We can see this complexity playing out in the way wolves in some regions are caught in the paradox of adapting to anthropocentric change while contributing to the demise of caribou herds, at risk of extinction in multiple jurisdictions throughout Canada and the United States. In response, the B.C. government has expanded wolf culls as a way of managing growing threats of extinction while negating responsibility for addressing the deeper issues behind alarming rates of wildlife habitat loss in these same jurisdictions. Both criticized and upheld as an imperfect solution, wolf culls are in fact not a new practice and part of a well-worn colonial management approach that harkens back to its first appearance on this continent in 1630 in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

Almost 400 years later, what has changed? Amid growing concerns from scientists, First Nations, ranchers, conservationists, hunters, animal rights activists and citizens on all sides of the debate, governments continue to overwhelmingly reach toward this expensive and controversial management approach for a solution to the threat of extinction. Have we stopped to consider the value placed on holding some creatures in the world and not others? In a recent in-depth report, journalist Sarah Cox revealed the B.C. government spent upwards of $2 million last winter on initiatives to kill 432 wolves, the most expensive of which was in the Kootenay region where, according to the B.C. Ministry of Forests, Lands, Natural Resources and Rural Development, they spent $100,000 to kill 10 wolves. Perhaps we need to step back from the zero-sum game of ‘yes versus no’ to think more deeply about who bears the true cost of turning away from the deeper issues behind our current crisis of wildlife extinction? More importantly, what we are willing to do about it as a society?

What often gets missed in the perpetual loop of applying wolf culls as so-called short-term solutions, is the long story of failed policy mechanisms that were supposed to prevent us from getting here in the first place. One of these is the North American Model of Wildlife Conservation (NAM), which positions wildlife as a resource to be managed on behalf of what is referred to as the public trust. Whose voices are taken seriously as constituting members of the public trust is a question that needs greater attention? Who do governments manage wildlife for and who gets consulted in the process?

Figure 1: Wolf track in snow. Photo taken during carnivore surveys, Salmo, B.C., Selkirk mountains. January, 2017. Credit: Rhiannon Kirton

While competition between caribou and other cervids (e.g., moose or deer) can lead to increased caribou predation by wolves, this is simply the most recent proximate cause of declines. Historically, caribou decline has been attributed not only to predation as a result of habitat augmentation and apparent competition, but also to high levels of legal and illegal harvest in the 1960s and 70s and adverse weather, amongst other factors (Environment Canada). While predator and moose reductions have been shown to increase caribou numbers in the short term, at best they have been shown to be a band aid solution versus a viable long-term strategy for success. As awareness of the ultimate driver of dangerous levels of caribou decline grows, there is an increasing recognition of the central issue being one of habitat loss, by those both for and against the wolf cull (Fig 1; Bridger, 2019). Although conservation and other advocacy groups continue to push for protection of old growth caribou habitat, the question of why government decision makers continue to drag their heels along such an ineffectual path gets harder to ignore. Why continue to allow habitats to be degraded and logged at the expense of both caribou and wolves? Whose voices do governments prioritize in the process of continued failure to protect caribou habitat? (Palm et al., 2020; MCRI, 2009). Is failing to do so a breach of NAM’s principle of acting on behalf of the public trust? What, if any, mechanisms exist to hold those in power accountable?  

Figure 2: Caribou habitat. South Selkirk mountain range close to White Water Ski. Resort photo taken during aerial caribou survey. February 2017. Credit: Rhiannon Kirton

NAM denotes a public ownership of wildlife resources which “is held in trust for the benefit of present and future generations by government”, although in real terms, this public often is rarely inclusive of First Nations and Native American peoples, a problem unto itself that we cannot do justice here (Eichler and Baumeister, 2018). The prospect of such entitlement being translated into a meaningful, productive public stewardship is uncertain, given “governance model for wildlife conservation decision making is typically at the (elected) ministerial level”, while boards and commissions exert limited impact. Despite governments admitting the need to modify the model for a greater participatory decision making, the caribou case manifests minimal progress in this respect. Unfortunately, caribou being federally listed as a Species At Risk in Canada has not translated into provincial habitat protection outside of federally owned lands. Why? Part of the reason is that voices of those outside of the decision-making structure might not only be ignored, but also be rendered silent. What does it say about our society in a time of ecological crisis to prioritize industry stakeholders above the value of a functioning ecosystem, which contains intact guilds of predators and ungulates alike? How, why and on whose terms is this discrepancy allowed to continue? 

In discussing the future of the North American Model (NAM), this statement is overwhelmingly instrumentalist: “the maintenance and fostering of landscapes that can sustain viable populations of all wildlife to ensure conservation of biodiversity and human use and enjoyment are of paramount concern”.  Among recommendations of applying and upgrading the model, citizen engagement in the conservation of biodiversity is stressed with grand and empty guidance. Why bend the goal of wildlife conservation to benefit industry stakeholders for short-term economic gain, if doing so erodes understandings of, and possibilities for, biodiversity as an integral component for our collective survival and prosperity? Given everything we now know about the importance of biodiversity in maintaining a healthy and sustainable world, shouldn’t we be promoting interdependency and reciprocity with nature as ultimate goals in public policy, for example, NAM’s wildlife management policy frameworks and application? The model does not need to stress the paramount importance of “the maintenance and fostering landscapes that can sustain viable populations of all wildlife to ensure conservation of biodiversity” and “human use and enjoyment”, because once the former is secured, it enables the latter. There do not exist two natural worlds, an abstract one that is servile to profit-driven human needs and a real one with lives we’ve never been familiar with. The problem of the model, nevertheless, further entrenches a rupture between humans and nature.

Figure 3: Wolf tracks. Simonette River, Municipal District of Greenview, AB. August 2020. Credit: Narda Nelson.

At such a precarious juncture for many creatures and habitats on the brink of extinction, can the story of contemporary wolves be rewritten beyond polarizing figures of either hero or villain? More than simply an inflammatory topic of debate, wolf culls point to the deeper problem of a collective refusal to step back from polarizing debates to better understand and take responsibility for contributing to the very issues that define these challenging times. To restore and safeguard the ecosystems that our existence depends on, it seems increasingly obvious that we should look to Indigenous peoples who have successfully protected the land for millennia. Perhaps the NAM’s failing is in its application and exclusion of Indigenous voices and the centering of colonial forms of management. There are varied approaches and opinions regarding wolf culls within First Nations across Turtle Island. Some, like the Saulteau and West Moberly First Nations, are already succeeding in holding caribou populations in the world where governments have failed.  Perhaps it’s time to seriously reconsider alternatives to continuing to implement the NAM and instead follow their lead.

This article is part of our March 2021 Western Student Editorial Series – a series that showcases the works of students in the Collaborative Specialization in Environment and Sustainability program. Read more articles from this series here!

References

Brook, R.K., Cattet, M., Darimont, C.T., Paquet, P.C., & Proulx, G. (2015). Maintaining ethical standards during conservation crises. Canadian Wildlife Biology and Management (4), 72-79.

Lavoie, J. (2018, April 5). Seeking the Science Behind B.C.’s Wolf Cull. The Narwhal. https://thenarwhal.ca/seeking-science-behind-b-c-s-wolf-cull/ 

Mountain Caribou Recovery Implementation Plan. (2009) http://www.env.gov.bc.ca/wld/speciesconservation/mc/files/progress_board_update20090213.pdf  

Palm, E. C., Fluker, S., Nesbitt, H. K., Jacob, A. L., & Hebblewhite, M. (2020). The long road to protecting critical habitat for species at risk: The case of southern mountain woodland caribou. Conservation Science and Practice, 2(7), e219.

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The CBC article and podcast features Kevin Parkinson, a wildfire operations officer based out of Slave Lake, Alberta, who is one of the few trained experts within the province with an intimate knowledge of utilizing prescribed burns for combating large wildfires. 

As a highlight on the podcast series, this CBC article touches on a lesser-known side of wildfires, that is, that wildfires are not necessarily inherently bad. In fact, they can even be beneficial. Wildfires themselves are natural and the complete prevention of them is not always the “best solution”, even from a human-centric point of view. Massive, destructive wildfires can be devastating, as we’ve all seen in the media in recent years, with fires including the 2016 Fort McMurray fire in Alberta or the 2020 El Dorado fire in California. These large, out-of-control massive fires differ significantly from the prescribed burns described by Snowdon’s article.

Wildfires themselves are natural and the complete prevention of them is not always the “best solution”…

Prescribed burns, also commonly known as controlled burns, are fires set intentionally by experts for land or fire management. As mentioned by the article, these types of burns are done across Alberta each year, however, it is important to note that they are used across Canada and other parts of the world for the benefits they provide. Interestingly, they can be used for fire management, reducing the risks associated with subsequent fires on the landscape. They can also aid in greenhouse gas abatement, promoting regeneration and regrowth of forested areas, and the restoration or maintenance of habitats.

Re-growth on the forest floor after the 2017 Horse Prairie Fire in southern Oregon // Credit: Chelsea Uggenti

You may ask yourself: “How does starting fires lead to less fires?” Although it may seem counter-intuitive, prescribed burn fires can help reduce the risk of later, and often more severe and thus dangerous, fires. Over time, combustible materials such as dried leaves and branches can build up on the forest floor. This accumulation can make the forest more susceptible to a severe fire. Attempting to suppress and prevent fires indefinitely actually often helps enable excess combustible material to accumulate, thus increasing the risk of a severe fire later. Prescribed burns are used to clear this material away before the risk becomes too great. 

Cleaning up the forest floor litter after a prescribed burn in 2018 near Bend, Oregon // Credit: Chelsea Uggenti

Cleaning up the forest floor litter after a prescribed burn in 2017 in the Ochoco National Forest // Credit: Chelsea Uggenti

From an ecological point of view, fires can be important to maintaining certain habitats, and some ecological communities are even regarded as “fire dependent”. Without relatively frequent fires, these areas will not support the same species they otherwise would. Prolonged fire suppression efforts by humans have altered these landscapes, but we are realizing that fires can be important. Through prescribed burns, some of these ecosystems have been at least partially restored.

A few ways that prescribed burns can begin were also highlighted in the CBC article. One such method included dropping fireballs (ping-pong like balls filled with glycol that chemically react) from helicopters to ignite slow burning forest fires. However, sometimes a more intense fire is warranted during a prescribed burn. For these more intense fires, another aerial technique that is employed is called a heli-torch, a helicopter with a 45-gallon drum with gel that is ignited as it is dumped over the forest. Other tamer methods include using a drip torch – a canister that pours flaming fuel onto the ground, done manually while walking in the forest – which are a bit less intense but just as important for wildfire suppression. These are just a few of the hazard reduction technologies and techniques Parkinson uses to protect from larger wildfires, however, there is a lot more strategy involved than simply playing with pyrotechnics. As the article highlights, smaller strategic fires can be set to redirect wildfires in safer directions towards natural fire breaks and often, these fires are carefully planned and executed in detail.

A scorched tree after a wildfire in Umpqua National Forest, Oregon // Credit: Chelsea Uggenti

These burns must be done responsibly, with careful consideration and planning of the present environment. Short and long-term weather conditions, the combustible material present, the types of ecosystems, and nearby infrastructure are all factored in when agencies create a “burn plan”. Parkinson mentioned the carefully planned and executed prescribed burn in Rocky Mountain House that took 10 years to occur while they waited for the right conditions. Although some people believe these burns are bad since they can create or increase smoke plumes in populated areas which can lead to uncomfortable breathing conditions or increased smoke-related illnesses, it is important to realize that the smoke generated by these burns is usually less intrusive and dangerous than the smoke generated by a raging wildfire.

What does this mean to us, exactly? We feel that articles like this give us hope. Although wildfires can be very dangerous and scary, there are some amazing preventative measures, like prescribed burns, in place that help to reduce their risks. It is inspiring to read about Kevin Parkinson’s flaming ping-pong balls technique and the other methods employed by fire fighters and crews. Moving forward, we hope to see better communication (I mean, we’re living in the digital age, right?!) between fire management agencies, fire fighters, and the public that continues to share and strengthen the knowledge that prescribed burns are necessary and effective. We hear the common “short-term pains for long-term gains” phrase ringing in our minds.

This article is part of our March 2021 Western Student Editorial Series – a series that showcases the works of students in the Collaborative Specialization in Environment and Sustainability program. Read more articles from this series here!

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Far from discussing fish biology, the film speaks to the legacy of colonial oppression experienced by indigenous communities from the 16th century when Chile became a settlement of the Spanish Crown to this day. The film focuses on a Mapuche community in the south of Chile. The Mapuche people make up 84 percent of the indigenous population in Chile. They remained independent throughout the colonial period and were forced to join the Chilean state in the 1880s, under siege by the Chilean army. It took about a century for the Mapuche collective land rights to be recognized by a 1993 Indigenous Law, yet there are recurring confrontations over collective land and water rights and human rights abuses. To this day, Mapuche people record some of the lowest social and economic indicators in the country. It is no surprise to see in the film a wealthy settler family vacationing in their rural estate serviced by Indigenous employees in the house and on the property.

Chile // Source: Audley Travel

Settler colonization is a distinct form of colonization that “covers its tracks” (Veracini, 2011, p. 3). To succeed in their colonial project, settlers need to extinguish or erase the former inhabitants of the land. One of the film’s scenes illustrates the engineered amnesia that permeates the contemporary settler’s consciousness. In a casual conversation among male settlers, one of them contends: “What I don’t understand is this idea of ‘recovering the lands’. They talk about the historical debt. What historical debt? They have never owned anything!” To which another responds: “But their ancestors have.” The first man disagrees: “Noooo. They were collectors and hunters. The agricultural activity was minimum. They walk through these woods. They usufruct the woods. They were not owners.” The conversation went on as a trifle and ended in laughter.

The film is not about fish, but rather the treatment of invasive species reminds how in settler colonization projects, binary language is used to establish and justify a society of deserving “haves” and undeserving “have-nots” (Harding, 2006), of us-who-belong-here vs them-who-do-not. In one of the scenes, a boy tells Pancho that the carps “come from another place.”  Pancho explains: “Look, the carps are originally from the Amur river that divides China from Russia. They brought them here to exterminate the algae, but they didn’t tell them that they reproduced very fast.” The ironic similarity with Indigenous people’s extermination by the European settlers was not brought up in the conversation which, again, ended in laughter. In face of the threat posed by over productive invaders, Pancho justified their extermination by all means necessary, including detonating explosives in the lagoon. The violence of the method soon triggered concerns in his daughter Manena.

Violence is an underlying theme throughout the film. Pancho’s choices seem to indicate a form of internalized violence; in addition to bombing the carps, he also installed an electric fence to protect the family lakeside estate. Latent violence grows in the Ovalle household as the movie progresses with Manena realizing that not only is the carp population aggressively controlled, but their Indigenous neighbours are also being dispossessed of their land and ways of life. The film depicts institutional violence led by the state police, los carabinieros, in a raid against a Mapuche village. Inter-community violence is also visible though lopsided, as animal and human casualties are only recorded on the Mapuche side: first, a Mapuche farmer loses a sheep against the electric fence, then a Mapuche worker, Manena’s friend, loses his life, also by electrocution.

Los carabinieros de Chile // Source: Illustrado Noticias

Although this film brings to the foreground the colonial legacies the Mapuche nation faces in Chile, there are certain limitations in this representation. One of the most questionable aspects is the viewpoint from where the audience accesses the story, in this case, Manena, a settler teenage girl that in her vacation begins to perceive the injustices indigenous communities endure in her father’s land. Even though Mapuche women and men appear on screen, the privileged voice is Manena’s. This can lead us to question which voices have the power to be heard, not only in the film but in the public sphere.

Mapuche men are the indigenous characters with most presence throughout the film; in fact, Manena’s friend is the common thread that opens and closes the film. However, this is not the case for Mapuche women. Dedicated to the care work within the settler’s household, they seem to be voiceless presences with no agency whatsoever. This representation falls short given the central role indigenous women have across Latin America in standing up against both environmental injustices and gender violence, up to such a point that scholars have observed a feminization of these fights, this is, more and more women join activist manifestations. Even more so, although the protagonist of the film is a girl, the representation of all the women is an aspect that deserves consideration. Manena’s mother is a character stripped of agency by being constantly silenced by her husband who diminishes her. She drowns her sorrows in alcohol and plays no part in the family business or her children’s education.  

The Summer of the Flying Fish takes place in southern Chile, but its message is global. It speaks to institutionalized violence and systemic racism in other settler colonies including Australia, the United States, and Canada. It compels viewers to turn a critical eye on themselves. To some viewers, maybe, this could be an unsettling exercise to examine their privileges and realize their complicity in perpetuating colonial ideology. About her interest in filmmaking and politics, filmmaker Marcela Said shares that she wants to “shoot what’s invisible, atmospherical… the tension.” The film ends leaving the viewer to know more. How far will Manena go in her standup against her father? How will the Mapuche community react to the loss of one of their youths?  Said can be commended for casting light on the invisible in this atmospheric and politics-laden drama.

This article is part of our March 2021 Western Student Editorial Series – a series that showcases the works of students in the Collaborative Specialization in Environment and Sustainability program. Read more articles from this series here!

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It was my first Green Job – a co-op placement toward completing the Forest Technician program at Confederation College. I was a summer research assistant, tasked with supporting an interdisciplinary team of graduate students, university researchers, and forest sector professionals exploring sustainable bioenergy opportunities in two northern First Nation communities. 

We had been invited to help determine how local forests could help reduce dependency on existing heating sources like diesel or electricity. But also with a bigger picture in mind – that sustainable forest management would also catalyze other community benefits like employment creation, business development and reduce wildfire risk. 

Data collection was key, especially for one fly-in community partner, located in Ontario’s Far North. Within that region, there are no accurate forest inventories. It’s beyond what’s known as the Area of the Undertaking—the zone in which active forest management occurs. We therefore needed boots on the ground to paint an accurate picture of whether local forests could sustainably meet the community’s needs. 

As the most junior person on the team, my role largely involved trailblazing inventory lines and trying to ensure we didn’t get lost along the way. Luckily by my side was our local guide, Fred. 

From my knowledge, Fred never had any formal forestry training—at least in the conventional Western sense. But he possessed a lifetime of experience in the bush. Beyond that, he possessed the collective knowledge of countless generations who had walked those same forests before him. I may have felt isolated in one of Canada’s most remote forested regions. Fred, however, was very much in is backyard. 

The days spent together traversing spruce bogs and jack pine sand flats gave Fred and I lots of time to together. Typical small talk of hobbies and disdain for the incessant the swarms of biting insects, quickly gave way to deeper curiosity. 

Turned out we are very much curious about the same things. Not least of which was learning as much as we could about the forest. “What do you call that?” became our go-to game. The rules were simple: point at a plant, big or small, and ask, “What do you call that?”, generally followed by, “What does that mean?”

At their best, I quickly recognized, the Latin and common names I was learning generally referenced some aspect of a plant’s physical appearance. Many others seemed completely arbitrary. Others, as I see it now, appear modern vestiges of the Doctrine of Discovery, where European explorers have given way to botanists, no longer naming “discoveries” after monarchs but rather notable scientific figures.

Fred’s OjiCree understandings couldn’t have been more different. Each name spoke to a relationship. Sometimes between a plant and its ecosystem. Others between the plant and the human world. For example, where the name I’d learned was simply tamarack, Fred’s spoke to its swampy home. Where I knew simply jack pine, Fred knew its relationship to fire.

Each new word opened my eyes a little more to a different way of seeing, knowing and appreciating the forest. 

One name stood out in particular, though, and continues to live with me to this day. Diverging from our usual pattern, Fred pointed to a tree we’d already covered—I knew as a black spruce. Its needles were brown, many lying on the ground around it. I knew he was looking beyond just a recap of its name. I struggled to find an answer. 

Fred on the other hand, did not. His name, roughly translated, referred to a standing piece of firewood. Where I merely saw a dead spruce and therefore a bypass in our forest inventory, Fred saw a new relationship opportunity. 

In the conifer-dominated forests in which Fred’s community is located, chimney fires are a real and constant danger. Knowing where to harvest dry firewood can be a matter of life and death. That name and the relationship it speaks to have helped keep generations of that community safe. 

In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel humbled. The words I’d learned in school suddenly seemed like just that—words. 

Fred’s on the other hand were glimpses into relationships, histories and ways of knowing the forest that could only ever be fully discovered through many generations of lived experience in that one place. The language itself was a reflection of and testament to the inextricable connections between a people and their home.

With so much collective knowledge contained in even a single word, imagine what else we could learn? 

I carry that experience with me today in my work at Sustainable Forestry Initiative. Through Objective 8, forest-focused community programming, knowledge sharing and convening, we create space where people from all backgrounds can come together, listen and learn from one another. 

Our hope is that through curiosity, conversation and collaboration, everyone can come to their own lasting, “What do you call this?” moment, like I had. 

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Being Métis, that statement by Jim Sinclair to the 1987 First Ministers’ Conference often plays in my mind. 

Self-determination—the ability to freely pursue one’s own destiny—is a basic human right. It is enshrined in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and has since been formally recognized by the Government of Canada. 

More than 35 years after Mr. Sinclair’s principled stand, however, Canada continues to grapple with how to breathe life into that most fundamental of principles. Progress is undoubtedly being made, but not at the pace that many would like. Untangling the web of colonial systems, attitudes and assumptions upon which Canadian society is built is a complex task. One requiring nuanced, nation-specific approaches developed through nation-to-nation relationships.  

As a former elected Métis Nation representative, I’ve sat across from ministers, senior government officials and private sector leaders, attempting to untangle this very web. I can attest to the many practical challenges of achieving full and lasting reconciliation. I can also attest to the value of conversation, learning and relationship building, however long it may take. 

What gets me most excited, though, is myriad of ways through which Indigenous Peoples across what is now Canada are taking action today. Asserting their inherent right to self-determination through efforts big and small, as diverse and unique as Indigenous Nations themselves. Creating positive, lasting change for their communities in the process. 

The #BeadworkRevolution was one such action that I was privileged to be a part of. The reasoning, for me at least, was simple. To advance our nation’s rights and aspirations now and into the future, we needed to harness the collective knowledge, skills and passion of all Métis citizens, including Métis youth. To create that collective consciousness, we needed to rebuild a sense of shared identity and pride that many Métis youth struggle to find. 

What started as a project to simply teach Métis floral beadwork to a new generation, so that every young person could feel connected to and proud of their Métis heritage, grew into a bigger change-making action that none of us could have originally imagined. 

More youth wearing beadwork led to more awareness, more interest, and more requests for materials and instruction by Métis and non-Métis people alike. To keep up with this enthusiasm and demand, our youth group created a “Learn to Bead” kit—everything someone would need for their first beading project, complete with graphical instructions, all in a handy and easy to mail jar. 

By selling these $20 kits to individuals, communities, service providers, governments, school boards and more, we not only raised the awareness and excitement we’d hoped for, but enough money to start a province-wide micro-grant program, through which any Métis youth could apply for up to $500 to host a community gathering or cultural event, to bring community members young and old together. We knew that the potential of our young people was infinite. The grants helped them bring it to life.

With the support of a growing number of partners, that success grew into an annual Métis youth conference, a full-time staff person dedicated to Métis youth issues, and a province-wide initiative where Métis youth could come together to take action on issues that mattered most to them, including education, health and well-being, environmental sustainability, language and culture, and nation building. 

Our small idea grew into Métis youth coming together to assert their inherent right to self-determination. And while I’m no longer a youth, the initiatives carry on under a new generation of leaders. 

Working now at the Sustainable Forestry Initiative (SFI) and Project Learning Tree Canada (PLT Canada), I’m constantly amazed to learn about and partner with other Indigenous Nations who are actively and creatively exercising their inherent right to self-determination.

This includes the Lac Seul First Nation, whose community-owned business, Ondaadiziwin Forest Management, obtained Ontario’s first Enhanced Sustainable Forest License and successfully certified to the SFI Forest Management Standard. Through Ondaadiziwin, Lac Seul is creating jobs and training opportunities for local youth. They are deepening relationships with local municipalities, businesses and land managers. They have not only reclaimed active stewardship of over 1 million hectares of their territory, but are building a resilient and sustainable local economy in the process.

SFI and PLT Canada have been privileged to partner with Ondaadiziwin, co-creating positive, community-driven change that advances the interests and priorities that matter most to them. Together, we have supported land-based Green Jobs for youth, invested in skills training to further build the Nation’s forest management capacity, and have shared the stories and voices of Lac Seul’s current forestry leaders to help inspire their next generation of environmental stewards. 

Like SFI and PLT Canada, Canadians old and young are taking up their own call to relationship and reconciliation. Listening and learning to become the best neighbours and partners they can be. We all have a role to play. Not least of which is letting Indigenous Peoples lead.

The reality that started for me with the #BeadworkRevolution becomes clearer every day is that Indigenous Peoples have long been leading and will continue to lead. The Lac Seul First Nation’s efforts through the vehicle of sustainable forest management is just one example on a list far too long and diverse for me to fully describe. Through creativity, determination and respectful partnership, that list continues to grow by the day. 

Seeing it now from both sides of the table, I can’t help but recognize the prophetic nature of Mr. Sinclair’s words to the First Minister’s Conference all those years ago: “This is not an end. It’s only the beginning… We break new roads for those who’ll come in the future. Don’t worry Mr. Prime Minister and premiers of the provinces, I may be gone but our people will be back.” 

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But coming out of university, I found myself being just another young person with a diploma and few employable skills. Weeks of job hunting led to me questioning my situation and decisions. Was a university education not a sure-fire ticket to a great job? Had I tumbled off the time-tested path to career success? Or had I been misinformed? 

Then one day, I happened upon an issue of Maclean’s calling Canadians into the forest. Positions needed to be urgently filled before an impending wave of Boomer retirements decimated the sector’s ranks, it said.

For someone who practically grew up in the forest, I realized I held an old fashioned, plaid-wearing, axe-swinging picture of forestry in Canada. Who knew it was still an option? Maybe it was time for me to put the plaid back on and give it a swing!

To my good fortune, the Métis Nation of Ontario (MNO) had recently launched a program designed exactly for people like me who were eager to work but in need of employment-ready training. With the MNO’s full support, I went off to the Forest Technician program at Confederation College. 

This kickstarted my new career pathway. One with no clear destination, far messier than the one I’d been sold in high school, but guided by a desire to accumulate experiences, skills and knowledge under my belt that would get me somewhere I loved. I invited myself to wander, following new interests and new opportunities, building a one-of-a kind skillset, while learning what made me happiest and brought me the most fulfillment in the process. 

Now, in my role as the Director of Indigenous and Youth Relations at the Sustainable Forestry Initiative (SFI) and Project Tree Learning Canada (PLT Canada), I get to use my lived experience to help other young people navigate their own pathway to success—whatever that means to them. Serving as the guidance I needed when I was in their position.

From pre-employment training programs to post-employment community service opportunities; every program, service and support tool we provide is a stepping-stone that a young person can take along their own unique career path. 

Free resources like our career fact sheets and “Guide to Green Jobs in Canada: Voices of Indigenous Professionals”highlight the diversity of green job opportunities in the forest and conservation sector. Webinars, online courses and skills funding help youth build their professional competencies. Work-ready equipment grants can help remove employment barriers. Green Jobs wage-matching connects youth with paid work experiences. Mental wellness services help ensure youth are supported along the way. Mentorship experiences and conference scholarships help youth grow into bigger and better roles. And PLT Canada’s Green Jobs Ambassador Program helps youth pay it forward through community service. Completing an overall well-rounded support system to get indigenous youth into the forest and a rewarding career.

Like in the forest itself, there is no right or wrong green path. Only your green career path. 

So, embrace new experiences. Pursue what gets you most excited. Don’t be afraid to take a couple steps back (or sideways) or make your own path when something doesn’t feel right. And learn every step of the way. Take it from this now not-so-young person with a green career he loves!

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SFI advances sustainability through forest-focused collaborations. SFI is an independent, non-profit organization that demonstrates its commitment to forests through its work in standards, conservation, education, and community. SFI works with the forest sector, conservation groups, academics, researchers, brand owners, resource professionals, landowners, educators, local communities, Indigenous Peoples, and governments to achieve a vision of a world that values and benefits from sustainably managed forests. Learn more: www.sfiprogram.org.

About Project Learning Tree Canada (PLT Canada)

An initiative of the Sustainable Forestry Initiative, Project Learning Tree Canada (PLT Canada) believes in a society that values and benefits from sustainably managed forests and the great outdoors. PLT Canada is committed to using the outdoors to engage youth in learning about the world around them—in rural, Indigenous and urban communities—and using trees and forests as windows on the world to inspire action and grow the next generation of future forest and conservation leaders.

Since 2018, PLT Canada has placed youth in over 3,000 high quality work experiences through its Green Job program, achieving both gender balance and over 500 placements for Indigenous youth. The program is successful thanks in large part to the organization’s employer partners across the SFI and Canadian Parks Council networks. Green Jobs youth gain valuable work experience that helps them pursue careers as foresters, wildlife biologists, Indigenous knowledge coordinators, hydrologists, park rangers and much more.

PLT Canada also offers a mentorship program, factsheet, resume and cover letter review services, and webinars to support the career growth and essential skills development of both job seekers and employers. PLT Canada also offers environmental education materials to help inspire the love of forests and nature, and mental health and wellness services to help participants be their best self! Learn more: www.pltcanada.org

Week One: Forging a Career Path in the Forest Sector.

Week Two: Growing Partnerships, Prosperity and a Brighter Future for Us All.

Week Three: What do you call this?

Week Four: Let’s Paddle Together

The post #ForestFridays appeared first on A\J.

These reflections were made especially interesting due to the unique make-up of the editorial team, including: individuals who were born in Canada, who immigrated as children, and those from other countries residing in Canada through work and student visas. 

This Canada Day the Alternatives Journal editorial team were tasked with reflecting on the nature of Canada, what it means to them, and what one aspect of Canada each member appreciates the most. 

These reflections were made especially interesting due to the unique make-up of the editorial team, including: individuals who were born in Canada, who immigrated as children, and those from other countries residing in Canada through work and student visas. 

When reflecting upon the nature of Canada, the team recognizes the difference between the geopolitical entity called ‘Canada’ and the lived experiences of the peoples who have called this landmass home for millennia (and who continue to struggle against systemic injustices today). The team, through listening to the stories shared with us by friends in Indigenous communities, from coast to coast to coast, came to understand that for many, Canada Day is not a day of celebration. This may be best read through this article posted June 29 on the CBC wherein Terre Chartrand (of the Algonquin Nation), one of the organizers of the current occupation in Kitchener’s Victoria Park said “Canada Day is not a day of celebration for Indigenous people. It’s an Indigenous day of mourning,”. Fellow organizer Amy Smoke of the Mohawk Nation Turtle Clan from Six Nations of the Grand River also stated “We don’t celebrate the day. This country was built on the backs and blood of my family and my people.” 

The personal reflections of the team on the nature of Canada may be read as follows:

The Gentle Island

Lucy Maud Montgomery once said, “You never know what peace is until you walk on the shores or in the fields or along the winding red roads of Prince Edward Island in a summer twilight when the dew is falling and the old stars are peeping out and the sea keeps its mighty tryst with the little land it loves. You find your soul then.”

Prince Edward Island is a special place. The Gentle Island gets its name from the soft, rolling sand dunes which stretch as far as your eye can see along the north coast. The dunes stand strong to safeguard their coastal communities from mighty waves and windy storms. While tough, the dunes are gentle.

The same can be said for the island locals.

What Prince Edward Island may lack in size; it makes up for in personality. Hardworking and friendly, Islander hospitality is hard to replicate. To this day, some of my best memories as a child include dancing and clapping along to the fiddle or banjo of a Celtic song after a long day at the beach- my skin still salty from the ocean.  

The island air is clean and crisp- my mother always said she thought the clean air made the colours more vibrant on PEI (I would have to agree).  The most memorable of which is the rusty red soil- rich with iron oxide. The same vibrancy and richness extend into every aspect of life on PEI- from food and art to history. Traditionally home of Celtic and Acadian settlers, and the Mi’kmaq people before that, the island is best known as the birthplace of confederation. And this Canada day, it only seems fit to pay tribute to PEI.

By Alexandra Scaman

No electricity? No problem

Source: CTV News

Given the task of reflecting on the nature of Canada for Canada day, and what one piece of this nature I appreciate the most, my mind immediately sprung to a trip to a hunting cabin in 2018. To me, the nature of Canada is of course seen outside, but also lives within its people. As a foreigner to the country, and someone from a small island, I had never experienced camping in the “great outdoors”, going fishing on a lake, being scared of bear attacks… Thankfully, in my first year of university I met four of my current best friends, all of whom just happened to be from the Ottawa Valley, and all who had a special interest in making sure I, the foreigner, experience the great natural areas that Canada had to offer. This is the other nature of Canada I mean – the sense of pride that my friends had in the natural areas of Canada; and the fact that despite on many occasions saying I didn’t want to go camping, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and insisted that I experience what they described as “what Canada really is about”.

I will forever be grateful that they did. The weekend we went to this hunting cabin we weren’t aware that there would be no electricity or cell service, we didn’t know much to be honest – just that it was in the middle of nowhere next to a lake. The ice cream we brought may have melted, but my newfound appreciation for the country was created. By having no online distractions for five days we were all forced to truly immerse ourselves within nature, and spend our days together on trails, fishing on the lake, and really just appreciating the untouched nature that Canada has to offer. And this untouched nature, as well as the pride of my friends of sharing this nature with me, is the piece of Canada I appreciate the most.

By Alex Goddard

Oh Canada

As a traveler, and immigrant, and moving over a dozen times it felt like a nomadic lifestyle was in the cards for me. Yet there is no place like home. It may seem like a faint memory, but I still remember crying on my plane ride to immigrate to Canada. But much of it faded as I was warmly welcomed by friendly faces, mesmerizing landscapes, and beautiful cities with bold architecture. When reflecting about the nature we are blessed with in Canada, my many camping trips and from having an opportunity to travel from the East to West Coast Canada came to mind. With it’s captivating natural landscape never failed to take my breath away, Canada wide travel has reinforced my love for the natural landscapes we have here and how grateful I am to have seen it. There was something incredibly fascinating to me of how small it made me feel, yet still so significant with the opportunities that are presented to each individual.

There are so many gems within Canada, I would encourage the opportunity to explore one’s backyard, as often we can forget to grasp the beauty that lays beneath our noses. I will never forget the image of crystal blue lakes, or the wildlife such as deer and bears peacefully roaming in national parks reminds me how important it is to protect and advocate for nature within Canada, it’s a feeling and a sight you wish everyone can experience. This is what the Canadian nature is all about to me, I am grateful everyday to call this my home.

By Greta Vaivadaite

The Beauty of Canada

Views of Lake Louise, the Colombia Icefields, the Rocky Mountains and Radium Hot Springs (top left to right, bottom left to right)

Remember taking that summer road trip to enjoy nature at its finest? My first experience in Alberta, was my family’s road trip just a few days after Canada Day in 2010. It spanned 7 days with over 26 hours of driving, 9 stops and 26 people in total-what a once in a lifetime experience!

Moving from Four McMurray, to Edmonton, to Hinton and then being greeted by the lovely Jasper National Park where miles of snow-capped mountains were reflected on the turquoise lake water. The Colombia Icefields had slippery ice sheets full of history and the existence of tour buses with tyres taller than some. Streams of cold meltwater were in abundance where some of the freshest and most pure water could be tasted. Lake Louise had landscape akin to that straight out of a magazine – just pristine. Radium Hot Springs offered horseback riding and sulfur pools followed by summer barbequing with sing-a-longs around the campfire. This lovely walkable town also provided me vivid memories of bighorn sheep coming down off of the mountains onto the streets and within arms-length distance- just observing us. At Banff, taking a gondola and then a short walk, amidst the chilling winds to an area near the summit greeted us with a breath-taking bird’s eye view of Banff, surrounded by the mountain ranges. The trip ended at Calgary near their time of Stampede festivities before having to head back to our starting point. I left nothing but footprints, took lots of pictures and gained enjoyable memories. 

This truly unforgettable experience broadened my appreciation for nature and would not have been possible without the splendour that Canada has to offer. Each province has their own natural beauty, making it worth getting out and exploring in your own backyard this Canada Day.

By Shanella Ramkissoon

They’re called “The Great Lakes” for a reason!

I’ve never been a fan of lakes. The unpredictability of lake animals unnerved me as a child. Moving to Canada from a coastal European town at a young age made me think of this country as bricks and concrete. I couldn’t see the ocean or smell the salt in the air. Nature took a backseat in my mind and I didn’t do a lot of thinking about it until about age 14 when I went sailing on Lake Simcoe. I was hesitant at first, as you might have guessed, but it ended up being one of the first (since then many) times I felt most connected to the natural world. Seeing the sunsets from the boat, swimming with Bass and Trout, and taking the dingy out for a quick trip around the bay made me appreciate the natural beauty that Canada has to offer.

At the end of my trip, I was hesitant to leave. I knew I would miss the calming effect that the outdoors had on me. This experience reminded me that you don’t have to live near the ocean or on the foothill of a mountain to experience Canadian nature in its most beautiful form: free. 

By Teo Guzu

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The tranquil and barren island of Rapa Nui, commonly known as Easter Island, illustrates the rich cultural and ecological history of the self-sustaining Rapa Nui civilization that existed in complete isolation from the 13th – 17th century A.D. The island’s several hundred abandoned megalithic statues (moai) stand tall amongst the treeless, grass-covered terrain, stoically gazing across the region as monumental markers of the tireless physical labor and determination of the fallen Rapa Nui people. Unfortunately, what remains of Easter Island’s characteristic statues has since been referred to as a symbol of self-destructive and unsustainable practices adopted by the Rapa Nui people.

With this in mind, is it realistic to believe that the same cultural practices that once sustained this population for generations suddenly became detrimental? A further, more comprehensive examination would reveal that the people of Easter Island endured the perfect storm of environmental, physical, and social burdens that eventually led to the demise of this once-thriving Indigenous society.

The inactive volcanic landmass known as Easter Island is one of the most isolated human inhabited landforms in the world, with the nearest continental body (South America) located nearly 3,750 km away[1]. Initial arrival of Polynesian settlers to Easter Island from more western islands, such as the Marquesas, Tuamoutu, and Gambier Islands, dates back as early as 800 AD[2]. But, despite potential ecological challenges associated with geographic location and isolation, the island was once densely forested with palm trees and other lush flora predating Polynesian settlement[3]. If that was the case, then how could this vast deforestation event have occurred?

As geographer Jared Diamond puts it, this is the result of their cultural “ecocide”, the wilful destruction of the natural environment by humans. His hypothesis claims that the Rapa Nui people were responsible for their own cultural demise due to their mindless practices of deforestation and over consumption – ultimately resulting in famine and civil unrest[4]. Several other researchers have also argued the idea that the people of Rapa Nui were shamelessly clear cutting their forests to use as resources in supporting their growing population[5].

While sediment records from the island mark that the onset of deforestation coincides with Polynesian settlement around 750- 1150 AD, Rapa Nui populations were still thriving even well after this period of time – suggesting that this simple accord of deforestation could not be the only reason for their cultural demise[6].

Because of Easter Island’s sheer isolation amid the Pacific Ocean, there is but a small number of native plant and animal species that can naturally prosper there; as a result, pre-existing wildlife is highly vulnerable to invasive species[7]. An indirect effect of settler immigration to the island was the introduction of an invasive rat species, Rattus exulans[8]. Since the rats arrived on the island with next to no predators, their populations were able to flourish. The prosperity of these rats ravaged habitats essential for other naturally occurring wildlife and even lead to local species extinctions, ultimately contributing to and worsening the larger issue of island deforestation[9].

The struggle for survival on Easter Island following the gradual destruction of natural resources only intensified after initial contact with European Explorers. One of the first accounts of Dutch explorer, Jacob Roggeveen, in 1772 describes the unarmed and peaceful nature of the Rapa Nui people, while later revealing plans to “defend” at all costs should him and his men be attacked during their invasion of the territory[10].

By the late 1870s, thousands of Rapa Nui inhabitants had been enslaved by the Europeans, leaving just over 100 native islanders to fend for themselves on their land that was then ravaged with new diseases and characterized by a great deal of social disarray[11]. During their invasion, European explorers also brought over more invasive species including rabbits, cows, horses, sheep, goats, and pigs—all of which severely degraded the island’s ecology[12].

The history of the Rapa Nui people of Easter Island reveals many lessons about the interrelated impacts of geographic isolation, invasive species, a complex history of deforestation, and European colonization. Though it is widely believed that the Indigenous people of Easter Island induced their own societal demise through a blatant disrespect for the finite nature of the surrounding environment, their misfortune is more reflective of colonial pursuits of land, money, and resources. A more balanced history of Easter Island than is offered by the “ecocide” hypothesis is owed to the people of Rapa Nui, as the collapse of this imaginative culture can be regarded as a microcosm of the cumulative and detrimental global impacts of colonialism throughout the last century and a half.

The post The Disappearing Myth appeared first on A\J.

Earlier this month, 15 youth from across Canada gathered in Inuvik, Northwest Territories as part of the FutureXChange Program, designed to connect and equip them to collaborate on new community projects to help adapt to a rapidly changing climate.

“Everything the Gwich’in people do, is accomplished with one foundational premise, that we all have a duty to our children, and children yet to come, and to our mother lands, to ensure the prosperity of all, for all time,” said Brandon Kyikavichik, heritage interpreter. 

The program was launched in the fall and is one of the first of its kind in Canada. It was created in partnership with the Gwich’in Tribal Council, Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, and the global non-profit, Youth Climate Lab.

“FutureXChange grounded the importance of traditional knowledge in climate action and climate policy. Doing the convening in Inuvik, with Gwich’in elders and partners, really proved that,” said Dominique Souris, Co-founder and Executive Director of Youth Climate Lab.

Of the youth delegates, half were selected from the northern Gwich’in communities and the others from the southern provinces. The program kicked off with a Traditional Knowledge gathering for Northern participants, with several weeks of online policy training offered to all participants, which helped prepare them for the facilitated workshops and activities at the convening. Delegates have dispersed back across the country as the role of “community activators” and will share what they’ve learned through community events organized in their hometowns.

This program is important because it emphasizes the role of traditional knowledge and Indigenous voices in the climate change conversation here in Canada. Although Indigenous communities have been on the frontline of the fight to protect the earth for many years, their voices are often left out or ignored.

Indigenous communities and people of colour are disproportionately affected by changes to the climate. According to a 2019 report published in IOP Science, the Arctic is warming up to 2.4 times faster than the Northern Hemisphere average. This has triggered an avalanche of devastating effects that are taking place right before the eyes of those living in northern communities. 

Only two hours north of Inuvik, the 950 residents of the Inuvialuit community of Tuktoyaktuk, will be some of the first people in the country forced to relocate in the next few years as the rising sea threatens to inundate their coastal homes.

The FutureXChange Program was created in an effort to shift the conversation around climate change in Canada to include traditional knowledge and ideas. With the 25th annual Conference of the Parties (COP25) happening this December in Spain, Souris said there is a need for a program like FutureXChange at the international level. 

“[FutureXChange] provides the opportunity for young people to connect, share and collaborate from different perspectives, and that’s what we need for more ambitious action,” said Souris. 

“Doing this at the international level could ensure that policy is created in partnership and leads with the voices of Indigenous people and youth from around the world.”

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