattray flanked by the rainbow-hued Spectrum Range mountains.

The Invitation

Two months earlier, Rattray had invited The Narwhal to join a backcountry hike of a wild chain of volcanic mountains. I had never heard of Mount Edziza or the fire-coloured Spectrum Range, but I enthusiastically volunteered to go — despite the fact I’m not particularly experienced in the backcountry.

Rattray, a trail guide and cultural educator from the Tahltan First Nation, extended the offer to our team, saying simply, if you want to write about what’s happening in our territory, you should come up and learn about the land for yourselves.

It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.

The night before the trip, I found myself up at one o’clock in the morning anxiously checking and rechecking my pack job against the gear list Rattray had provided. I crammed the last of my spare batteries into an empty pocket and surveyed my lot: one bloated Arcteryx backpack stuffed to the brim with gear and food and a second smaller backpack cradling my camera, tripod and two lenses.

With a sense of relief that all my zippers could close I crawled into bed for a four-hour sleep before departing for an early morning flight.

Two days later it would be my oversight that would threaten to derail the entire adventure.

‘I don’t really belong to any group’

The first leg of our journey from Terrace is the drive up Highway 37, recently coupled with the expansive Northwest Transmission Line, a $736-million project built under the BC Liberals to spur development in the north. The long stretch of road branches off here and there to the many mining projects that have sprung up in the region in recent years.

Controversy over the mines has created division within the Tahltan Nation, Rattray says, with some welcoming the investment while others fear risks to the environment.

After the collapse of the tailings dam at Imperial Metals’ Mount Polley mine near Williams Lake in 2014, members of the Tahltan formed a blockade at the road up to the new Red Chris mine, owned and operated by the same company.

The tailings impoundment at the Red Chris mine holds seven times the volume as the waste pit at Mount Polley.

“There are a lot of different camps within the Tahltan,” Rattray said. “There are the environmental Christians, the pro-development people, the drinkers. I guess I don’t really belong to any of those groups.”

B.C.’s northern corridor, highway 37, is the main entrance route for the province’s northwest mines.

Rattray surveys Mount Edziza Provincial Park from the air. The park falls within the bounds of the Tahltan First Nations traditional territory.

Two of my travel companions, Bob and Sharon.

That’s not to say he hasn’t made his way through some of them, though. After a stint in the Canadian military and seasonal work doing trail maintenance, Rattray took to a lifestyle of heavy drinking.

“Sometimes after a night of drinking, I would wake up in the morning and just start drinking again,” he said as we travelled northward in the heat of the day, our packs flapping behind in the box of his pickup.

After a frank conversation with his boss at Kal Tire at the time, Rattray realized he’d rather drink than work and that was a problem. He was 29 when he quit drinking cold turkey. By 32 he was president of the Central Council and by his late 30s he had completed a double-major in political science and environmental studies at the University of Victoria.

‘I want them to experience a connection with the land’

 Like any social collective, the Tahltan are a mix of complexities, Rattray explains, adding that — like most Indigenous communities across Canada — he sees the effects of intergenerational trauma and negative stereotypes wending their way through families and into the lives of Tahltan youth. And it’s those youth that Rattray thinks about most these days.

As an educator working within the Dease Lake school system, Rattray brings youth out onto the land as a part of his cultural revitalization work.

“The real reason I bring kids out is because I want them to experience a connection to the land for themselves. And I want them to see there are other ways to earn a living other than working for industry. There are so many resources going into training for mines and exploration. But what about guiding and tourism?”

Our pilot, Brian, fuels a small Cessna before our flight into the park.

Little Ball Lake, fed by nearby glaciers in the Spectrum Range.

The Spectrum Range

We all gathered around a small scale the next afternoon, each waiting in turn to weigh our packs before loading onto a small Cessna floatplane on Tatogga Lake. When it was my turn I gracelessly lugged my bag onto the low platform. My fellow hikers let out a hushed gasp when they saw the tally — 49.7 pounds. I looked around with an anxious grin and let out a nervous laugh.

“I packed some heavy food,” I offered by way of explanation. I then moved my pack to weigh my smaller camera bag. Twenty pounds, bringing me to just shy of 70.

“Oh myyyyyyy gooooooood,” Sharon, the one other woman on the trip, sang out in a rasp. All in, her gear came to 35 pounds, half my total.

“I can totally manage the weight,” I announced. The others nodded in agreement, their eyes wide.

“What kinda boots you got there?” Sharon’s husband Bob asked, pointing towards the pair now dangling from the front of my pack.

“Oh, these are some old ones I got from my Mom,” I said. “They’re nice and broken in.”

The vibrant western slope of Mount Kunugu.

A sprawling glacier north of the Spectrum Range in Mount Edziza Provincial Park.

We were flown into Little Ball Lake in two successive trips to accommodate all of our weight. The 30-minute flight into the south end of Mount Edziza Provincial Park gave us a view of the wild terrain that would be our home for the next six days. The highlands are starkly cut off from the world that lies beyond these mountain ranges.

A 1929 map tacked to the wall of the Tatogga Lake Lodge shows the area we are heading into as a broad, blank space named Rainbow Mountains with the simple description, “unmapped inaccessible area.” Although largely unexplored by colonials, the region is well known to the Tahltan who travelled the territory’s volcanic cones, lava fields and rivers along historic trails that are in some cases still used to this day.

Historic map showing the Spectrum Range as an “unmapped inaccessible area.”

One evening Rattray delivered a short unconventional history of colonization accompanied by a vibrant hand-drawn map.

Early morning on Little Ball Lake.

The brilliant colours of the Spectrum Range, also called Rainbow Mountains, are the result of high mineralization within the volcanic region.

Mount Edziza Provincial Park is accessible only by foot, floatplane or helicopter.

The floatplane glides gently to the shore. We tiptoe along a slender pontoon and hop onto dry land, dropping our gear on the rocks.

When our pilot pushes off from the beach at Little Ball Lake we watch him depart. As he makes his way overhead we see the plane rock from side to side. We wave goodbye in return and when he’s out of sight we begin to survey for a flat spot to make camp. We planned day hikes from base camp for the first two days, before beginning the 18-kilometre journey to Arctic Lake. While Little Ball Lake was large enough to land on with a heavy plane, it is too small to accommodate a heavy take off. So, the only way out is Arctic Lake.

Little Ball Lake is crowded on its north shore by Mount Kunugu, a grand slope of orange and red spilling down from tall spires of black basalt. Volcanic landscapes are strangely animated, even thousands of years after they have stilled and cooled. Impossibly large rocks, flung far from an ancient volcano stick out here and there on the landscape with creaturely proportions.

“People call them gargoyles,” Rattray said. In such a wide expanse, the human eye constantly searches for movement, for moose or goat or grizzly, and the rocks seem to take on animal dimensions in my peripheral vision.

“I call them ancestors,” he said.

There’s a particular hollow sound we notice when passing over humps in the valley. “Listen!” Rattray will say to our group excitedly one day as he stomps his feet. “That’s what this place is named for in the Tahltan language, that sound that’s made when you walk over these old lava fields.”

In our search for a suitable site to pitch our tents I come alongside a patch of low-lying willow, disturbing a ptarmigan hen and her chick. She rushes out from the shrub, clutching an outturned wing to her side.

“She’s pretending to be hurt, eh,” Rattray said. “Protecting her chick. Let’s make camp somewhere else.”

We moved up the embankment and find a patch of tall grass. Rattray lies down in the grass to feel for any incline. It’ll do.

“In a line, not a circle,” Rattray instructs. “In case a bear comes to camp, you don’t want it running from one tent, straight into the next.”

Abundant quartz crystals and wildflowers such as hawkweed adorn the rocky landscape.

That evening as Mount Kunugu’s shadow enfolds the valley, Rattray pulls out a hand-drawn map of Tahltan country. The traditional lands of the nation, which are unceded to this day, cover 43,728 square kilometres of B.C., more than 10 per cent of the province’s land mass.

“If Tahltan territory was a country, we’d be the 109th largest in the world,” Rattray says, adding the region lies along the famed Ring of Fire, home to 123 of B.C.’s volcanoes.

“This area has two unique geological features: rugged peaks and plateaus. There are so many different habitats here for moose and caribou. The broad, wide valleys make for good winter habitat,” he said, “while the plateaus provide good range in the summer.”

Arctic cotton tufts along the Spectrum Range.

A ptarmigan hen eyes our hiking party.

Mount Kunugu’s basalt crown on display.

Detail of the Spectrum Range shows the signature coloured stripes of this particular volcanic zone. The Mount Edziza volcanic complex is made up of four central volcanoes.

As a member of the Tahltan Crow clan, Rattray said tradition dictates he must be buried by a member of the Wolf clan. “Wolf marries Crow, Crow marries Wolf. Wolf buries Crow, Crow buries Wolf,” he said.

“I told some of the kids that when I die, I want them to bring me out on the land and bury me. I told them they might get arrested, you know, because of permits and all that.”

As a self-described sovereigntist (Rattray half-joked at one point about making t-shirts that read “Indigenous Sovereignty All The Way”), Rattray is at odds with rules for the land, imposed by the province or enforced by the Crown.

“I could technically get in trouble from B.C. Parks for guiding you, eh?” he said to me that first evening.

“What do you mean?”

“I guess I should have disclosed that,” he grinned. “I don’t have a permit. Guides are supposed to get a park use permit and I don’t got one.” Rattray, no stranger to the folks at B.C. Parks, said he’s been pressed by government employees on this particular detail.

“They e-mail me once in a while, letting me know they know I’m guiding. They’ll say, ‘oh, hi Curtis, we saw your website. Um, great site by the way. Really. So about those permits…’ ”

He laughs to himself. “They can legally challenge me anytime. I expect them to. And I’ll fight them.”

Rattray already has plans in mind for how he’ll wage his legal battle — arguing for his sovereign right to use the land under the banner of the Tahltan Nation — but knows lawyers would likely force him to change course and argue instead that guiding is a constitutionally protected aboriginal right.

He knows that’s how Indigenous rights are fought for these days — argued and articulated under a legal and discursive framework established by colonial governments. It grates on him. We fall silent and look out to the hills.

Our first big day hike involves a 10-kilometre return trip climb up the mountain on the south side of Little Ball Lake. The gradual ascent provides us with a wider view of the Spectrum Range.

“Look,” I say, pointing to our tents below, “you can see our base camp.”

“Base camp?” Rattray retorts. “That’s our village.”

“What makes a village, Curtis?”

“Three or more tents,” he said matter-of-factly.

It was up on that southern mountainside where a slow-motion disaster began to unfold.

As our group took a break to rest through the height of the mid-day heat, I wandered away to photograph a nearby glacier. On my hike I stumbled slightly, kicking a small boulder. I knew what had happened even before I had looked down to see the toe of my right boot peeled back from the sole.

“Oh….shit…” I said out loud to no one but myself.

By the time our group reached the top of our climb, it was clear I was in trouble.

Approaching the icepack I turned to Bob and Sharon. “I’ve, uh, got a little situation with my boot.”

They looked down in disbelief at the now gaping rupture. It had already doubled in size, creating a flapping effect that worsened the split with each step.

“We need to start heading back right away,” Sharon said, looking at me.

The offending boots.

Dwarf fireweed feeds off the melt of a nearby snowbank.

A view south from the Spectrum Range.

We had a five-kilometre descent ahead of us and while my footwear was posing one sort of problem, another had simultaneously emerged. David, the fifth member of our hiking party was exhibiting early signs of heat exhaustion. Overdressed for the heat (in an attempt to escape an unholy presence of bugs, particularly mosquitos and horseflies), David had begun experiencing nausea and throughout the day had elected to eat very little.

Rattray inspected David’s clothing. “I thought you were wearing light, quick-dry stuff, Dave.”

“You’re overheating,” he said as we worked our way downhill.

Rattray on the Arctic Lake Plateau.

Rattray stopping at a water source.

“It’s a really special thing to be able to drink unfiltered water straight from the glaciers,” Rattray said.

I eventually insisted to David that I carry his pack for him. He relents and I sling his day bag over my chest. The trek to our tents takes over two hours and I try to hike as gently as possible, displacing my weight far back on my right heel. But the tug of the boot’s heavy sole does the slow work of detachment, a combination of heat, dust and old-boot brittleness working against my cautious steps.

At some point Rattray announces he will hike ahead to retrieve my camp shoes, a pair of lightweight water shoes, with soft foam soles. They’re no match for the sharp, hot rock we’ve been hiking, I think to myself.

I turn diagonal to side step my way down a steep embankment. We are less than a kilometre out from our tents. As I plant on some loose gravel I feel myself slide a little. I look down to see my socked foot blown completely through the boot. I hop down to level ground, the boot flopping from where it’s still securely tied around my ankle.

David and I are at the back of the group. I’ve been listening to him quietly curse to himself and glanced back a few times to see him struggle with uneven steps. Although we tied a handkerchief packed with snow to the back of his neck, he’s been unable to cool. He’s complaining of unquenchable thirst.

I stop to remove the exploded boot from my foot and David watches on. “Okay now you have to give me your pack,” he says. I hand off my pack to David and pass David’s pack to Sharon.

With boot in hand, I hike the last few hundred metres to camp. Mercifully, as we approach the lake the terrain switches from rock to dry moss. It’s pillowy soft.

When we reach the shore of the lake David begins to violently retch. Heat exhaustion hits him hard.

Rattray returns with my camp shoes in hand and surveys the scene. Standing in my one sock I instruct David to drop to his knees.

“That way if you fall over while puking you won’t hit your head,” I say and look at Rattray for approval. Given the sorry state he finds us in, he’s calm and measured — a state I come to recognize as his baseline.

As he positions himself to shade David’s face, I look his way and make an attempt at levity. “I guess you got a little bit of a handful between the two of us, huh?”

We both laugh.

“We’ll be alright,” he says. “Carol, can you go to camp and erect a shade tent for David?”

Rattray telling Tahltan transformation stories around the campfire.

Rattray on the open alpine tundra.

David is quick to rally that evening. As he rests, Rattray and I elected for a sunset swim. Stripping to our skivvies and using the cold water to escape the heat and the bugs, I ask Rattray about his experience growing up off reserve.

The son of a Scotsman and a Tahltan mother, he spent most of his early years in Taylor and Fort St. John, located in a heavily industrialized region of B.C. that consistently ranks high for crime among Canadian cities.

“I didn’t know it was such a violent place until I left and I was like, ‘oh, so hearing gunshots once a month isn’t normal?’ ”

Rattray describes himself as sounding but not looking Indigenous and so escaped a lot of the racial prejudice he saw other aboriginal kids face.

“I was called a half-breed,” he says. “But I always responded, ‘actually when you work it out, I’m more of a three-eights breed,’ ” he laughs.

But like a lot of Indigenous youth Rattray experienced a deep incongruity between what he learned in school and the stories he was told from within the Tahltan community.

“I always did have a hard time with school, because there was what I was learning there about Canada and then there were the stories my granny told me about what Canada actually is.”

“I felt this disconnect.”

Evenings were warm and bright until the sun dipped behind the ridgeline around 10:00pm.

Wild forget me not flowers.

Rocks are beautifully adorned with crystals all throughout the Spectrum Range terrain.

Now, working as an educator within the Dease Lake school system, Rattray says he and other Tahltan are developing what they call “restorative education” for their students, approximately 25 per cent of whom have been identified as high risk.

High rates of alcoholism, sexual abuse and social dysfunction plague the Tahltan Nation, “even if people don’t want to admit it,” Rattray says. And negative stereotypes and racist attitudes toward Indigenous peoples further entrench destructive self-regard, he added. I ask if he connects this suite of social challenges to the history of the residential school system.

“Not just residential schools,” he said. “I connect it to the whole history of colonization.”

“If you read analyses about the social impacts of stereotypes, you see their effect are real. And this is for everyone. When you’re bombarded with images of super athletes, the super model, Mary and Joseph or the noble savage — people just feel bad about themselves.”

On a narrow path heading back to our camp, I ask Rattray if he sees himself as a positive influence in the lives of the youth he brings out on the land. I hear his steps pause. I stop walking too and look back.

“I just want them to connect with their own Indigenous identity,” he said, neck craned back and looking at the sky. “That’s it.”

The glaciers of the Spectrum Range feed into the headwaters of the Iskut River.

Rattray and Sharon inspect my many, many blisters after a wet and sandy river crossing.

A braided river complex over an ancient Spectrum Range lava field.

Salvation                                    

The next morning we rummage for what boot-fixing supplies we have in our packs. One small roll of gorilla tape, a few feet of duct tape and some copper snare wire.

I wrap the toe of the boot as best I can and, once I’ve got my foot inside, loop tape around the centre from under the base up over the laces. The heel flaps open as I walk but it’s a Frankenstein job that’ll work. Each of our party takes a look in turn and agrees. I have about two feet of duct tape left, which I pack with me for a top-up on our day hike.

Our group plans to hike up and behind Mount Kunugu and Rattray brings his satellite phone to make a hail Mary women’s-size-7-boot call out to his aunt. Maybe, if she can get her hands on a pair of boots in Iskut, someone could drive them to the Tatogga floatplane terminal and if the company is dropping off any more hikers in Little Ball Lake…

There were a lot of ‘ifs’ in this plan. Up north, where cell service is spotty and people are generally less ‘plugged in,’ you’re lucky if you can even reach someone mid-day let alone coordinate a multiple-party boot swap.

Up on a high ridgeline, Rattray has a strong signal on the phone and gets his aunt on the line. He explains our predicament. He ends the call with a lack of optimism.

“We need to see if there’s even a floatplane coming this way in the next few days,” he says, his head shaking.

He places a second call to the air service. No dice. There won’t be another drop off at Little Ball Lake for four more days at which time we’d need to be halfway to Arctic Lake for pick up.

As Rattray listens on the line his head lifts up, “yeah,” he said, “that could work.” A pilot would make an emergency stop at Little Ball Lake to deliver more tape. It wasn’t new boots but it was, in short, salvation. Rattray rings his aunt again to call off the boot hunt.

We continued our climb of Mount Kunugu, our spirits buoyed by the news.

As we crest a small, low saddle between two peaks a wide expanse of high plateaus opens up on our right. To our left, the glaciers of Kunugu. The ground is strewn with porous lava rocks yet higher up the sides of the mountain are endless beds of angular dusty rock seemingly pouring from above in flows of coloured stripes.

Small, cool rivers flow direct from the glaciers above and we stop to fill our water bottles. The landscape feels like it’s watching us, shifting and whispering.

It pulses. You can almost see it.

The sweeping backside of Mount Kunugu.

The edge of Mount Kunugu’s impressive glacier.

Cracked rocks show the work of cold winter temperatures that fracture the rocks.

A small willowherb gone to seed.

Split and splintered boulders are strewn around us, evidence of the long work of expansion and contraction over geologic timescales. As we move along a steep mountain slope toward the highest glacier, we see chair-sized rocks weighed in place like heavy puzzles, cracked straight through along multiple lines but not yet disjointed.

The aliveness of the terrain is something Rattray avidly attends to. Often our talks on the trail are interrupted by a low roar, to which Curtis raises a silent finger and widened eyes. “Listen,” he says. “Rockslide.”

We intermittently hear these all around us. When we do, the group sometimes casts its anxious gaze to the towering rocks perched above our camp.

It’s not until this day that Rattray and I catch sight of one. Hiking about half a kilometre behind our party, up a steep embankment of sharp orange stone we hear the familiar rumble. To our right I spot the source of the noise. “There,” I point and Rattray and I watch as a stream of glacial melt undermines and drags a slope downwards. The muddy mix of stone and water thunders a short distance below in a slow, grinding slop — the sound of its soupy clatter echoing off the walls in the valley below.

I hurry up the pile of rocks we’re climbing, wondering what the forces of water are doing to unsettle the path I’m currently taking to the ridgeline above.

That evening, Rattray and I make our way to the lake for our evening swim. There on the rocks sits the holiest collection of objects I’ve ever laid eyes on: a full roll of duct tape, more tape, more wire and the most sacred item of all: a glistening red tube of Shoe Goo.

In my rapture I send a prayer of thanks to this unknown pilot who emerged from the skies to save me — life and limb.

A tiny tower of saving grace.

Rattray walks to our watering hole on the last morning of our excursion. Smoke from B.C.’s wildfires, which continue to burn in Tahltan territory, cast a haze over our final hike out.

“I don’t go for all that stuff about human nature being brutal,” Rattray reflects one day. “Out here on the trail you come to see what humans are naturally — cooperative, collaborative.”

“But humans…humans are consumers,” he later reflects on one of our last evenings. He pivots and turns to me, we’re standing high on a ridgeline near a mountain pass we’ll cross the next morning on our journey to Arctic Lake.

“You know the Matrix?”

“Yeah?” I feel my head tilt lightly to one side.

“I really like that movie. Especially that scene when Neo meets Morpheus for the first time, eh?”

Rattray describes one evening where he paused the video between each line so he could transcribe the dialogue.

“Morpheus says to Neo, ‘some people just know something is wrong. It’s like a splinter in their brain.’ ”

Rattray and I both look out to the valley as he continues. “I really like that line. I think a lot of people, you know, progressive people, they know something’s not right with the way things are. I believe they are connected with this innate, inherent hunter-gatherer spirit. The Tahltan believe in reincarnation. People, beings, they don’t die, they just start another journey. So these people are at a subconscious level feeling their hunter-gatherer roots. And they know something is wrong with how things are set up in our society.”

I ask how he connects that belief to his work as a guide.

“I guess I never really thought through that. But I just want people to come out here and experience the land. To see its value beyond just its use or aesthetics. Humans consume other things for their own well-being. That’s just a fact. Everything requires consumption whether it’s our pots and pans, our kitchen stove or the gas that fuels it. But there’s a right way to extract from the land.”

“These landscapes have spirits and we can’t consume in a way that angers these spirits. I want people to come out on the land, to get out here and see that.”

In my own mind I return to Rattray’s initial invitation and the reason I’ve been invited out on this adventure in the first place — to see this land for myself. I wonder: will this change my reporting? In a way I know it will. Or at least, I make a promise to myself I will allow it to. But I have this deep, abiding feeling that both Rattray’s mind and the landscape itself are places to which I’ll have to return, knowing the terrain is shifting. Evolving. Living.

What that means for the daily grind of an environmental journalist is difficult to capture. But I find myself drawn to the challenge Rattray has endeavoured to meet: to carry multiple, seemingly contradictory worldviews along with him as he journeys through the world. It’s much easier to lighten one’s intellectual load by trekking a more singular line of thought, not detouring from the path. It’s simpler, for example, from a reporting perspective to conceive of local First Nations as stalwart environmental protectors, fighting the Big Bad Mining Company come to threaten their land. But reality is almost always more nuanced than short, quick reporting will allow. It’s more subtle, more concealed and far richer than un-inquisitive minds often suggest. Even as I look at Rattray, he contains a world of complexities, of stories for which there is no simple telling. For him, the story of mining in Tahltan territory isn’t about a streamlined for or against. The question for Rattray falls into the much softer, much more difficult ground of ‘is there a way to do better?’

A relic of mine exploration just outside the southern border of Mount Edziza Provincial Park.

Our group’s final stretch to Arctic Lake.

Clay. The kind pilot who delivered the holy Shoe Goo.

On our final day we hike through what feels like endless kilometres of ancient glacial fields, riddled with large boulders. It makes for tough terrain. When Arctic Lake is finally in sight it signals we’ve reached the southern boundary of the park.

Rattray reaches for his binoculars and we take turns peering down to the water. Bob notices old barrels strewn about the beach.

“Are those rusted-out barrels down there, Curtis?” he asks.

“Yup. Old supply drops from mining exploration,” he explains. “They don’t always return to clean up.”

It’s the first evidence of human presence on the land we’ve seen in six days. Rattray said he’s considered creating a remediation program for the youth, so they can come out with a helicopter and clean up places like these.

With a thunder storm approaching at our backs the wind starts to pick up and we all joke about being stuck there forever. Over our laughter we hear the faint sound of a plane engine.

The pilot lands and angles his floats towards the shore. We start loading up the first of the gear.

The pilot stops in his steps at one point and looks at our group, scratching his head.

“Um…I just want to know, how are those boots doing?”

Editor’s note: Since the author traveled to Mount Edziza Provincial Park, terrible wildfires have plagued the region. Today parts of the park remain closed and the Tahltan First Nation is reeling from the impacts of wildfire in their community. Please consider donating to the Tahltan Central Government’s wildfire recovery fund. 

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.

Imperial Metals is experiencing troubled times.

After the catastrophic breach of a toxic tailings pond at its Mount Polley mine on August 4th, British Columbians across the province have called into question the safety of the company’s other mega mine projects.

The Red Chris mine, located in B.C.’s northwestern corner is now under intense scrutiny by protestors from the Tahltan Nation who are blocking access to the company’s site, saying they won’t leave until independent reviewers address mine safety concerns.

On August 8th, the Klabona Keepers, headed by a group of mostly women elders, set up two camps, blocking each of the two access roads to the mine. Trucks are parked across the roads and makeshift wooden barricades have been erected to keep company vehicles from entering.

Located on Toddagin Mountain, near the Tahltan village of Iskut, the Red Chris mine is scheduled to begin operations later this year.

Like Mount Polley, Red Chris is an open pit copper and gold mine. And, like Mount Polley, the Red Chris mine is expected to produce millions of tons of toxic tailings over its projected 28-year life span.

The company has set aside a pristine mountain lake called Black Lake as a tailings holding pond. Black Lake is located above lakes and creeks which drain into the salmon bearing Iskut and Stikine Rivers – the lifelines of the Tahltan people.

For the elders, the current blockade is not only a show of solidarity with those affected by the Mount Polley disaster, but an act of self-defense.

One of two roadblocks blocking access to the Red Chris Mine. Photo by Albrecht Berg.

During initial consultations between Imperial Metals and the Tahltan, the company allayed environmental concerns by pointing to their safe track record at Mount Polley. The Red Chris mine would share the same design, the company said.

Now, in the wake of the Mount Polley spill, locals fear the Red Chris mine poses a similar danger to the environment, fish and wildlife.

Following the Mount Polley spill Imperial Metals’ President Brian Kynoch said, “If you asked me two weeks ago if that could happen, I would have said it couldn’t happen.”

During a visit to the Red Chris blockade, one of the elders at the camp, who, like her peers, prefers to be identified simply as Klabona Keeper, told me: “When you live off the land, when the land is your kitchen, the consequences of the kind of thing that happened at Mount Polley, are unimaginable.”

Elders sit around the fire at one of two blockades. Photo by Albrecht Berg.

The main demand of the protestors is a reliable guarantee that the kind of catastrophe seen at Mount Polley will never happen at Red Chris.

“We want an independent review of the tailings pond system by a third party independent of both the government and Imperial Metals,” the elder said.

The current standoff has brought into focus a whole range of issues around the Red Chris project. Mistrust is growing around the promised benefits of the Red Chris project.

Author and anthropologist Wade Davis, who has called the area home for the last 40 years, said the Red Chris project is a massive threat to the local landscape.

Standing in front of his home on the shores of stunning Ealue Lake, which is part of the watershed threatened by the mine, he explained that Todaggin Mountain is home to the world’s largest population of enigmatic stone sheep.

Anthropologist Wade Davis at his home on Ealue Lake. Photo by Albrecht Berg.

“This project, a hundred years hence, will be seen as one of the greatest acts of folly in history of Canadian public policy,” Davis said.

Concerns over the future of the mine have also brought new emphasis to working conditions at the mine which one Tahltan employee described as problematic.

“They can fire us without prior notice, while we have to hand a two-week notice in order to quit,” he said.

Complaints of racism against Tahltan workers have also surfaced. According to Imperial metals, 18 per cent of workers at the site are Tahltan.

“Why not 50 per cent?” one of the elders at the blockade responded when questioned on the issue.

“After all, this is Tahltan country,” she said.

Many of the locals view the Red Chris project as a showcase for how the extractive sector functions in the province.

A Red Chris Mine sign with blockaders in the background. Photo by Albrecht Berg.

B.C. subsidized the construction of a 300 kilometre-long power line to Iskut for the mine, using $750 million taxpayers dollars.

The official rationale for the North West Transmission Line was to break the reliance of 300 Iskut residents on diesel-generated power. Yet critics see the project as nothing more than a gift to Imperial Metals.

Provincial support for the Red Chris project is also seen in a new light, after significant campaign contributions for the B.C. Liberals from Imperial Metals came to light. Murray Edwards, the largest stakeholder of Imperial Metals and Calgary Flames owner, hosted a private fundraising dinner for Christy Clark’s campaign in Calgary ahead of B.C.’s May election. 

Since the events at Mount Polley, Imperial Metals and the B.C. government have engaged in significant damage control, with Minister of Mines Bill Bennett likened the spill to an avalanche.

Edwards pledged $100 million to the Mount Polley cleanup to keep a reeling Imperial Metals from going bankrupt.

Company President Brian Kynoch and Minister Bennett paid a joint visit to the Red Chris blockade on Wednesday. Both promised to halt construction until concerns were met.

But so far, the elders remain skeptical. Until they see written commitments to safety standards set by the Tahltan, they are determined to stay.

The mood at the camp is cheerful, yet forceful. Campfire conversation drifts from hunting stories and cookie recipes to political tactic.

One elder joked, “We can always go Mohawk style.” The others chuckled, but agreed they prefer to avoid unnecessary escalation.

The Tahltan have a long history of blockading.

In 2005, during a standoff between Fortune Minerals and Tahltan elders over a proposed open pit coalmine, 15 Klabona Keepers were arrested for defying an injunction to clear the very same access road now blocked by many of the same veteran blockaders.

While the battle over Fortune’s coalmine continues, the Klabona Keepers succeeded in stopping Royal Dutch Shell from going ahead with plans to extract coalbed methane in the same region. Shell withdrew from the region in 2012.

When asked how long they were willing to keep up the current blockade, all the elders answered simply, “For as long as it takes.”

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