Amid worsening U.S.-Canada relations, Ontario Premier Doug Ford is once again threatening to cut off electricity to 1.5 million homes and businesses across three neighbouring American states: Minnesota, Michigan and New York. 

The move comes as Canada tries to stave off the impact of U.S. President Donald Trump’s decision to charge “far WORSE” tariffs after the federal government decided to walk away from trade negotiations on Aug. 21. Prime Minister Mark Carney has announced a “dollar-for-dollar” retaliation beginning September.

But Ford is pitching a more aggressive approach. “Everything’s on the table,” he told reporters on Aug. 24. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” 

On Ford’s table are critical minerals, uranium, potash, oil and, significantly, electricity. 

“We power 1.5 million homes and businesses,” Ford said. “What I find ironic about this is we’re actually giving electricity to companies that make products that compete against us. That needs to stop, and we’re going to address that.” 

Ford emphasized that Ontario isn’t the only province that sends electricity to the U.S. Others include New Brunswick, Quebec and British Columbia. “So we need to get together and decide if we’re going to put surcharges on the electricity,” he said. “How can we let them take really inexpensive electricity to make goods to compete and take jobs from Canadians? You can’t square that circle.” 

Ford’s plan wouldn’t just affect Ontario or its bordering states; it could have repercussions for affordable, reliable electricity across both countries.

Ontario has been trying to stave off these effects by proposing new and massive energy projects across the province — investments that Energy Minister Stephen Lecce deems “tariff-proof, recession-proof.” But these projects are far from being operational.

Here’s everything you need to know about this developing situation.

How did we get here?

For more than a century, America and Canada have bought and sold power between provinces and states. At any given moment, electricity is flowing in either direction across a shared and massive transmission grid, with the goal of keeping electricity affordable and available, especially when it’s most needed. Both countries have helped the other during cold snaps, heat waves, droughts and floods. 

While our shared systems have made us susceptible to each other’s energy failures — 50 million people lost power when overgrown trees in Cleveland caused North America’s largest blackout ever, in 2003 — for the most part, this relationship has been seamless. 

But for the second time in almost two years, all of this is under threat. 

The first major threat to the two countries’ shared electricity grid came in November 2024, when Trump threatened to impose a 25 per cent tariff on all Canadian and Mexican imports — unless the two countries improve security along their borders. 

In response, Ford imposed a 25 per cent tax on electricity exports and threatened to shut down electricity exports entirely should the tariffs remain on the table. The surcharge was in effect for one day last year and made the province $260,000.

Both options — which Ford once described as options of “last resort”— are being pitched once more. 

The federal government has not officially weighed in on Ford’s proposal yet. Neither have other provinces that send electricity south of the border. 

Which Canadian provinces send America electricity?

Canada began sending electricity to the U.S. in 1909, when the first transmission line was built connecting the two countries. Today — 117 years later — every Canadian province along the border is electrically interconnected with at least one U.S. state. There are more than 31 cross-border transmission lines across both countries. 

That means the countries can easily work together to balance out fluctuations in energy needs. For example, during extreme winter weather in the U.S. in 2021, Canadian electricity companies sent increased electricity to those that needed it — an act that wasn’t just friendly, but kept the heat on as temperatures plummeted to less than -20 C in most parts of the central and southern U.S. (That’s less than -4 F for any Americans reading this.)

Ontario is the largest electricity-exporting province, followed by Quebec, while Michigan, New York and Minnesota are the largest electricity importers.

Why has Canada integrated its electricity system with America’s? 

Simply put: we produce too much! And the U.S. population is much, much bigger. 

Ontario’s very large nuclear supply, hydro plants and renewable energy sources collectively produce more electricity than the province of less than 17 million people uses on a regular basis. Nuclear facilities aren’t easily turned on and off, so Ontario sells largely emissions-free electricity to the U.S. overnight for cheap. (The alternative is letting that surplus electricity go to waste.) 

Quebec also produces more hydroelectric power than it uses. That’s why it has long-term export contracts to supply electricity to New York state — home to 20 million people. It’s also a major source of revenue for the provincial government. 

In total, Canada exports enough electricity to power 4.5 million U.S. homes.

Does America sell electricity to Canada? 

Yes, and we might need more of it soon. 

Ontario’s nuclear production has shrunk as aging plants are shut down or refurbished, while drought conditions have made hydroelectricity less reliable in British Columbia and Quebec. Meanwhile, a growing population and energy-hungry technology has put greater demands on Canada’s supply. 

The Independent Electricity System Operator, which manages supply and demand in Ontario, reported in 2024 the province may have to consider increasing the amount of electricity it imports from the U.S., even as it rushes to build new power plants and find new sources of power. 

The balance is already shifting: by fall 2023, monthly average U.S. electricity exports to Canada increased by 70 per cent, and imports decreased by 36 per cent. 

British Columbia has been a net importer of electricity for three years in a row; 25 per cent of the province’s electricity came from America.

In the Prairies, imports and exports are minimal, and the one line connecting Alberta to Montana has been at the centre of a legal battle with Warren Buffet’s Berkshire Hathaway.

How has politics affected the Canada-U.S. electricity relationship before? 

On the whole, the shared grid has operated with relatively few discussions of tariffs or trade barriers. The disputes have more frequently been between jurisdictions or electricity producers and utilities. Communities have sometimes opposed electricity projects on the other side of the border when they fear it might affect their local environments. 

Premier Doug Ford has been threatening to cut American states like New York and Michigan off from Ontario’s power. Could he do that?

He could. 

The Ontario government has the power to instruct the Independent Electricity System Operator to limit electricity exports, which would theoretically impact the amount of energy neighbouring American states can access. 

There’s one snag. To both increase the price of electricity exports and shut them down, the government would need to table legislation directing Ontario’s electricity utilities and operators. The government is currently on an extended summer break until Oct. 27. Ford is resisting the Ontario NDP’s call to return sooner to pass emergency relief measures for workers in tariff-exposed sectors and business.

If Ontario reduced or eliminated electricity sales to American states, what would be the impact there and at home?

The electricity grid really is one big machine, so it won’t function nearly as well if we cut it in half. 

Two energy experts previously told The Narwhal the immediate impact would likely be marginal in American states, which could make up for lost Ontario electricity by tapping into local sources of power kept in reserve, mostly fossil fuels. The result would be a grid that was more expensive to operate, much dirtier and less reliable on both sides of the border. Plus, Ontario’s electricity producers would see a financial loss, which might increase costs for domestic users. 

If Ontario was in an emergency situation during a charged political battle, like a winter storm, it wouldn’t be able to rely immediately on U.S. electricity, as it can now. It would have to work more closely with Manitoba and Quebec.

All of this is hypothetical, though. Ford has yet to provide details of his plan.

How will Ontario mitigate the impacts of the trade war on electricity?

By building big, new energy projects — or so they say.

On Aug. 25, Energy Minister Stephen Lecce was in St. Clair Township, at the border between the U.S. and Canada, to announce his government is planning to revive the long-shuttered Lambton coal-generating station into either a new nuclear or gas facility. This proposal joins a long list of massive energy projects — including new generating facilities in Nanticoke and Port Hope — the Ford government believes will make the province and the country energy-independent.

“Energy independence has always been vital,” Lecce said. “Today, it’s more than just keeping the lights on. It is about our national security and sovereignty. It’s about making power and having the power to make our own decisions, build our own industries and fuel our economy right here at home.”

But these projects are far away from being built, let alone being operational. In the short term, a trade war with electricity caught in the centre will have some impact on residents across both countries.

—With files from Drew Anderson

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A major Canadian oil and gas company reported dozens of incidents at its pipelines after the provincial regulator exempted thousands of its pipelines from normal clean-up timelines. 

According to provincial data reviewed by the Investigative Journalism Foundation and The Narwhal, Canadian Natural Resources Ltd., or CNRL, reported 45 incidents since 2020, many of them spills of unspecified amounts of natural gas and other toxic cargo caused by metal corrosion at aging pipelines. 

Those spills came after a 2020 decision from the BC Energy Regulator to exempt roughly 4,300 of the company’s pipelines from the usual requirement that inactive pipelines be fully decommissioned within 18 months. Decommissioning, or deactivating, a pipeline includes removing any fluid and disconnecting it from the system. The sealed-off pipeline will remain in the ground in perpetuity. 

A CNRL spokesperson did not directly respond to a question about whether the spills occurred at pipelines associated with the exemption. Neither did the BC Energy Regulator.

Most of the pipelines operated by CNRL are short, transporting fracked natural gas and other fuels from wells scattered across northeastern B.C. to larger pipelines which carry the products to consumers or exporters. But even after those wells have run dry, the pipelines associated with them can still leak leftover contaminants into the local environment.  

“If it’s not properly [decommissioned] after its end of life, you have a substantial risk of groundwater contamination,” Philip Gass, a director of the energy program at the Ottawa-based International Institute for Sustainable Development, said in an interview. 

Gass said such spills might go unnoticed.

“If it’s been sitting there for a long time, you have to be really careful about the monitoring because this isn’t an active pipeline where you would notice a spill right away,” Gass said.The BC Energy Regulator reports for the CNRL incidents include leaks of natural gas, liquid hydrocarbons and produced water — a byproduct of oil and gas extraction that often contains heavy metals and hydrocarbons. Of the 45 reported instances, 23 were due to metal loss, often internal corrosion that allowed toxic fluids to escape.The regulator said incidents don’t automatically mean spills, since they can also include “incidents with the potential to affect pipeline integrity.” But many of the CNRL incident reports explicitly indicate that they resulted in spills or pipeline failure.

The regulator did not say how much of each fluid leaked into the surrounding environment or if there was any ecological damage associated with those spills.

Critics argue the spills are further evidence the regulator erred in giving CNRL such a broad exemption, which they called a sign of the undue influence the oil and gas industry has on provincial regulators. 

“It doesn’t give us a lot of faith that the regulatory system is operating as it should,” BC Green Party MLA Jeremy Valeriote said. 

‘No impact to the environment’: CNRL

For comparison, in the six years prior to 2020, CNRL reported 25 incidents at its pipelines, 17 of which were due to metal loss. 

A CNRL spokesperson said the company operates 14,896 kilometres of pipelines in B.C. and that spills are dealt with properly and promptly. 

“Clean-up and remediation activities were completed, resulting in no impact to the environment,” the spokesperson said of the 45 incidents since 2020. “When events occur, such as equipment malfunction that results in an incident, we have safety and environmental management systems in place to quickly manage these events. To mitigate any impacts, incidents are quickly and effectively managed in accordance with our structured emergency management and spill preparedness programs.”

Daryl Foley, president of Group 10 Engineering, said producers like CNRL work hard to minimize incidents.

“Their intention is to do the right thing and to prevent spills because it costs them an enormous amount of money when they have a substantial spill,” he said in an interview. Foley’s Calgary-based company works with companies and producers on pipeline integrity issues and advises the Alberta and B.C. regulators on best practices. “I’m not claiming that everybody’s perfect — if perhaps they’re ignoring it and there is a residual risk of environmental impact, well, they need to pull up their socks and get after it and prioritize based on where the highest risks are.”

Foley said corrosion affecting pipelines has been an issue for decades, but fracking can exacerbate the problem.

“The challenges are real,” he said. “Northeast B.C. in particular, they’re fracking these wells to try to enhance production. The challenge is after fracking, they’ve run into issues where they can get some of these frac solids, and some of them can be really aggressive sulphur compounds.”

Frac solids are a mixture of silica sand, water and chemicals used in fracking to extract oil or gas trapped in underground rock formations. Those mixtures, if not properly removed from sections of pipeline that move material from wells to larger, safer transportation pipelines, can damage the metal and cause leaks or spills. Foley said any pipelines with potential or identified corrosion issues associated with active wells should be prioritized.

“Are these wells known to have been discontinued properly?” he wondered. “That’s really what they should be checking in on and making sure of. Any that hasn’t been discontinued properly, that needs to be dealt with immediately.”

CNRL pipelines exempt from clean-up timelines

The BC Energy Regulator said a 2020 audit identified thousands of CNRL pipelines that were either inactive or soon would be. The regulator said that’s what prompted it to strike a deal with the company, one of the largest oil and gas producers in the country.Under that deal — which was not publicly disclosed at the time — the regulator agreed to exempt thousands of CNRL pipelines from normal clean-up timelines in exchange for the company committing to deactivate all of them by 2028, with targets to meet every year until then. 

The regulator later found in 2023 that the company was not meeting those commitments, but reinstated the deal without penalizing CNRL.

A regulator spokesperson said the deal was “the most effective way to bring CNRL into compliance” and claimed the agreement “was not a removal of oversight.” 

As of this month, the regulator said only 474 pipelines remain to be deactivated out of an original total of 4,312.

“As such, CNRL continues to meet and exceed the required deactivation targets set out in the conditions of the exemption,” the spokesperson said.

Drew Yewchuk, an environmental lawyer and PhD student at the University of British Columbia, said it’s not clear what the regulator or the public gained from the deal with CNRL. 

“The regulator is getting less than what the legal requirements are, and the company only has to do less than what was the legal requirement. So what is the regulator getting from these deals?” Yewchuk said.

He said oil companies often argue meeting regulatory requirements would endanger their operations, putting pressure on politicians to intervene.

“They don’t want to cause job losses, and that’s the threat that companies always have in the background,” Yewchuk said. “They say, ‘Look, if you force us to invest too much here, we’re going to move out of this jurisdiction.’ ” 

But he said CNRL isn’t a struggling company. The Calgary-based company reported net earnings of $10.8 billion in 2025.

“CNRL is not out of money,” Yewchuk said. 

Regulator ‘way too tied to industry’

Gass said oil and gas remediation can become a public responsibility if the operating company goes bankrupt. Some provinces, including B.C. and Alberta, charge oil and gas companies an annual levy to clean and shut down so-called “orphan wells” left by defunct firms.

But if the company is still active and profitable, the regulator’s role should be to enforce the rules, Gass said.

“In an ideal situation you have a regulatory regime that assures the accountability and has the enforceability to level penalties for actors that don’t do the remediation as needed,” Gass said. 

The BC Energy Regulator, like other regulators in Canada, is funded by an annual levy charged to oil and gas companies.

While proponents argue an industry-funded regulator is sustainable, critics like the Green Party’s Valeriote argue it creates a dependence that gives energy companies undue leverage in negotiations.

Valeriote said granting exemptions like the one given to CNRL is unfair to other companies following the rules and is “erosive to the regulator’s reputation.”

“I think there’s probably a cultural and systemic issue there and that they’re way too tied to the industry,” Valeriote said. 

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My parents were farmers before they came to Canada in the late 1980s. So were my grandparents. I grew up here, never farming, but also never entirely distant from it.

Some of my strongest connections to my family’s history in Punjab came from the back seat of my parents’ car. I remember trips to farms in and around Brampton, Ont., to find vegetables my parents grew up eating in India: okra, bitter gourd, fenugreek, coriander and other produce that would later be cooked into sabzi, a lightly sautéed vegetable dish eaten with flatbreads like roti.

For me, those trips meant getting a taste of a country I hadn’t grown up in.

For my parents, they meant something different.

They brought back memories of working alongside their parents and siblings. After immigrating to Canada, their family members eventually scattered to different countries and continents and those experiences became harder to return to.

Going to the farm offered a small piece of it.

Thousands of people now experience this nostalgia through their phones. In the past few years, several farmers in the Brampton area have taken to social media to share their crops, farming practices and the knowledge behind how they grow food. There’s King Subzi Farm (@kingsubzifarm) northwest of the city, in Caledon, Ont., along with Balle Balle Heritage Farm (@balleballeheritagefarm).

Sarbat Farm (@sarbatfarm), northeast of Brampton, has just over 5,000 followers on TikTok alone, watching reel after reel of daily life on the farm and chickens roaming the land. Driving there, in early August, I got to see it in person, this time from the front seat: fields filled with fresh garlic and serrano chilli peppers, tractors moving through the land and families arriving to buy produce — and a taste of home.

South Asians were farming in Canada in the early 1900s

The connection between farming, food and migration has existed in Canada for more than a century. Tarlok Singh Sahota is the director of the Lakehead University’s agricultural research station in Thunder Bay, Ont., and studied agronomy at Punjab Agricultural University in India. He says Punjabi farmers have been involved in Canadian agriculture for generations, particularly in British Columbia.

Historical records compiled by the South Asian Studies Institute at the University of the Fraser Valley show that by 1909, 35 South Asians were working on farms in Mission and Matsqui in B.C.’s Lower Fraser Valley. By 1923, records listed 25 farms among businesses owned or operated by the province’s relatively small South Asian community. The earliest record in Ontario is 1914, when a group of Sikh men worked as farmhands on an estate near Pickering, east of Toronto.

Today, Statistics Canada data shows 8,960 Sikh people worked in agriculture in Canada in 2021, representing about 2.1 per cent of people working in the industry. By comparison, 771,790 Sikhs live in Canada, making up 2.1 per cent of the country’s total population.

“Farming is in our blood, so they started owning farms or farming as soon as possible so they could do it,” Sahota says.

In places such as Brampton, which 340,000 South Asians call home, that history of farming is meeting a growing market for vegetables that are everyday ingredients in Punjabi kitchens, Sahota says, but less common on conventional Ontario farms.

Many of these vegetables can require intensive watering and care to ensure a controlled and reliable moisture supply, separate from natural rainfall throughout the growing season, he says.

There is also the knowledge that comes from understanding the crop itself, what it looks like, how it grows and when it should be harvested.

“That’s why most of these things are grown by Punjabis or Asian communities,” Sahota says.“For most people here, this is a specialized cultivation, specialized farming. It is what you call high-value crops in a way.” 

Whether farmers can grow those crops commercially ultimately comes down to demand.

“Because there’s a big population, then there’s a demand,” Sahota says of Brampton. “Whatever you grow, if there is no demand, you won’t grow that.”

Family, friends and farming outside Brampton, Ont.

Jaswinder Singh Sran came to Canada in 2008. His 19-year-old son, Gurveer Singh Sran, says his father grew up farming in India and had long dreamed of doing it again.

Gurveer remembers hearing stories about his father operating a combine — the machine used to harvest a variety of crops from oats to rice and more — when he was about 18 and travelling to other parts of India where farmers would pay him to harvest their crops.

“My dad always had a dream to farm in Canada,” Gurveer says. But it would be years before that opportunity arrived.

The family started farming the 400-acre property in 2020. There is a whole team behind Sarbat Farm, from those tending and harvesting the vegetables that sprawl across tree-lined fields, to the people selling the goods at a farmstand on the property. When I visit on a Sunday, it’s teeming with customers, filling bags of green chickpeas and pattypan squash, under a big, white tent. 

Balkaran Dhillon is also a part of that team. He bought land in 2017 that became the site of Sarbat Farm.

Dhillon, too, grew up farming in India. “When I was three years old, I always went with my parents to sit with the tractors and grow vegetables and other crops like wheat, mustard, chickpeas and cotton,” Dhillon says.

He moved to Canada in 2001. Dhillon met Jaswinder, who was doing general contracting work, in 2020. They set about starting the farm together.

The name Sarbat derives from the phrase “Sarbat da bhala” in the Punjabi language, Dhillon says, which translates to “blessings or welfare for all.” They chose the name to reflect their desire to help feed everyone.

Adapting farming practices for the climate and environment

While much of the team at Sarbat brought knowledge of farming from India to Ontario, it has required adaptation.

The biggest difference, Dhillion says, is the weather.

“It is hard, especially because of the very small [growing] season and winter,” Dhillon says.

But they have found ways to stretch the growing season and learned some of the local norms for seasonal planting. Garlic is planted in the fall, Dhillon says, whereas in India bulbs could be buried into the winter months. Some plants are started in greenhouses in February, allowing them to be transplanted soon after temperatures rise in the spring.

A couple years after starting the farm, the owners converted to organic farming practices, Sarjeet Singh Jhabelwali, another family friend who oversees some of the farming operations, explains.

“We want to prove that farming can be done without chemicals and fertilizers. Farming can be done without tampering with nature,” he says in an interview, conducted in Punjabi.

For Jhabelwali, the approach is part of a broader vision for agriculture that he wants the community to understand, particularly younger generations.

“We are polluting the environment. Species are disappearing,” he says. He attributes this, in part, to the use of pesticides. Health Canada studies and regulates pesticide use – what is allowed and how much – but generally recognizes that pesticides are one of several factors contributing to the loss of pollinators and other impacts on humans and the environment.

Dhillon says avoiding pesticides makes the work more labour-intensive because weeds have to be removed by hand rather than sprayed, but it’s better for the environment and creates jobs.

He estimates the operation employs about 40 to 50 people, many of them relatives, friends and older workers who already know how to farm.

For Gurveer, who helps during the summer and around his school schedule, the fields represent both his father’s past and something his family could carry forward.

“Everything is hand-cultivated, so just seeing the fields itself, without any weeds, without using pesticides, that’s a big achievement,” he says.

Passing farming knowledge to a new generation

The farming knowledge at Sarbat, and other farms in the area, may be coming from an older generation, but the way the farm reaches customers is distinctly modern.

Sarbat Farm began using TikTok to promote its produce in 2024. At first, the family simply experimented with posting videos. Then one went viral.

“Our main message is to attract people toward pesticide-safe food produce because there’s definitely a taste difference,” Gurveer says. 

But Jhabelwali sees the social media presence as more than advertising. He says about 50,000 people visited the farm last year and expects that number to double this year. The more people who see the farm online and visit in person, he says, the more opportunities there are to show people how their food is grown.

“The people who visit will come and see how the vegetables are being grown. The new youth who come will gain awareness,” Jhabelwali says.

He believes younger generations are particularly well-positioned to seek out that information. “Our new youth have good language skills and command. They read and write. They use ChatGPT and search for everything we’re talking about,” he says.

The farming tradition once passed primarily through generation to generation can now reach thousands of people through a phone screen. And those screens are, perhaps surprisingly, bringing people back onto the land, Jhabelwali says.

“The community is what supports us,” Gurveer says.

Dhillon notices it most among older visitors. They come to see the tractors. They walk through the fields. Some want to pick their own vegetables — an experience the farm has been considering expanding.

“A lot of people come here to refresh their memory,” Dhillon says.

Gurveer hears it directly from visitors.

“People feel connected with their roots here,” he says. 

“You don’t get to feel that a lot in Canada.”

Rajpreet Sahota is a community and policy reporting fellow. Her position is funded in part by the Canadian Race Relations Foundation. As per The Narwhal’s editorial independence policy, the foundation has no editorial input.

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When Michelle Brown-Colistro became pregnant with her second child in 2024, she and her husband decided to find a two-bedroom place to house their growing family. They managed to find a home in Vancouver’s notoriously expensive housing market that they could afford: a 1970s-era wooden-sided walk-up in Hastings-Sunrise, a historically working-class residential neighbourhood on the city’s east side. She knew her apartment-lined street was a designated truck route, and that container trucks had begun using it to reach the Port of Vancouver after the port’s Clark Drive entrance was closed to container trucks in 2011. But weeks after moving in, surrounded by unpacked boxes in her toddler’s bedroom, she became aware of the non-stop assault to her senses from the heavy-duty truck traffic outside. 

“Just the smell of the diesel through our window was so extreme,” she recalls. “It’s like a train of trucks. You barely get a break between them.” 

Brown-Colistro wasn’t the only resident concerned about the impacts of truck traffic. In the following months, she and her neighbours learned that the Port of Vancouver had decided to make the temporary detour permanent; changing its status as a truck route would also require approvals from Translink, the regional transit authority and the City of Vancouver. 

That summer, the fumes from truck exhaust on Brown-Colistro’s street were so cloying she had to keep their windows shut even on the hottest days rather than subject her toddler’s little lungs to the pollution. She bought air purifiers and ran them constantly, concerned about the risk of inhaled pollutants to her developing fetus. After her second child was born, Brown-Colistro rallied a city councillor, Lisa Dominato, and her MLA, Nikki Sharma, to her cause, but their efforts were futile. She was informed that the city’s engineers were concerned that re-routing traffic from her street would merely shift the burden onto other streets, equally unequipped to handle increases in heavy-duty traffic. 

In Vancouver, the heaviest burden of that traffic lands in the city’s east side, which encompasses heavily used truck routes, including the one outside Brown-Colistro’s apartment. The eight-kilometre-long Clark-Knight corridor, which runs north from the Fraser River toward the port’s newly expanded container terminal on Burrard Inlet, brings an average of 33,000 vehicles through the Clark and Broadway intersection each day and is the most heavily used truck route in the city. Of 25 air quality monitoring stations Metro Vancouver operates, the one adjacent to that intersection consistently records the worst nitrogen dioxide levels.

A 2018 study found that the air quality at this location was as poor — and at times poorer — than that along Ontario’s 401 highway, the busiest highway in all of North America, despite having one-twelfth as much traffic. The researchers’ conclusion? It wasn’t the number of vehicles so much as the higher proportion of heavy-duty diesel-burning trucks that spiked airborne pollutants. Though large trucks account for only six per cent of traffic at this intersection, they contribute a disproportionate amount of pollutants; compared to Sundays, when few trucks are on the road, on weekdays the levels of concerning pollutants are up to 2.8 times higher.

“The air quality objectives across Metro Vancouver, as they report to us, are met except for the monitors near our downtown area and also the Vancouver Clark Drive station,” Michael Schwandt, a medical health officer with Vancouver Coastal Health, explains. “It’s also a major problem because as we see increasing population density and all of the amenities that people need to live healthy lives — whether that’s schools, childcare, workplaces — often cluster in these areas.”

“The port is such an important economic engine for the country,” Christine Davis, a neighbourhood parent, whose child attends elementary school right on the truck route says. “But where does that leave the immediate neighbours that have to deal with the pollution and the traffic?” 

A more toxic beast

Not only has diesel exhaust been linked to cardiovascular impacts and compromised lung function, increasing incidences of asthma and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, but it is also made up of a cocktail of nitrogen oxides, sulfur oxides, ozone, formaldehyde, benzene and smaller organic molecules that the World Health Organization classifies as a known carcinogen. 

“Diesel exhaust is different from gasoline exhaust, and diesel exhaust does generate compounds with higher levels of toxicity,” Marianne Hatzopoulou says. Hatzopoulou is an engineering professor at the University of Toronto who studies transportation systems and air pollution generated by traffic. “There’s definitely non-questionable evidence out there right now that the major contributors of traffic-related air pollution are the diesel vehicles — so, primarily the heavy-duty and the medium-duty trucks.” 

One in five childhood asthma cases in Canada are linked to traffic-related pollution, according to Vancouver Coastal Health research scientist Michael Brauer, who co-authored a 2019 study examining the global burden of NO2-caused pediatric asthma, which was published in the medical journal Lancet Planetary Health.

There are documented links to cancer, too. One study of French children reported the risk of childhood leukemia rises with exposure to nitrogen dioxide, black carbon and fine particulates — hallmarks of diesel exhaust. Health Canada states “there is sufficient evidence that the relationship between [traffic-related air pollution] exposure and childhood leukemia is likely to be causal.” It also notes links between adult lung cancer and breast cancer. Researchers have also found infants and children exposed to traffic air pollution are more likely to develop allergies and ADHD, while living near busy roadways is linked with a greater incidence of dementia, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s and multiple sclerosis in adults.

There are shorter-term impacts on brain functioning from traffic-related air pollution too. Chris Carlsten, Director of the Centre for Lung Health at the University of British Columbia, has found that two-hour-long exposures to diesel exhaust temporarily dull the brain’s ability to concentrate and do basic tasks. In one experiment, he and his colleagues found that those exposed to diesel exhaust showed impairment comparable to someone with a blood alcohol level of 0.05 per cent, the equivalent of two or three drinks for an average-sized man. 

The Port of Vancouver did not make anyone available for an interview. By email, they wrote, “We recognize community concerns about impacts associated with commercial vehicle traffic and continue to engage with residents, government and industry partners to gain a clearer understanding of traffic impacts, both related to the port and otherwise. We remain committed to minimizing the impacts of trade-related activity on surrounding communities while supporting the safe and efficient movement of goods that Canadians rely on.”

What’s equally concerning for Carlsten is the invisible toll that traffic exhaust exacts on the lungs of young children, which can impact them decades later. “Suddenly all these early life insults become much, much more significant,” he says, describing how someone in their 50s or 60s might experience deteriorating lung capacity that actually originated from their exposure to traffic-related exhaust in childhood and adolescence. “I think it’s fair to say that schools in general just should not be within 300 metres of high traffic routes. I mean, it makes no sense; it’s where the kids are spending most of their days,” Carlsten says. “Given the level of evidence of adverse effects of traffic-related air pollution on children, it’s hard for me to understand how that can be possibly justified.”

And yet, 10 of Vancouver’s 89 public elementary schools are located within 300 metres — the distance from major roadways in which pollution levels are most concentrated — of the Clark-Knight corridor route to the port. Based on 2024 enrolment data, that means around six per cent of all public elementary school students in the city are breathing air that health experts believe is dangerously compromised. Across Canada, a 2022 analysis by Health Canada found that almost half of schools were located within 200 metres of major roads. (In Vancouver, it’s more than half.)

“We are promised as citizens of Vancouver that we will have access to this beautiful clean air that’s heavily marketed to us. I constantly feel like: Who is that accessible to?” Brown-Colistro says. “It’s certainly not low-income people. It’s certainly not a lot of young families who, due to the housing crisis, are forced to live along these busy corridors. It’s certainly not school kids.”

A tangled web of regulations presents challenges for decreasing vehicle emissions

In 1992, an emissions reduction program for light-duty vehicles was implemented in B.C. AirCare required vehicles to pass regular emissions testing before it was ended in 2014. Coupled with improved vehicle technology and cleaner fuels, vehicle emissions were reduced by 89 per cent between 1992 and 2014, according to the B.C. Ministry of Environment. Overall, the air quality in the region has improved in recent decades, thanks to these policies and regulations, despite significant population growth. However, the equivalent of mandatory AirCare for heavy-duty diesel vehicles was never instated, despite a 2013 MetroVancouver report showing it could have cut their emissions by more than 76 per cent.

“Heavy-duty vehicles, especially trucks, don’t have as stringent emission standards as we’ve historically done for light-duty vehicles,” Hatzopoulou explains.

But the gap with regulations for on-road heavy-duty diesel trucks remains significant in British Columbia, and nationally too, since many of these vehicles drive across the country, crossing provincial borders. Interestingly, Metro Vancouver has managed to move the dials to clean up non-road diesel engine emissions, from construction or industrial work, significantly. The regional authority introduced regulations around the emissions of non-road diesel engines in 2012, which cut pollution from construction, industrial and commercial sites.

In 2021, the regional district further strengthened the regulations, banning older diesel engines with zero emission controls (as well as older engines that have slightly reduced emissions) from operating within 100 meters of hospitals, elementary schools, day cares or community care facilities. In explicit recognition of the public health costs of the status quo, Metro Vancouver is now phasing in higher fees for those operating more polluting engines to offset their higher health costs to the region. 

Though B.C. and Metro Vancouver have tried to run mandatory emissions testing programs for heavy-duty diesel trucks, some of which are older, poorly maintained or whose emissions control systems have been tampered with after-market to burn dirtier, these efforts were abandoned after lobbying efforts from trucking industry groups.

Trucking in B.C. doesn’t have to be this dirty

Since 2006, the Port of Los Angeles, the largest and busiest port on the continent, has implemented policies to reduce emissions and pollutants. Their investments and policies include a US$10 tariff per 20-foot container, excepting zero-emissions trucks, which is used to fund clean truck deployment. As of May 2025, 546 zero-emissions trucks operate at the Port of Los Angeles and the Port of Long Beach, most of which were bought with vouchers collected through the tariff or similar incentives. Since 2005, the Los Angeles port’s diesel particulate matter and nitrogen oxides emissions have been cut by 92 and 77 per cent, respectively.

In fact, all over the world, federal jurisdictions are actively tackling the problem of heavy-duty diesel truck emissions. Germany has built a one-kilometre section of its Bavarian Autobahn to wirelessly charge e-trucks as they transit the inductive roadway. Sweden now requires older vehicles to be retrofitted for pollution reduction before they can drive in the country’s designated low emission zones. The health benefits of these “clean air zones,” which restrict access for for vehicles that do not meet emissions standards, are significant. One study tracking several thousand elementary school-aged children in London, England documented improvements in children’s lung growth and health following the introduction of London’s “ultra low emission zone,” which led to 22 per cent reduction of nitrogen dioxide exposure in children over five years years. “That complacency … I would say it’s just in Canada,” Hatzopoulou says. 

In Vancouver, that complacency is hard to change. The Port of Vancouver was going to implement a Rolling Truck Age program that banned the oldest, most polluting trucks from accessing the port, however the program was postponed three times before being abandoned altogether, following opposition from truckers. By email, the Port of Vancouver said any new trucks applying for port access are required to be 2018 models or newer. However, drivers with trucks older than 2018 models who have already been approved can renew their access.

As a result, of the fleet of 1,700 container trucks that are licensed to access the port, more than half are older than 2018 models (and just under 10 per cent are 2007 models or older, the worst polluters), according to the port. By email, the port told The Narwhal it “does not have enforcement authority or capability for container truck inspections.” And as the port points out, its container trucks are not the only heavy-duty diesel engines on Vancouver’s roads. Any regulation or enforcement has to come from the federal or provincial level to meaningfully transform the roads. 

On one hand, getting the oldest, most polluting trucks off the Clark-Knight corridor should be low-hanging fruit for public health and transportation policy. But Dave Earle, president and CEO of the BC Trucking Association, says, “It is white hot politically.” Despite the dirtiest-running trucks — from 2007 and earlier — comprising a small minority of the port’s truck fleet, they are “driven by a couple of hundred extremely vocal, very, very politically active and well-connected folks,” Earle says. Yet the public health burden posed by this small minority of older trucks is outsized. A study led by McGill researchers and published this July concluded that removing pre-2007 heavy duty vehicles in Toronto and Montreal would prevent more than 3,300 premature deaths a year.

The current costs of electric heavy-duty trucks, after government rebates, is still around twice as much as a diesel truck. In June 2026, HTEC opened Canada’s first high-pressure hydrogen refuelling station for heavy-duty trucks on Tsawwassen First Nation industrial lands, 45 minutes south of the Port of Vancouver, but hydrogen-powered vehicles currently cost two to four times as much as a diesel model. Smaller but more accessible improvements could be made by replacing pre-2007 trucks with newer diesel models that run 10 to 20 per cent more efficiently, says Earle: “The quicker we can get the old stuff off the road and the new stuff on, the better off we’re going to be.” Running container trucks on natural gas, which reduces greenhouse gas emissions by upwards of 30 per cent and nearly eliminates particulates in exhaust, should also be explored, he adds. There are other changes he thinks the industry could make: tires that improve fuel efficiency, or retrofitting auxiliary power units so to reduce emissions while trucks are idling. (The province did offer rebates for trucks to retrofit their auxiliary power units, but the program’s funding was cut in 2024). 

But absent any changes to regulations and policy incentives, the problem is only going to get worse as trade disruptions with the U.S. hike the number of overseas trade coming in and out of Vancouver’s port. Last year, the equivalent of 3.7 million 20-foot-long shipping containers moved through the port’s four container terminals, two of which are located in Vancouver — a nine per cent increase from the previous year. Though the port is now running six all-electric trucks — part of a $3-million pilot project with Transport Canada and the province — this is just a drop in the bucket for Brown-Colistro and her neighbours, who see more than 2,000 container trucks and 6,000 heavy-duty vehicles pass by their homes each week. 

In the absence of leadership from government or jurisdictional authorities, there are signs of progress in the transportation industry. R.R. Plett in Langley, for example, operates eight electric trucks in their drayage fleet, one of few operators in Western Canada to have zero-emission heavy-duty trucks on the roads. Edison Motors has just received approval to manufacture class-8 diesel-electric hybrid trucks at its manufacturing facility in Donald, B.C., and is securing funding to do so. The Vancouver International Airport is exploring how it can use zero-emission electric barges to reduce congestion on Vancouver’s roads, innovating an air-to-marine model of cargo movement that circumvents the dirty heavy-duty vehicles altogether in favour of short-sea shipping over local waterways. 

“I just see a real desperation amongst my neighbors and the people I talk to,” says Brown-Colistro. “We’ve been knocking on proverbial doors and we get promises, but we don’t get solutions that are enacted.” 

In 1971 a group of 25 mothers in East Vancouver blockaded the railroad cutting through their neighbourhood to protest the danger to children who had to cross the tracks on their way to and from school. Their efforts were successful in spurring the city to finally build a pedestrian overpass. While the truckers’ threats of job action have moved the needle among decision makers to protect the status quo, despite the disproportionate health costs to children, a modern echo of the ‘70s Militant Mothers of Raymur looks more necessary all the time. “Everybody is dragging their feet so much about it,” Davis, the fellow neighbourhood mother, says. “At a certain point … do we have to do civil unrest or something? Do we have to block traffic to get noticed?”

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On the first Saturday of August, near the Tyne Valley United Church, dozens of members of the Hardy family are dressed in rags, faded fishing bibs and painted head to toe as zombies. The family staggers in unison as they practise their carefully choreographed dance to Michael Jackson’s Thriller for the Tyne Valley Oyster Festival parade, an annual celebration of Prince Edward Island’s world-famous shellfish. 

The Hardy family has fished the waters of P.E.I. since the mid-1800s, and they’re a fixture at the small rural community’s annual festival, which also includes a hoedown, oyster-shucking competition and Miss Oyster Pearl pageant. But this year, a funereal mood hangs over the celebrations, reflected in the family’s choice of costume and performance: most of the island’s oyster farmers are grappling with catastrophic losses from disease, and the industry is on the verge of collapse. 

Up west, away from the crowded sidewalks of Charlottetown, is the heartland of P.E.I. oysters, where determined rural communities hug the cold shallow bays that house the majority of the island’s world-renowned shellfish. But since first being detected in 2024, a parasitic disease called multinucleate sphere unknown, or MSX, has decimated crops. Last summer, another deadly disease called Dermo arrived in P.E.I. waters, though so far its impact is much more muted. 

While the Canadian Food Inspection Agency confirms the diseases pose no risk to human health, the economic toll is devastating. Farmers pulling up their cages have said they found a mortality rate of nearly 100 per cent, wiping out millions of earnings and leaving many with little — or nothing — to sell for years to come.

There’s a glimmer of hope: MSX-resistant broodstock and oyster seed from across the border in Maine could help staunch the losses in the short-term. But the long-term survival of the industry may depend on breeding a new kind of oyster, unique to P.E.I.

A seed of hope for P.E.I. oyster growers and harvesters

The provincial and federal governments have announced supports for the oyster industry that include interest relief for growers and processors, wage and retraining assistance and a licence buy-back program for wild harvesters. Ask anyone on the water and they’ll say they welcome the help, but fear it’s come too late. This crisis has been looming since MSX was declared on the island in July 2024, with little to no support or plan for the growers and harvesters.

Monique Horne, a farmer whose family owns and operates a 50-acre oyster lease, is prepared to persist through the crisis, but insists they need help. 

“We will make it through it, but we do need both provincial and federal governments to work collaboratively with industry and be quick to respond with the help we need when we need it for the next three to five years,” Horne says. “Our economy depends on it.”

In the meantime, a desperately needed boost arrived on the island on June 11, after the Canadian Food Inspection Agency approved the import of MSX-resistant broodstock and oyster seed from across the border in Maine to help stem the tide in the coming years.

Soon after its arrival, I joined Horne on the water with her father, Pat O’Brien, and son Connor, travelling to their oyster lease to plant the new U.S. seed. 

On this quiet June morning, theirs is the only fishing boat on Foxley River. The water is eerily still — as if mirroring the stark reality for oyster farmers in the region — as Connor navigates the boat around thousands of rows of cages that, in any other year, would be roiling with activity.

“It’s pretty quiet out here,” Horne says. “It’s not normal.”

Once Connor cuts the engine, the three generations of oyster growers begin filling slim suitcase-sized cages with the precious cross-border seed. Using a medium Tim Hortons coffee cup discarded on a work bench, Horne and her father ensure an equal amount of the Cheerio-sized oyster seed is distributed for each of their leases.

There’s no guarantee the lab-grown seed will take in P.E.I.’s waters. 

“It’s an experiment,” Horne confesses. “We’re willing to try it. What other options are there? Other than waiting for local hatcheries to find a resistant strain.”

The family members move smoothly around one another, hauling used cages that held diseased oysters from the line and seamlessly setting the new cages pregnant with oyster seed.

It’s a faster-growing seed, so if they grow well with a reasonable mortality rate of around 10 per cent, it’s possible the oysters could be harvested and sold by the fall of 2027. 

“Hopefully this works,” O’Brien says. He’s got decades of experience on the water, and hauled hundreds of oyster cages in his life. “If it does, we’ll feel safe. If it doesn’t, we’re gone.”

P.E.I. researchers chase solution to oyster disease

Playing a key role in the urgent search for an answer to the crisis is the team at Onda, a P.E.I.-based contract research organization specializing in aquaculture.

Tirosh Shapira, a scientist at Onda, says once the MSX infection first broke out on the island in 2024, he and other researchers jumped into action.

“These are our neighbours. This is our community. We have the facilities here … so we just said, ‘How can we help?’ ”

One of the main areas of focus for Shapira and the team is pinpointing the cause of the infection, which they believe is through a secondary host — similar to how malaria is transmitted by mosquitos. This means infected oysters can’t transmit the disease directly to healthy ones. But no one knows what the secondary host is. 

“Despite the disease being out there … infecting oysters all across the East Coast [of North America], there’s surprisingly little known about it,” Shapira admits.

When the MSX parasite wiped out the oyster population in Chesapeake Bay in the United States in the early 1960s, most watermen pivoted to clams and softshell crab. Opting to use natural selection as a means to fight the disease, it took over 20 years for any form of significant recovery of the oyster population — though oyster numbers never returned to their pre-MSX levels.

To crack the mystery of MSX infection, Onda is developing an infection model, creating the specific conditions to observe how disease is transmitted. At Rutgers University and the Virginia Institute of Marine Science, Shapira says American research teams have been using Dermo to breed disease-resistant oysters. He says Onda plans to follow their example and generate the disease in their infection models, “as Dermo resistance also bestows resistance to MSX.” 

The most recent testing detected Dermo present in only 0.4 per cent of tested oysters from across the province, and isolated in the east. On the other hand, MSX has caused such widespread damage that Shapira says, the additional impact of Dermo is “not significant at the moment.” 

According to Shapira, and many other leaders in the aquaculture space, the way out of the crisis is through breeding a local line of disease-resistant oysters unique to P.E.I.

“That’s how it worked anywhere that survived and came out of it,” Shapira says. “There are no scientific questions about it!”

This, however, takes time. Even if an MSX-resistant line was achieved today, it would take three breeding cycles — six years in total — until that new line of disease-resistant oysters could be propagated across the island.

It will take persistence, Shapira says. “P.E.I. is going to solve this. This is our culture. This is who we are. We are oyster farmers. We are not going to stop being oyster farmers.”

Back at the oyster festival, four generations of Hardy family members are putting the finishing touches on their parade float. The crash of thousands of lifeless oysters bounces off the walls of the Britannia Hall community theatre as buckets of dead shellfish are dumped around a gruesome mummified corpse.

Gordon Hardy, one of eight siblings whose parents, Leslie and Shirley, run the family business, is part of four generations frantically getting into position here today. As the last of the dead oysters — part of this year’s disease-ridden harvest — are being carefully positioned around severed skeleton parts, he steps back and evaluates the scene.

“Well, things aren’t really that great at the moment,” Hardy says when asked how the family business has been faring. But, as if embodying the resolve of all the island’s oyster growers and fishers, an encouraging smile buoys his face as he digs in his shirt pocket to pull out a single hopeful disease-resistant oyster seed.

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If you ask an economist why everything is so expensive these days, you will likely get an answer explaining how oil — the lifeblood of the global economy — is currently facing supply bottlenecks in the Strait of Hormuz, thereby bringing up global energy prices.

That explanation is part of the answer, but it doesn’t paint the whole picture. Our new research proposes a new way of thinking about rising costs in our contemporary era, through the lens of what we call “climateflation.”

As a concept, climateflation proposes that the causes, effects and even attempts to mitigate and adapt to climate change are conspiring to make everyday life more expensive.

As ecological political economists, we are concerned not just with how rising costs impact people’s wallets, but also with how it might have spin-off effects in areas such as social inequality, political radicalization, geopolitical instability and environmental degradation.

‘Fossilflation’ and political failure

By burning fossil fuels since the rise of the industrial era, humans have added 495 billion tonnes of carbon to the atmosphere. Those emissions have contributed to global warming, which in turn has increased the likelihood of extreme rainfall events, extreme heat and agricultural drought.

However, since at least the early 1990s, the international community has sought to limit dangerous global warming. In 2015, members of the United Nations agreed to limit global warming to 1.5 C above the pre-industrial era (or well below 2 C).

Yet only in the last few years has the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change specifically named the elephant in the room — fossil fuels — as a core cause of the problem. As such, decades of corporate greenwashing and political stonewalling have enabled fossil fuel use to continue growing, leaving the global economy heavily dependent on this form of energy.

If the global energy system were not so dependent on fossil fuels, it is unlikely that present-day oil and gas supply bottlenecks in the Strait of Hormuz would be contributing so much to headline inflation.

Put differently, if climate mitigation efforts had been taken more seriously 35 years ago, today’s conflict in Iran would have far less bearing on everyday prices. In this way, we can link rising prices today to the political failure to act on climate change.

From ‘carbonflation’ to ‘greenflation’

There is also a more direct impact from climate change on everyday costs.

Weather extremes are incurring tremendous costs, from rising public health costs and productivity losses associated with severe wildfires and heat waves to rising grocery prices for climate-vulnerable crops because of agricultural failures. Extreme weather events such as heat waves and flooding are also imposing major costs on infrastructure and buildings.

These direct costs tend to be more sporadic, occurring more acutely in areas dealing with extreme weather. However, as the world warms, the underlying weather events causing these price increases are expected to become more frequent and severe.

Yet the direct effects of climate change and our failure to get off fossil fuels are not the only forces influencing costs. Much of our present-day infrastructure was constructed with a more stable climate in mind. Homes, businesses and capital have built up in vulnerable areas without adequate resilience measures in place.

In other words, not only have our political leaders largely failed to heed the warning to wean our energy systems off fossil fuels, they have also failed to invest in more climate-resilient infrastructure.

This makes dealing with climate change today more expensive. It also means yet more costs as people and institutions are forced to retrofit or refurbish buildings and infrastructure, invest in and build new clean energy production systems, acquire new climate-friendly equipment, secure new forms of insurance protection or even relocate to new areas.

In some instances, governments have sought to tackle climate change by applying a surcharge on fossil fuel consumption (a carbon tax) or by incentivizing low-carbon purchases (through things such as electric vehicle rebates). Yet these policy tools can result in higher costs for society.

Not just about rising costs

Overall, the three main areas we outline above — fossilflation, carbonflation and greenflation — are the main constituent parts of climateflation.

In our work, we are careful to note that climate change does not always lead to cost increases. In fact, in some instances it is associated with reductions in prices — for instance, when higher levels of CO2 help to fertilize crops, or when clean-energy retrofits actually reduce energy use and bring down household costs.

Nevertheless, the net effects of climateflation are likely to be increasing costs for the foreseeable future. That is likely to remain the case until we can power most of the global economy without fossil fuels, bring emissions down to net zero and halt further warming and build infrastructure that is truly resilient to new climate conditions.

Of equal concern to us, however, are the potential spin-off effects that rising costs can create in other areas.

Climateflation could create winners and losers, dividing those who can afford higher costs from those who cannot. It could also make reactionary — and xenophobic — political movements more compelling to an increasingly frustrated and angry population. The resulting discontent, or competition for new resources in an effort to bring down costs, could sow the seeds of conflict between communities or nations.

If history is any measure, periods of relatively high costs can be destabilizing to the traditional power structures that uphold society. How will climateflation play out in this regard? Only time will tell.

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This story is part of a series called Shockwave: Rising energy demand and the future of the Great Lakes. The Great Lakes region is in the midst of a seismic energy shakeup, from skyrocketing data centre demand and a nuclear energy boom, to expanding renewables and electrification. In 2026, the Great Lakes News Collaborative will explore how shifting supply and demand affect the region and its waters.

It’s the summer of data centre controversies in Ontario.

In a season where city council chambers are usually quiet, residents of Hamilton, Oakville, Mississauga, Burlington and Toronto have shown up to public meetings in droves. Many are there to resist proposals for massive new data centres in their backyards, worried about noise, water use and energy bills.

By mid-August, Oakville and Mississauga moved to freeze new data centre construction for a year. Hamilton came within an inch of doing the same.

On Aug. 13, Ontario Premier Doug Ford weighed in. 

Standing in front of a wall of servers at a government-owned data centre in Guelph, Ford unveiled the province’s new “data centre playbook” — and made clear he had little patience for local revolt against the boom he wants to usher in. 

“This is the way of the future,” he said. “Either we do it or Donald Trump’s going to do it, and I’m not giving Donald Trump nothing, absolutely nothing.”

Pushback is also happening in Fergus, Sault Ste. Marie and Armour Township, where a project was cancelled in June in the face of public opposition. Ford calls data centre skeptics “hypocritical,” suggesting residents fighting these projects were “misinformed.”“It just doesn’t add up,” he said, arguing that people can’t rely on artificial intelligence (AI) and cloud storage while also refusing the infrastructure that enables them. 

It was a blunt, campaign-style pitch for a $122-billion industry that has been lobbying hard to take root in Ontario, attracted by its clean electricity grid, temperate weather and proximity to the Great Lakes (four of the five count shorelines in the province). But the data centre push has sparked real concerns about the very few rules governing these massive facilities, and the resources needed to run them.

It’s a story with chapters being written across Canada — including Alberta, where more than 40 are proposed, and New Brunswick, stirring worries about the impacts on old-growth forests and wetlands. Around the world, communities are making it clear they view the centres and the technologies they enable with increasing caution.

And now Ontario is making moves. The province’s playbook has been posted online for public consultation until Sept. 12. It’s currently just a draft, not yet in force — and the legislature won’t be back to debate it until Oct. 27, after an extended summer break.

Here’s everything you need to know.

What are data centres — and why do they matter so much right now?

Strip away the technical jargon and a data centre is just a warehouse full of computers — racks and racks of servers that store and crunch the data behind everything from your email to chatbots to this very story. 

Whether you like them or not, data centres have become the backbone of the modern economy: cloud storage, artificial intelligence, banking systems, health care and government services all run on them. 

They’re not new — Ontario already has dozens — but artificial intelligence has supercharged their scale and size. Today’s data centres are requesting hundreds of megawatts of power, dwarfing older facilities that ran on less power and used less water to cool their servers. While artificial intelligence has its own tension points (which we won’t get into here, but feel free to check out our AI policy), resource use is the root cause of local concerns around the physical space occupied by data centres.

How does a data centre get built in Ontario?

Energy Minister Stephen Lecce has said the province “welcome[s] data centre entrants” — but that welcome comes with strings attached and an approval process that can take up to three years, maybe more. 

The groundwork for this process was laid out first in Bill 40, formally the Protect Ontario by Securing Affordable Energy for Generations Act — the first law governing data centres among provinces — and further in the new playbook.Between the two, it’s clear that data centres need to prove two things to be able to connect to Ontario’s grid.The first is to prove they will be able to cover the full cost of their own electricity connections and use — something other businesses aren’t required to do — so regular households aren’t stuck covering the cost. To enforce that, Ontario wants to create a new, higher electricity rate for any data centre over one megawatt. Quebec’s version of this rate kicks in at five megawatts, so Ontario’s lower bar would catch a lot more projects.

The second is to show the centre will be good for Ontario’s economy. The playbook lays out a three-part criteria to determine this: what jobs, investments and tax revenue it could bring to Ontario; whether it would keep local data in the province; and whether benefits to the host community outweigh the financial and environmental costs. If a data centre can’t satisfy these criteria, Bill 40 gives the energy minister the power to reject its grid connection request. 

“The bottom line is, if a data centre wants to come to Ontario, it is not your right,” Lecce said in a July press conference as the criteria were unveiled. “We now have the right to say no.”

Data centres also have to get approval from municipalities, which determine zoning and building permits. However, most Ontario municipalities don’t yet have zoning rules that specifically address data centres. This means projects can often move ahead on land already zoned for general industrial use, leaving councils with limited power to say no. 

Notably, data centres in Ontario do not have to go through a full environmental assessment, according to analysis from law firm McCarthy Tétrault. It’s also unclear if the province will enforce the constitutional duty to consult Indigenous communities on proposed data centre projects. 

But the province is ensuring other things. The playbook says the government will favour centres that use quieter equipment. It’s also encouraging companies to build their own power supply instead of relying entirely on the public grid, since that can get them running faster than waiting in line for a grid connection. Doing so would exempt a data centre from the process outlined in the playbook. It may also see data centre projects proposed with on-site natural gas plants, as we’re seeing in Alberta. 

One thing neither the playbook nor Bill 40 makes clear is what size of data centre the new process applies to.

How will data centres impact Ontario’s electricity demand?

Significantly — and the numbers keep increasing with every new forecast. 

In 2024, the system operator forecast Ontario’s overall electricity demand will grow 75 per cent by 2050 — a sharper jump than previously projected, driven largely by factories and data centres. The centres are expected to account for about 13 per cent of that new demand by 2035.

A more recent forecast suggested data centres could eventually make up close to nine per cent of all electricity used in Ontario by 2050.

What are data centres using all that electricity for? To stay running all the time; servers never sleep, constantly processing web traffic and requests. 

The province says it’s already fielding interest in data centre builds that would add up to roughly 30 per cent of Ontario’s current peak electricity demand. 

That’s a lot of energy demand — and brings us to the supply challenge ahead.

Will this increase in data centre energy demand result in Ontario using more natural gas?

Possibly, at least in the short-term future.Most of Ontario’s electricity comes from low-emissions sources like nuclear and hydro power. But when demand spikes, like during a heat wave when those who have air conditioners turn them on, natural gas plants are usually what fills the gap, since they can be switched on and off quickly.

That matters for data centres, which run around the clock. If a facility is drawing heavily during one of those peak moments, it could be leaning on gas power to do it. And that fossil fuel is primarily made up of methane, a potent greenhouse gas driving climate change and the worsened wildfire seasons, floods and other severe weather we’ve experienced as a result.

How will data centres impact Ontario’s water usage?

We don’t know yet. 

Existing large data centres use water-based cooling systems to keep servers from overheating. That means that all the water pulled into a centre absorbs the heat from the servers and evaporates into the air. Any water that doesn’t evaporate is reused and then sent to a local plant as wastewater. In closed-loop systems, water just circulates in pipes that cool the servers, so there is little lost to the air. 

According to one estimate, a single one-megawatt data centre can use up to 25.5 million litres of water a year just for cooling — about what all of the homes in the city of Mississauga use in a day. Many of the data centres being proposed in Ontario are larger than that, which means, depending on their cooling system, they could also be using a lot more water. 

Microsoft is building three data centres in Ontario, which share an estimated total demand of approximately 200 megawatts. One planned in Toronto’s Etobicoke area was approved to use up to about 40 litres of water every second for cooling — that’s about five bathtubs full every five seconds, and 1.2 billion litres a year. A separate Microsoft complex in Vaughan is expected to use about 730 million litres of municipal water a year.

The province’s playbook says Ontario will favour data centres that use water-free or closed-loop cooling and reuse waste heat — for instance, to help warm nearby buildings.

What are Ontario municipalities doing about data centres?

On Aug. 11, Oakville became the first Ontario municipality to pass a one-year pause on building new data centres. Mississauga is set to follow suit. Both were facing major AI data centre proposals, or at least land acquisitions that suggested them.

Other municipalities are taking different approaches. Hamilton voted down a proposed pause. Burlington and Waterloo Region have asked staff to review existing rules and impacts. Both, along with Toronto, have asked the province for clearer regulations. Centre Wellington and Sault Ste. Marie are sussing whether they can pass temporary bans.

Ford has resisted calls for a province-wide ban, saying local councils will still have a say and that he’d “rather go to a willing host.” While Ontario law requires municipalities to indicate their support before a wind or solar farm can be developed (usually through a council motion or resolution), no such formal rule was proposed in the data centre playbook.

What does Doug Ford mean when he says Ontario needs data centres to address ‘data sovereignty’?

Both Ford and various companies aspiring to build data centres in Ontario have framed this push as a matter of national security: keep the servers here or risk losing control of Canadians’ data to countries like the United States. 

But it’s harder said than done. Yes, building data centres would mean Ontarians’ data is kept in Ontario physically. But what actually determines control over data isn’t the building’s location — it’s who owns the company running it, and which country’s courts and laws they’re accountable to.

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 sound of cars passing is a constant hum, so constant it’s almost meditative. Every so often one bleats out a honk of support. On the shoulder of the highway stands a man, holding a sign that reads: “Save the Salmon.”

Cheeks ruddy from the cold, he clutches it with gloved hands from behind a waist-high concrete highway barrier. Dark eyes glitter warmly behind glasses, and over his knitted wool toque is a black baseball cap emblazoned with the image of a tree, water and paddles. 

This is Tsartlip First Nation Elder Carl Olsen, also known by his traditional name, ZȺWIZUT. He’s 78 years old. For the last three years, he’s been coming out here every Tuesday — through rain, snow and even sickness — to stand out on the shoulder of the Malahat highway and protest.

It’s December 30, 2025. Olsen grins, surrounded by supporters who wave at cars and shake their own homemade signs. But it wasn’t always this way. When he first started out, it was just him, his granddaughter and a supporter from the local book club Olsen runs.

At his back is Goldstream Provincial Park, or as Olsen knows it, SELE₭TEȽ. At 477 hectares, it’s bigger than New York City’s Central Park, a verdant gem on the southern tip of Vancouver Island, just a 20-minute drive from Victoria. The park features waterfalls, Garry oak meadows, 600-year-old Douglas fir trees, flowering dogwood, western red cedar trees, Oregon grape and salmonberries.

In front of Olsen is the Malahat, a busy two-lane highway that cuts through the park and sees an average of 25,000 vehicles a day pass by. The park’s accessibility means more than 600,000 people visit each year to camp, hike and hang out. Many come in the fall to watch the huge runs of chum, Chinook and coho salmon that return each year to spawn in the Goldstream River.

What prompted Olsen to go out there in the early months of 2023 was learning of a proposal put forward by the province to widen the Malahat that would catastrophically affect the adjacent Chinook and coho salmon spawning habitat in the Goldstream River. 

According to the province, the highway expansion, estimated in 2024 to cost $162 million, was needed to improve safety and reliability along a 1.7-kilometre section that bisects the park.

One part that especially concerned Olsen was the expected “permanent loss or alteration of aquatic salmonid and amphibian habitat” next to the Goldstream River. This impact and others were detailed in a 139-page environmental assessment report commissioned by the province and completed in 2024 by consulting firm McElhanney. The area’s Chinook and coho salmon spawning habitat falls directly within the project’s footprint.

Within half a kilometre of the project site, at-risk species were likely to be affected, including western screech owls, northern red-legged frogs, wandering salamanders and the endangered sharp-tailed snake. Expand that to within five kilometres of the project site and that list lengthens to at least 200 endangered and threatened species possibly affected.

Olsen was also horrified to learn that, among a host of other environmental issues, approximately 715 trees would also be removed from an area along the highway during construction.

He thought about the owls and nesting birds, about the spe’uth (bears) that make their homes in SELE₭TEȽ and fed beside him while he and other nation members harvested fish for winter. He thought of how the noise and vibration from excavation and rock blasting might affect the vulnerable salmon fry, hiding out in the darkness under fallen logs in river pools until they were big enough to head to the ocean.

“The canopy that creates the coolness of the water in the stream — if that disappears, those fish will disappear, because then the water starts to get too hot. It’s about 12 degrees difference from the sun to the shade. So that’s what started me,” he says. “I thought, ‘Yeah, I can do this. I can be the voice for the salmon.’ ”

Every Tuesday for the last three years, Olsen wakes up at about 5 a.m. in the house his grandfather built, on the W̱JOȽEȽP Tsartlip reserve. He heads down to the beach right outside his door on the Saanich Inlet and starts his day with a prayer at the water’s edge. 

“I meditate about what I would like to see in my day,” he says.

After his prayer, Olsen heads to a local café for some toast and tea. 

Typically, a group of supporters show up to tag along with him to Goldstream Park. Others meet him there. Some are members of local churches and the Wilderness Committee, or participants in Olsen’s Indigenous authors book club.

One of those book club members is Christine Willes, a settler from a group called Goldstream Protectors that helped organize a protest with Olsen and others at the legislature in October. 

“What he says to anybody who asked him is, ‘Well, I can go and stand by the side of the highway,’ ” she says. “And that’s what he says to other people. ‘Do what you can.’ So I thought, well, I can go stand on the side of the highway too.”

For Olsen, this fight is now broader than the highway project. It’s a flashpoint in a much larger and contentious discussion around Indigenous land rights, title and reconciliation that has consumed the province, and has repercussions for the entire country. It’s also about the ability for Indigenous people to make land decisions in their own territory.

To the W̱SÁNEĆ people, of which Tsartlip are a part, SELE₭TEȽ is one of their oldest fishing villages, arguably protected by a treaty put to paper 174 years ago which clearly states they retain the rights to their village sites and to hunt and fish on those lands as they always have.

It’s one of 14 treaties negotiated in the 1850s by James Douglas, then-Governor of Vancouver Island, with the local First Nations. For many, the existence of these treaties may come as a surprise, as it’s well known that most of the province’s land mass was never ceded by its original inhabitants. 

Known collectively as the Douglas Treaties, multiple court cases since the 1960s have re-affirmed these treaty-protected rights, for both the W̱SÁNEĆ and the other Vancouver Island nations who signed them in the 1850s.

This fight to hold colonial governments to their word is what has kept Olsen out on the highway for three years.

‘It rightfully belongs to us’

On its website, the B.C. government states Goldstream Park was “given to the people of British Columbia by the Greater Victoria Water Board in 1958.” 

But the actual history is far more complicated.

“It rightfully belongs to us,” stated Jean Baptiste Paul, Tsartlip First Nation member and son of then-chief Thomas Paul, in an article published in the Daily Colonist on March 27, 1956. “We have never given it up, and never been offered anything for our fishing and hunting grounds there.”

Jean Baptiste recalled how he had hunted and fished at Goldstream as a child. He told the Daily Colonist that all of the Saanich Inlet, from Cherry Point to the hills south of Goldstream was Indigenous territory, and had been identified as such by his grandfather, former Tsartlip Chief Ben Paul.

Tsartlip and Malahat members had built fish-smoking shacks near the river and his grandfather had also constructed a log cabin in the area. But one day when no one was there, all the buildings were burned down, Paul told the paper.

At the time, Paul’s resistance was reported as little more than a passing curiosity with headlines such as, “Prospect of city giving park to B.C. has West Saanich Indians on warpath.” On June 26, 1958 B.C. went ahead and designated the area a park in celebration of British Columbia’s centennial.

Goldstream became a tourist attraction. Even though it was not yet officially open, the campground was quickly packed with vacationers. Newspaper columnists sung the praises of Goldstream’s beauty and touted its quick accessibility from Victoria. In the fall of 1960, thousands of onlookers crowded into Goldstream to watch the salmon run, a practice that continues to this day. 

However, these thousands of new visitors brought with them a host of new problems, says Eric Pelkey WEC’KINEM, hereditary chief of the Tsawout First Nation. Sometimes when nation members are down at the river harvesting fish, visitors to the park will confront them.

“They start cussing us up and down, saying that we’re destroying the fishery. We tell them, we have the right. We have the right to do this, to carry on our fishery and to just leave us alone. But there’s still a lot of racism that comes out at that time. People think we’re torturing the fish,” Pelkey says. 

The W̱SÁNEĆ carry on regardless. More recently, people have also been coming out there to support them, he adds.

Pelkey sits at a picnic table in the park, the gentle rush of the Goldstream River behind him. Barrel-chested, his voice a deep, gentle baritone, he wears a ball cap-style hat woven from cedar bark and a wool and feather headband. A cream-coloured traditional knitted blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.

These accusations are especially misplaced because, he explains, it’s the W̱SÁNEĆ who constantly steward the area and conduct their own assessments to monitor the health of the fish. 

For example, in 2023 the numbers of chum in the Goldstream were so low that nation members just went down to the river to observe. “Nobody took a fish,” according to Olsen, a long time volunteer at the Goldstream Hatchery.

Most of the environmental problems in the area are due to settler activity in the first place, Pelkey points out. Commercial fishing boats that come down the Johnstone Strait along the coast of Vancouver Island and into the Strait of Georgia take most of the salmon before they can even reach the Goldstream River, he says. In 2011 a fuel tanker truck crashed in the area, leaking tens of thousands of litres of gasoline and diesel into the river caused further stress on the salmon.

Members from all W̱SÁNEĆ nations harvest chum, Chinook and coho salmon from the Goldstream River as a winter food supply, and have for generations. When it’s smoked, the chum can last all winter, Pelkey says.

“I remember growing up, and we always had that smell in our house, because my parents would have sacks of smoked chum on top of our cupboards, burlap sacks,” he says.

A village displaced

In 1877, the Indian Reserve Commission parcelled out a fishing reserve along the south end of Finlayson Arm, an extension of the Saanich Inlet where the Goldstream River feeds into the ocean. However Goldstream Reserve no. 13, as it’s called, sits at the base of Mount Finlayson instead of in the area of the river where the community still harvests fish. 

“They carried out the survey of the old fishing village, but the surveyor is the one that took it from here and put it over there, off on the side of the mountain, instead of surveying where our village was,” says Pelkey. “This whole area here used to be filled with longhouses all along the river. Right over there, where that overhang is there, is actually where our family’s longhouse used to be.” 

He turns and points over his shoulder, to a structure not far from Goldstream Park’s gravel parking lot. 

“I was not aware of that until maybe I was in my 30s, when my grandfather asked me to bring him out here. We parked over there, walked down. And he said, ‘Oh, what is this building?’ ”

He told his grandfather, Marshall Pelkey, that it housed the washrooms and that this was now a public park. He became upset, Pelkey recalls.

Known as the “saltwater people,” the ocean is entwined within everything the W̱SÁNEĆ do, Pelkey says.

The W̱SÁNEĆ have maintained a wide and complex network of traditional reef net fishing sites throughout their territory, which encompasses what are currently known as the San Juan Islands, Boundary Bay, the Saanich Inlet and Saanich Peninsula. These reef net sites are not just places to harvest food, but are part of a wider spiritual and community practice. 

In and around Goldstream Park, community members also use streams that feed into the area for ritual bathing, and host a first salmon ceremony each fall to greet their returning salmon relatives. This is in an area right beside the province’s proposed road work site.

“Our people always fished here, no matter where the reserve was. Every winter, our people came here to fish. Conservation officers always tried to stop us, but we always just kept on and dared them to take us to court,” Pelkey says.

That’s exactly what happened one evening 30 years ago, when Olsen and another Tsartlip member, Ivan Morris, were caught hunting by conservation officers on their territory and arrested. 

To hunt and fish as formerly: what the Douglas Treaties really meant

Though it was early evening, it was already getting dark on Nov. 28, 1996, when two men, driving in the woods near Youbou, spotted what appeared to be the glow of deer eyes through the trees. 

They were showing two boys — eight and twelve years old — how to hunt at night with the help of a light. It was something their families had safely done for generations, but was previously done with burning pitch and bows and arrows. 

Morris pulled the vehicle over. Olsen took aim and fired a few shots. He then passed the rifle across the two boys to Morris, who got out of the vehicle and squeezed off two more.

They soon got a nasty surprise. The deer they shot at was, in fact, a decoy, complete with reflective eyes, set up by provincial conservation officers to trap illegal hunters. The vehicle was quickly swarmed by officers and the two men were arrested, Olsen recalls.

“There were probably a dozen or more conservation that surrounded us and even manhandled the kids that were there, threw them up against the hood of the car to search them,” he said.

The two were charged with hunting with a firearm during prohibited hours and hunting with an illuminating device, under provincial wildlife legislation. The subsequent trial revolved around the Crown’s argument that yes, Morris and Olsen had a right to hunt, but that did not include the right to hunt in a way that was “inherently unsafe,” as the trial judge put it.

At trial, the men’s lawyers countered with a vigourous legal defense. Not only were they using safe practices, they argued, their right as Tsartlip members to hunt as they always had was protected under the North Saanich Treaty of 1852, negotiated between nation members and Douglas.

The case dragged on for 10 years. Initially both men were convicted and it was upheld by the B.C. Court of Appeal. However, when it got to the Supreme Court of Canada, the convictions were overturned in a 4-3 vote.

Under consideration was the relevant text of the North Saanich Treaty, which guaranteed that village sites and enclosed fields were to be kept for the W̱SÁNEĆ and their children’s use, though the land itself was to become the “property of the white people for ever.” However it also clearly stated that its signatories were at liberty to hunt and carry on their fisheries “as formerly.”

But there are essentially two versions of what happened with the signing of the treaties — the written settler version backed by Douglas and others’ accounts, and the Indigenous oral version told through history by W̱SÁNEĆ members.

It’s generally understood that on Feb. 7 of 1852, Douglas met with 10 W̱SÁNEĆ members to agree on what became the South Saanich Treaty. He then requested W̱SÁNEĆ chiefs come to another meeting on February 11 during which he negotiated with 118 “men with beards,” as he later described them, in what ended up as the North Saanich Treaty.

Historians have different theories on why these two agreements were negotiated separately, but it’s important to understand the context in which they were negotiated. For a prior treaty with the Songhees Nation, Douglas said he asked the chiefs to sign marks at the bottom of a blank sheet of paper, later adding details above it that resulted in the acquisition of the area’s South Island. Experts believe it’s possible Douglas did the same thing as with the W̱SÁNEĆ as he did with the Songhees, and got them to sign blank paper.

Adding to the complications, the X marks on the North Saanich Treaty that represented signatures “were forged” in that they were supposedly signed by W̱SÁNEĆ members “but were in fact made by the clerk of the Hudson’s Bay Company,” declared Justice Douglas Lambert, in Olsen’s B.C. Court of Appeal case.

There is no evidence that the First Nations signatories saw the agreements after the fact, were given a copy, or knew what text was later added.

To this day, the text of the Saanich Treaties does not match W̱SÁNEĆ’s own oral version, which asserts that the treaties were likely agreements to share the land, not surrender it.

On this point, the court also came to a stunning conclusion in its final ruling, in Olsen’s favour: “The Douglas Treaties were the reflections of oral agreements reduced to writing by agents of the Crown” and that those oral promises made when the treaty was agreed to “are as much a part of the treaty as the written words.”

As the people who wrote the Douglas Treaties down were not the Indigenous people, the court “had to take into account what was the evidence of Indigenous people about what they thought the treaty meant,” says lawyer Louise Mandell, Olsen and Morris’s representative and one of the founding partners of Mandell Pinder, a law firm that specializes in Aboriginal and treaty rights law.

This was important for the legal cases that were to follow, she adds.

There are other reasons that the W̱SÁNEĆ think the treaties were likely land sharing agreements meant to stave off tensions that had arisen at that time for a variety of reasons, including a dispute over timber being harvested by settlers in Cordova Bay. 

Given that the Indigenous population on Vancouver Island at this time was approximately 11,700 people, compared with a settler population of about 700, there wouldn’t be any motivation for the W̱SÁNEĆ to sell off all their land, says Joni Olsen, the policy and negotiations manager for the W̱SÁNEĆ Leadership Council and Carl Olsen’s daughter.

“The concept of selling land at that point in history was not a thing for W̱SÁNEĆ people,” she says, especially in the context of B.C. being the last place in Canada that settlers came. “Maybe on the east coast, where they had been settled hundreds of years before, there were probably those concepts there already, but that didn’t happen here.”

Furthermore, the idea that the W̱SÁNEĆ would sell land in exchange for a “payment” of blankets doesn’t make sense culturally, and represents a fundamental lack of understanding around what gifting means to their people, Joni says.

“I mean, historically, to access land you would have married somebody’s daughter or something like that. There would have been an exchange. And it could have been through Potlatch, where you had an exchange of things like blankets. But it wasn’t to own. It was to share. It was to have access to.”

Last February, Joni helped negotiate a joint statement with the provincial and federal governments to acknowledge W̱SÁNEĆ’s oral version of the treaties. It states that “though Canada and British Columbia have long considered these agreements to be land purchase agreements, W̱SÁNEĆ oral histories hold that they were agreements to settle disputes and establish peaceful relations between the W̱SÁNEĆ Nation and the European settlers.”

But these peaceful relations remain a challenge when it comes to negotiations over the future of Goldstream Park.

Moving Indigenous court victories into the real world

Olsen stands on an outcropping of stone known as “The Rock.” It’s a scenic spot along Mill Bay Road in the Cowichan Valley that looks out across the waters of the Saanich Inlet, which is fed by the Goldstream River. In the distance are the western shores of the Saanich Peninsula; beyond that, a scattering of islands.

The sun is bright, and he cups a hand over his forehead as he looks across the water.

“When I was a kid, this bay was full of salmon. You could see it,” he says. “You really could see it.” These waters and lands were his garden and food source growing up.

“It’s where we harvested food plants, medicine plants, and berries. And when you come to the ocean like this, we harvested our food from the ocean. In fact, I was in my early teens before I even had a store-bought meal. It was like fish, ducks, deer, clams, oysters, seal meat. That was my diet before, up until maybe the mid ’60s,” he says.   

Though he was raised as a hunter and a fisherman, his father taught him those skills in private, under a cloud of fear.

“Most parents in our communities suffered from fear. Fear of losing their kids because of how the residential school would just take you away if there was a problem. They actually lived with that fear right up till the end, and so they never taught us on land here. My dad always taught me when we were out fishing on the boat, when there was nobody around. Nobody to come and take us away,” he says, overcome with emotion. “That’s how it affected the treaty as well. They had to go outside or to the islands to teach us our ways.”

That fear has continued to affect the exercising of their Douglas Treaty rights because those rights are still disrespected and uncertain, he adds.

“It only verifies the rights that I have, that’s what the Douglas Treaty does. Because that’s what we did before, hunting and fishing, being taught with hands-on teaching,” he says. “That fear is still there, because of the inability of the government to come and sit down with you to implement that court ruling.”

Of the five historical court cases that involved Douglas Treaty rights — including Olsen’s — each one resulted in victory. And every case presented its own legal challenge.

“It wasn’t as if we sat around, thinking about what all we have to do to win whatever,” says Mandell, the lawyer who represented Olsen and Morris. “In every case, we nuanced what the arguments were going to be, and we built the law — gradually.” 

In the 1980s Mandell worked on the 1987 Saanichton Marina case, around a development company’s intention to dredge and develop a commercial marina in Saanichton Bay that was home to eel grass beds, crabs, salmon and trout. 

The legal team wondered how they could assert the treaty “not as a shield but as a sword,” Mandell says. Rather than defend themselves from persecution, they would now assert their rights proactively, to protect the crab fishery and the Tsawout Nation’s traditional fishing grounds.

Essentially, Saanichton Marina Ltd.’s argument was that the “right to fish as formerly,” as stated in the treaties, meant the company could simply pick up and move the eel grass habitat elsewhere. The fish would still be there to harvest, so what was the problem?

The court agreed with Tsawout’s lawyers that found that a fishery is actually the place where fish are harvested, and the right includes the nation’s capacity and the capacity of a nation to care for it, so they’re not deprived of that right.  

“It’s both the incidental aspect and also the place itself. It’s not the right to put your fish net in the water and pull out a fish. It’s the right to continue to protect and harvest and steward and be reciprocal, inside the place that the fishing is happening,” Mandell says. 

This was a crucial and far-reaching finding, and directly relevant to the fight at Goldstream Park — the concept that nation members not only had the right to fish as formerly, but to protect their harvest. 

It’s been a rallying cry for Olsen ever since.

“My relatives fought for that. And the decision that came out of there was that they not only had the right to hunt and fish as formerly, they have the right to protect what they hunted and fished as formerly,” says Olsen. “That’s why I’m here. I’m protecting what belongs to us, our relatives that come up the stream that feed us.”

However, Mandell says there is a huge difference between winning a case and translating that legal victory into political action.

“I can’t tell you how many times we came home from the Supreme Court of Canada thinking we had died and gone to legal heaven, only to find out nothing much changed on the ground. I think that’s the difference between winning a legal point and actually having the capacity to move that victory into shifting the political landscape,” Mandell says.

Olsen, standing on the side of the Malahat protesting for the protection of Goldstream, embodies that distinction.

Despite decades of court cases and historical agreements which upheld the W̱SÁNEĆ people’s rights not only to their village site but also to their fishing grounds at SELE₭TEȽ, despite three years of weekly protests to highlight these rights, it appeared the government’s $162-million highway improvement plan was poised to go ahead.

That is, until Olsen received a phone call in February this year from some members of the W̱SÁNEĆ Leadership Council to tell him they had received some news.

‘Do what you can’

The province had an announcement to make about the Malahat highway. The widening project was being paused. The leadership council members congratulated him.

In a February news release, the province said additional work was required “to address environmental considerations in this sensitive area of Goldstream Park” and understand the project’s impacts.

“I thought, ‘Well, that’s great,’” Olsen says. But he also doubts whether the government will keep its word.

“In the past we’ve had meetings with businesses and government offices and in our longhouses here and come to agreements with them. Then not even a couple of days later, they break those agreements,” he says.

“This could be one of those issues. You know they said they were pausing it, and in their statement, they talk about how they need to better understand the environment and do more research on the environment there, which tells me we were right in thinking that they didn’t really have an environmental plan.”

From the beginning, the province wanted W̱SÁNEĆ members to accept their environmental assessment without question, Olsen says. But he always felt that there was something odd about being asked to accept something without fully agreeing to it. From what nation members could see, the environmental risks were obvious — even from the government’s own assessment report.

The purpose of the environmental assessment was to identify issues, and “some of these considerations were brought to light through that process,” Ministry of Transit and Transportation spokesperson Murray Sinclair stated in an email.

“This does not mean the report was incomplete. The purpose of an environmental assessment is to identify issues, and some of these considerations were brought to light through that process,” Sinclair stated. Given the complexity of the site and the sensitivity of the habitat, addressing those issues will take time, he added.

The ministry is currently conducting a review of crash data in the area as part of an update to its 2012 study of the Highway 1 Malahat corridor.

What about Olsen’s concern that the project is merely on pause, and not actually cancelled?

“It’s possible the project could be revisited in the future. However, there is no timeline or estimate for when that might occur,” stated Sinclair.

This is why, for now, Olsen has decided to keep up his weekly protests.

“We want better decisions made about Goldstream and protecting the watershed especially. It’s about protecting the whole area,” he says. “It’s really important that we recognize where we stand in the whole thing. I’m not going to leave. I think they expected me to leave. We’re still there.”

On-the-ground reporting for this story is made possible with support from Carleton University’s Peter Stursberg Award in Conflict Journalism and Media Studies. As per The Narwhal’s editorial independence policy, no foundation or outside organization has editorial input into our stories.

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

Starting next month, Ontario hunters will have a shot at sandhill cranes — for the first time in a century.

The long-legged, grey birds with a nearly two-metre wingspan are widespread across Ontario from the Great Lakes as far north as southern James Bay — nesting in wetlands and swampy areas after migrating up from the southern United States and Mexico in the spring.

Mark Peck recalls waking up at 4 a.m. to see thousands of sandhill cranes fly over the banks of the Platte River in Nebraska, where 80 per cent of the species migrate to rest and eat before flying back south for the winter. 

Like Peck, many of them travel from Canada, while others make the journey from Alaska and Siberia.

“It was an incredible experience. … There were about 10,000 sandhill cranes, all on the river,” Peck, president of Ontario Field Ornithologists, said. “As the sun was coming up, the birds were slowly leaving, but they were dancing and bugling, and it was just an awesome experience. … I think it would be hard to hunt after witnessing that.”

Sandhill cranes have a distinct, rattling bugle call that can be heard up to four kilometres away. To Peck, it’s akin to the call of a common loon or the howl of a wolf, a “beautiful sound of nature.” Their distinctive mating dance — wings flapping, beak pecking and legs strutting — have been widely captured and shared online.

While birders love them, sandhill cranes have a long and complex history in Ontario. 

In the early 20th century, the species was hunted to near-extirpation in the province, meaning they were almost locally extinct. In the last few decades, thanks to increased protection from unregulated hunting and more sources of food from agriculture, they have surpassed population expectations. To some, this is a huge success.

“It really is a wonderful, good news story,” Peck said. “They’ve made a remarkable comeback. I’m 67. When I was growing up, it was unusual to see a sandhill crane in southern Ontario. Now, they breed across the province.”

Not everyone sees it as good news, though. Farmers in Algoma, Timmins and as far as Thunder Bay have advocated for an open hunting season in northern Ontario. They say sandhill cranes have caused extensive damage to their crops, wreaking havoc in the spring by pulling up freshly planted seedlings, and again in the fall before harvest.

“It is very discouraging to certain farmers that they’re planting their spring crops, and these birds are coming in and just annihilating it,” Bill Groenheide, Northern Ontario director of the Ontario Federation of Agriculture, said. “Farmers are having an increase of up to 30 per cent loss in their crops.”

Birgit Martin, who farms on Manitoulin Island, told Ontario Grain Farmer Magazine she has had to replant 25 per cent of her corn acres due to sandhill crane damage. 

Sandhill cranes are omnivores and eat a wide variety of food including insects, plant roots, small animals like rodents and frogs, berries, seeds and even other small birds. But when they find themselves in agricultural areas during the fall migration, the crops hit the hardest are corn, soybeans and potatoes, Groenheide said — some of the most common, and profitable, crops for Ontario farmers.

“When so many birds come into one area and totally destroy your livelihood, there’s got to be compensation somewhere,” Groenheide said. The province’s wildlife damage compensation program focuses on livestock, and doesn’t cover crop losses to migratory birds. “There’s got to be something done about it.”

Ontario sandhill crane hunt allows for one bird per hunter per day

Ontario farmers have been asking the government to open a hunt for years. Environment and Climate Change Canada assessed the status of sandhill cranes earlier this year and found that a “conservative” hunt would have a “minimal impact” on the population of sandhill cranes — which is currently more than 103,000 strong, and considered to have a large, increasing population size. It proposed a hunt running for 14 days, with a “small bag limit” of one bird per day that will allow the federal government to carefully monitor the harvest in the first four years of implementation.

While Ontario’s Ministry of Natural Resources determines harvesting regulations for most wildlife in the province, the federal environment department oversees migratory birds, like sandhill cranes.

Environment and Climate Change Canada’s population objective for the cranes sits between 30,000 and 60,000, and explains on its website that a “managed harvest” could slow or stabilize population growth and potentially minimize crop damage.

The federal agency told The Narwhal in an email that the primary goal of this open season is to provide additional hunting opportunity, adding that “while the intent of the season is not to significantly decrease the sandhill crane population in Ontario and Quebec,” the season may also provide “some direct relief of conflicts.” They also said there may be some indirect reduction of conflicts as hunted sandhill cranes may respond better to scare techniques used by farmers to protect their crops, such as propane cannons that make loud noises.

“Obviously that’s great from a recovery perspective … that this population was able to rebound to that extent,” Matthew Robbins, a fish and wildlife biologist at Ontario Federation of Anglers and Hunters, said. “It also means that, based on the modelling that exists, they can certainly handle some sustainable use.” 

The current hunt will allow Canadian residents to hunt one sandhill crane per person per day in the area around Hudson and James Bay, from Sept. 1 through 14, and on farmland only in other parts of northern and central Ontario including Algoma, Nipissing and Temiskaming, on Sept. 12 through 25. A similarly limited hunt is being opened in Quebec this September as well. 

This new season creates opportunity for hunters and gourmets — sandhill cranes are known to some as “ribeye of the sky” for their rich, red meat — that the Ontario Federation of Anglers and Hunters says is appropriately limited to start.

“The proposal is a very conservative approach,” Robbins said. He doesn’t anticipate a significant hit to the population as a result of the hunt, but says slowing the population growth by some amount may help those farm conflicts.

“It would be worth exploring expanding it in some capacity as long as we can ensure that that’s going to be sustainable,” Robbins said. “From a conservation perspective, it definitely makes sense to start this off from a fairly cautious position, and then go from there.”

Peck is also optimistic about the conservative nature of the hunt’s parameters. But conservation organizations like Ontario Nature have argued reinstating a sandhill crane hunt is a “controversial and concerning proposal.” The birds can live up to 30 years in the wild, meaning they take a long time to mature, while very few of their young survive to adulthood. This makes it more difficult for populations to replenish quickly if adults are killed off.  

The federal government said it received opposing comments from an animal welfare organization, ornithology and naturalist groups, birdwatchers, an unnamed First Nation and individuals during the public comment period last winter.

Environment and Climate Change Canada says on its website that the current strategy accounts for sandhill crane life history and low productivity by allowing only a very limited harvest. It argues the “daily bag limit is intentionally set below” the level the population can sustainably support, and that the population is still expected to grow, though more slowly than if there were no hunt.

At the same time, Groenheide from the Ontario Federation of Agriculture worries the plan for the hunt is not enough to protect farmers, but Environment and Climate Change Canada told The Narwhal it does not anticipate making changes to the proposed harvest framework until the end of the 2029-30 hunting season.

“In Canada, they want to regulate it because they want to drop the amount of birds [killed], and I do understand that,” Groenheide said. “But on the flip side, how do we protect the farmers?”

Farmers organization wants higher sandhill crane harvest and in more areas

In early 2024, the Ontario Federation of Agriculture released a statement recommending Environment and Climate Change Canada alter its plans. The organization wants farmers to be allowed to defend their crops from sandhill cranes at any point during the year, as well as increased hunting limits, more hunting areas and an earlier season. 

While changes have not been reflected in the final regulations, Groenheide said this year’s hunt is a good first step.

“It’s great to see these birds in great numbers. Don’t get me wrong,” Groenheide said. “But there has to be a playing field. Farmers are out there and the value of their crops is in big demand. There’s a lot of money put into this. They’re losing it all. They’re getting nothing for it. So there has to be a trade-off somewhere.”

He said the way this species is managed represents part of a larger picture related to expanding agriculture in northern Ontario, proposed by the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Agribusiness in April 2026.

“We have ministers now wanting to expand the north, wanting the great clay belt to be opened up and all that,” Groenheide said. “I always call it the great frontier of the north.”

“It’s great land,” Groenheide said, but farming new areas comes with new challenges. Wildlife like deer, bear, moose and elk can conflict with agriculture as farming expands northward, he said.

“It’s their territory, so how do we work around it? How do we compensate farmers if we are inviting them out there?” Groenheide said. “There’s got to be a plan.”

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On Aug. 6, with much of southern B.C. blanketed in wildfire smoke, Minister of Energy and Climate Solutions Adrian Dix kicked off a Campbell River press conference by thanking wildfire fighters and the BC Hydro employees working to address infrastructure damaged by the flames.

“The impact of climate change and the impact of wildfires presents challenges to BC Hydro,” Dix acknowledged, adding wildfires had knocked out power for about 24,000 B.C. homes over the previous week.

A few days prior to the minister’s announcement, wildfires near the central B.C. communities of Clinton and Vernon had destroyed hundreds of homes and prompted evacuation orders affecting about 8,000 people.

But Dix wasn’t on Vancouver Island to talk about the wildfires. He was there to announce the purchase of Island Generation, a 275-megawatt natural gas-fired power plant, by BC Hydro. Despite a mandate that all electricity generated in B.C. come from renewable sources by 2030, BC Hydro now says it needs to continue getting electricity from gas to meet an anticipated surge in power demand over the next few years: a 20 per cent increase by 2030 and a 50 per cent increase by 2050.

That surge in demand is driven largely by mining and liquefied natural gas (LNG) projects, as well as increasing numbers of electric vehicles and heat pumps in B.C. homes.

Keeping gas in BC Hydro’s generation mix will allow the provincial power utility to focus on developing more renewable energy sources, Dix argued.

“It’s better to continue to build out clean electricity and to ensure that resources like Island Generation stay in B.C. and support the system,” he said, calling climate action “essential” to B.C.’s environmental, economic, social and cultural well-being.“Surely things like our own wildfires, and then witnessing what’s happened, for example, in France, in Spain, in other parts of the world, demonstrate this,” he said.

The day after the Campbell River announcement, the Bald Ridge fire ignited near Summerland in southern B.C., leading to the evacuation of more than 20,000 people. On Aug. 8, Premier David Eby declared a provincial state of emergency due to the wildfires. B.C. is now in its third state of emergency in five years, including those prompted by the November 2021 atmospheric river and the extreme wildfires of 2023.

“Climate scientists have connected the dots to all three of those emergencies and been able to identify that climate change made them both more likely and more extreme,” Dan Woynillowicz, a climate policy expert and principal with Polaris Strategy + Insight, said after watching Eby declare a state of emergency. “And neither the premier nor either of his ministers made even passing reference to climate change in that whole press conference.”

Some might say that connecting the “explosive and extremely dangerous” conditions driving this year’s wildfires to climate change is in poor taste while people are being displaced and losing their homes, but Woynillowicz takes a different view. 

“I think British Columbians are sophisticated enough to be able to hear those different messages,” he said. “What we need to continue to do to better prepare and adapt to a world in which we are going to be experiencing this with greater frequency and greater extremity, but also what we need to do to prevent even worse impacts in the future by reducing our combustion of fossil fuels that are that are creating the problem and making it worse.”

Failure to plan for future electricity demand makes Island Generation purchase an ‘unfortunate necessity’

Gas isn’t a big part of BC Hydro’s electricity generation, about 2.5 per cent. The emissions reduction from BC Hydro ditching gas would not be huge, and there are arguments for keeping facilities like Island Generation online as energy demands grow across B.C.Island Generation is what’s known as a peaker plant, mostly called on to generate power at times of peak demand like hot summer days and cold winter nights. Over the past five years, it’s been running for about five days per year and BC Hydro expects that will continue. 

The plant can create enough electricity to power about 125,000 homes — about one-quarter of all the electricity that can be produced on Vancouver Island, making it an important local asset.Evan Pivnick, associate director of public affairs for Clean Energy Canada, called the Island Generation purchase an unfortunate necessity — one that shows BC Hydro’s planning has not kept pace with the growing electricity demand it faces.

“This needs to be an opportunity to learn from those mistakes, so that we truly look at natural gas as an option of last resort, not as something that plays a growing role in our electricity systems,” he said. 

B.C. is set to achieve just half of its legislated target of reducing emissions by 40 per cent below 2007 levels by 2030, according to the most recent climate accountability report. 

“Rather than closing the gap to the 2030 target year after year, we’ve been getting further away from it,” Kathryn Harrison, a political science professor at the University of British Columbia who studies climate and energy policy, told The Narwhal.

“Since that report was published [in 2025], the B.C. government has weakened some climate policies and, as far as I can tell, abandoned others,” she added, citing B.C.’s discarded pledges to develop an oil and gas emissions cap and reduce medium- and heavy- truck emissions, as well as the elimination of the consumer carbon tax.

Electrification — replacing fossil fuel power sources with electricity — is central to almost all of B.C.’s emissions reduction goals. But as B.C. fast-tracks energy-intensive resource projects, BC Hydro has yet to figure out how and when it would have those resources ready to supply them with power. 

“There was no accompanying electricity strategy,” Pivnick said. “There was a disconnect where the ambitions around electrifying industry, electrifying households, never translated into what does this mean for our electricity system and how do we think about the buildout of the supply that’s required?”

Even the 50 per cent increase in electricity demand by 2030 that BC Hydro is currently working to meet is likely a conservative estimate. Woynillowicz noted the federal government’s electricity strategy projects a doubling in electricity demand across Canada by 2030.

“BC Hydro has continued planning for, relatively speaking, a lower-growth future, and I think that is now coming back to bite,” Woynillowicz said.He wondered whether a more proactive planning approach could have allowed BC Hydro to develop renewable resources and avoid continuing to rely on Island Generation. Despite launching the CleanBC program in 2018 and investing $3.5 billion in its efforts to cut greenhouse gases, B.C. has not been successful at reducing emissions in the province and has admitted the program’s goals are no longer “accurate or workable.”   

“Hindsight is 20/20, but I think it raises questions,” he said. “Between BC Hydro and the government, was planning happening in the way that it needed to be? I would say that no, it wasn’t. That there was fundamentally a disconnect between CleanBC and the future that BC Hydro was planning for.”

LNG ambitions could lead to electricity crunch and higher gas prices

The pressing need for power that B.C. faces is relatively new. Before the NDP government committed to completing the Site C dam, some experts estimated the province would not need the 1,100 megawatts the dam can produce for a decade or more after it began operating. There were also those who argued renewable power sources would be a better bang for the B.C. government’s buck.

But just electrifying all proposed LNG terminals in B.C. — something the government has made a condition for those projects to proceed — and some of the gas infrastructure to supply them would take 40,000 gigawatts per year. That’s 7.5 times the capacity of Site C, as noted in the CleanBC review co-authored by Woynillowicz and fellow climate expert Merran Smith.

Electrification is key to the main marketing slogan for B.C.’s LNG, as Premier Eby emphasized during a recent press conference.

“Our LNG is the lowest carbon in the world because it is electrified as much as possible throughout the chain [and] because we have high standards around methane leakage and emissions,” he said. 

“We take climate change very seriously, but we also recognize that B.C. can play a role in driving down carbon pollution around the world.”

But the massive electricity demand for LNG could put B.C.’s electrification and emission reduction goals in peril.

“If we don’t have enough electricity to power LNG and potentially also electric vehicles and home electrification and other industries, we will end up either not pursuing those projects or increasing our emissions,” Harrison said. 

She also pointed out that B.C.’s most recent emission projections don’t include some of the LNG projects the provincial government has been pushing hard to see built: LNG Canada Phase 2 and Ksi Lisims. If those facilities fire up, it will add “many millions of tonnes difference” to how realistic the province’s emissions reduction goals are.

The economic opportunities offered by becoming a global LNG supplier are real, Pivnick said, but they may not outweigh the downsides.

“The world would be very happy to see Canada and B.C. invest in more and more fossil fuel projects that ensure there’s a secure supplier available to purchase from as they go through their own transitions, but that’s Canada and B.C. choosing to invest as essentially a shock absorber for a world that’s trying to move away from our goods,” he said.

A robust LNG industry will also mean much higher demand for natural gas in B.C. The province’s 2026 budget banks on a doubling of natural gas prices. That could be bad news for affordability in B.C. down the road, given natural gas accounts for about 31 per cent of all energy used in the province, while electricity accounts for about 18 per cent.

“Whether we’re talking about burning natural gas in our homes or burning natural gas for electricity, continuing to have that reliance at the same time that we’re actively trying to secure higher prices, [that is] good for the oil and gas sector, good for the province in terms of royalties, but it’s actually pretty lousy for British Columbians from an affordability perspective,” Woynillowicz said.

Back in April, Dix told the legislature Island Generation had been having trouble with its gas supply, an issue he attributed to demand from the Woodfibre LNG project in Squamish. In July, The Narwhal’s questions to the Energy Ministry, Island Generation and Woodfibre LNG about the supposed supply issue mostly went unanswered.

At the Aug. 6 announcement, Dix said he is confident Island Generation will be able to get the gas it needs, but offered no further information.

Concern for climate change has spiked as wildfire smoke spreads, creating an opportunity for conversation

A very dim silver lining to the summer’s wildfires is that they seem to have put climate change back on many Canadians’ radar. A recent Angus Reid poll found 21 per cent of Canadians put climate change as their top concern, up from 14 per cent in March. In B.C., 25 per cent of respondents said climate change was their top concern, putting the issue in third place behind cost of living and healthcare.

That’s a notable shift from the past few years, when climate change has consistently polled low as a priority for many Canadians. But just because people aren’t telling pollsters climate change is a top concern doesn’t mean they aren’t worried about the impacts of a warming world, Harrison argued.

“I don’t think it is the case that that means people are willing to sacrifice their safety from wildfires, their children’s health from breathing smoke, their elderly parents’ safety in extreme heat in exchange for a lower cost of living today,” she said. “They’re just not connecting those dots.”

That lack of connection isn’t helped, she said, by politicians who claim they take climate change seriously while continuing to support fossil fuel development and failing to address emissions effectively.

“Politicians are reassuring people, ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got the whole climate change thing in hand,’ and people at the same time are worried about the economy,” she said.

Instead of offering reassurances that things will be okay, Woynillowicz wishes politicians would communicate what they are doing to directly and effectively address climate change.

“One of the messages we’re hearing from government is that they’ve got our backs,” he said. 

“I would feel more comfortable that they’ve got my back and my kids’ backs if I knew that … they are actually being proactive, both in terms of helping make us more resilient to future impacts that we know are coming — but also what they’re doing to prevent even worse impacts in the future by doing more to reduce the pollution that’s causing the problem.”

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Editor’s note: After The Narwhal published a piece about Alberta wildland firefighters forming a peer-support network, we received an email from Matthew Brackenreed. “I’ve been meaning to send this out for a while now — the recent article gave me the courage,” Matthew wrote. Below is what he shared with us.

I spent nearly two decades serving as an Alberta wildland firefighter, responding to some of the most challenging and dangerous situations our province faces.

I am writing because I believe there is an important conversation that needs to happen about occupational post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), cumulative trauma and the realities many firefighters and first responders face after their careers are affected by psychological injuries.

For years, I did what many firefighters do. I showed up for work, responded to emergencies and pushed through difficult experiences without fully understanding the impact they were having on me. Like many in emergency services, I believed I could handle it. Looking back, I now realize that the effects of repeated exposure to trauma were building for years.

Yet despite responding to emergencies and protecting communities from wildfire, provincial wildland firefighters do not receive all of the same legal recognition and presumptive protections afforded to some other first responders in Alberta. It is a distinction I never expected would become so important to me until I became injured myself.

While wildland firefighters can still have occupational psychological injury claims accepted, we do not fall under the same statutory definition of “first responder” used to provide certain presumptive workers’ compensation protections to municipal firefighters, police officers and paramedics. For someone already struggling with the effects of a psychological injury, that distinction can add another layer of difficulty to an already challenging process.

Today, I live with severe PTSD resulting from prolonged exposure to traumatic events throughout my career fighting fires.

PTSD is often associated with a single catastrophic event, but that is not always how it develops. For many firefighters and first responders, trauma can accumulate over years of service. The effects may remain hidden for a long time before eventually becoming overwhelming.

The injury is often invisible to others.

People may see someone who looks physically healthy while not realizing they are struggling with anxiety, panic, nightmares, hypervigilance, memory difficulties, emotional exhaustion and significant disruptions to daily life. Relationships, careers, finances and personal identity can all be affected.

One of the challenges I have encountered is that many systems were originally designed around physical injuries or isolated incidents. Occupational PTSD, especially when caused by years of cumulative exposure, does not always fit neatly into those models.

My concern extends beyond my own situation.

I worry about the many firefighters, first responders and workers who may be experiencing similar struggles but are hesitant to come forward. The culture of emergency services often encourages resilience and perseverance, which are important qualities, but those same qualities can sometimes cause people to delay seeking help until their symptoms become severe.

By the time many firefighters finally ask for support, they may already be facing significant challenges in their personal and professional lives.

I am grateful for the health care professionals, family members and supporters who have helped me through this journey. Their support has been essential. At the same time, my experience has shown me how important it is that we continue improving awareness, education and support for occupational PTSD.

As wildfire seasons grow longer and more demanding, the mental health impacts on those who respond to these emergencies deserve greater attention. Protecting communities is vital, but we must also ensure that the people who dedicate their lives to that work are not forgotten when they are injured.

I am sharing my story because I believe occupational PTSD deserves greater public understanding and because I hope it encourages meaningful discussion about how we support those who serve in high-trauma professions.

What is almost as devastating as the injury itself is the lack of meaningful support available once a worker’s life begins to fall apart. On paper, there are programs and systems meant to help, but in reality I have found myself and my family trapped in a maze of delays, bureaucracy and uncertainty while my health has continued to decline. 

We have spent countless hours fighting for answers, advocating for basic needs and trying to navigate a system that often feels more focused on process than people. When someone is suffering from a psychological workplace injury, they shouldn’t have to fight another battle just to access support. No family should be left feeling isolated, exhausted and without a clear path forward while trying to survive the consequences of an injury sustained in service to their community.

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