The Gitanyow Climate Test

In the face of growing climate pressures and a dissatisfaction with colonial approaches to evaluating the impacts of major projects, the Gitanyow are exerting their authority and sovereignty on their territories with the help of a tool: the Wilp Sustainability Assessment Process (WSAP) and climate test.

The origin of the Gitanyow Climate Test

In Western Canada today there is ongoing melding of Western and Indigenous law to address major project development, sustainability, and climate within the larger context of reconciliation of colonial history and legacies with present-day Indigenous Peoples, their rights, and interests. Exemplifying this, in 2020 the Gitanyow people with homeland territory in the province of British Columbia (B.C.), established their Wilp Sustainability Assessment Process (WSAP) to promote and protect their rights and interests with respect to major project development on or otherwise affecting their territory. The WSAP contains the Gitanyow Climate Test focused on evaluating projects’ climate impact performance and grounded in Indigenous climate leadership.

Climate change threatens the Gitanyow way of life, affecting water quantity and subsequently the cultural keystone of salmon fisheries. The Climate Test was a response to these pressures. Initially developed in its preliminary form in 2019 and under refinement since 2023, it uses a series of criteria and a scoring rubric to inform major project approval decision-making. It is but one of numerous attempts by Indigenous Peoples in Canada to exert sovereignty in a colonial legal landscape and in an economy that is grounded in natural resource extraction.

The Gitanyow are an Indigenous people, as referred to in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), and an Aboriginal people as defined in the Canadian constitution. The Gitanyow Huwilp (Nation) is a collective of eight Wilp (house groups) with 6,200 square kilometres of Lax’yip (territory) spanning swaths of both the Skeena and Nass river watersheds in the northwest of B.C. Gitanyow have stewarded this territory for millennia, and like many other First Nations in B.C., Gitanyow have never ceded, surrendered, or sold their territory.

Gitanyow experience with colonial Impact and Environmental Assessments

The Gitanyow Climate Test, and its overarching WSAP, was borne out of dissatisfaction with how major project Impact Assessment (IA) has dealt with Indigenous interests and climate.

Between roughly 2009 and 2018 Gitanyow had participated in several provincial environmental assessments and federal impact assessments prior to developing the WSAP, and found that the result was consistently similar—projects were approved regardless of the concerns raised by Indigenous Peoples and others.

During this period, Gitanyow, alongside many other First Nations in B.C., were calling for adoption and implementation of the UNDRIP and its specific articles related to free, prior and informed consent for industrial development on Indigenous lands, and associated rights of self-government and self-determination.

Indigenous influence on Impact Assessment and Indigenous-led Impact Assessment

The current legal landscape of Canadian impact assessment is rooted in centuries of European colonization and the institutionalization of extractive natural resource practices. In the 1970s, Indigenous interests were largely ignored. The landmark Berger Inquiry (1974-77) departed from this, providing space for more fulsome engagement of Indigenous people and elevating their rights and interests in Canadian natural resource decision-making¹. While the Berger Inquiry remains a standout, ensuing Indigenous successes in the courtroom have incrementally strengthened the protection of Indigenous rights and interests in Canadian law. Most recently, there has been a broader movement towards reconciliation of past and ongoing colonial harms and a fairer and more just position for Indigenous Peoples.

Legally, this has been enshrined in provincial and federal impact and environmental assessment processes affecting Gitanyow. British Columbia’s Environmental Assessment Act (2018) and Canada’s Impact Assessment Act (2019) (IAA) both require consultation with affected Indigenous Peoples and the incorporation of Indigenous Knowledge into decision-making.

In parallel to this evolution in Canadian law², Indigenous-led impact assessment (ILIA) has emerged as a means through which Indigenous nations are reaffirming their own values and procedures to make their own decisions on major project development and take back control over their territories³. From a legal standpoint, ILIA exemplifies a burgeoning legal pluralism, a trend which is a source of much disdain and opposition from certain segments of society⁴.

The British Columbia Law Institute defines legal pluralism as a description of the operation of two or more legal orders within the same geographical jurisdiction or social space⁵. Legal pluralism can be recognized and agreed upon formally, or can be asserted and recognized in a more contested and ad hoc manner, as is found in Canada.

Climate impact assessment in Canada and globally

The first consideration of climate change in Canadian federal IA appeared in 2003 policy guidance, a year after the Canadian ratification of the Kyoto Protocol and over a decade after global agreement on the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change⁶. In 2006, the tides turned: Canadians elected Stephen Harper’s government, which was intent on hydrocarbon development. Then, in 2011, Canada withdrew from Kyoto and a year later it had enacted the more hydrocarbon-friendly Canadian Environmental Assessment Act, 2012.

Against this backdrop, climate IA was weak at best⁷. A key fallacy in climate IA methods emerged at this time: what’s known as the scale trick. Essentially, it’s an approach that compares a project’s emissions to its host jurisdiction’s total emissions, inevitably resulting in a very small ratio and effectively diminishing any concerns. Climate policy gained new prominence with the adoption of the Paris Agreement in late 2015, and in the three following years the United States, United Kingdom, and the International Association for Impact Assessment released climate IA guidance⁸. Notably, British guidance did not use the scale trick argument, and instead suggested that all emissions be considered significant given the dangerously high concentration of greenhouse gases (GHGs) in the atmosphere⁹.

A change in government in Canada in 2015 led to a much more favourable political climate for Indigenous involvement in IA. Seeking to influence forthcoming policymaking, Doelle noted that inadequate major project decision-making can lead to climate impacts being locked in for long periods of time, stranded assets, or both¹⁰. Doelle (2018) and Gibson (2018) offered criteria to assess projects’ climate worthiness¹¹.

Luke and Noble (2018) examined climate IA in B.C. liquefied natural gas (LNG) applications and found project splitting—where project components are assessed in isolation from one another—and insufficient linkage to climate policy, among other shortfalls¹². B.C. introduced its landmark CleanBC climate policy in 2018¹³, brought forth the Environmental Assessment Act in 2018, and revised the Climate Change Accountability Act (SBC 2007 c.42) in 2018 to include legal targets for emission reductions.

In 2019, the Canadian government enacted its current IAA, introducing an explicit climate test into Canadian federal IA legislation alongside other climate policy announcements¹⁴. Under sections 22 and 63 of the IAA, proponents must assess their project’s potential to “hinder or contribute to the Government of Canada’s ability to meet its environmental obligations and its commitments in respect of climate change”¹⁵.

In 2023 B.C. went on to further advance climate policy by introducing more stringent climate requirements¹⁶. These requirements included requiring all proposed LNG facilities to pass an emissions test with a credible net zero plan by 2030, and establishing a regulatory emissions cap for the oil and gas industry to ensure B.C. meets its 2030 emissions-reduction targets.

Nonetheless, Hetmanchuk’s 2020 review of climate IAs across Canada found only one that concluded that there would be significant climate effects, which she attributes to use of the scale trick¹⁷. Case study co-author Chris Joseph labelled the scale trick a “minimization argument” and noted that the global significance threshold of 350 parts per million carbon dioxide (the atmospheric levels considered safe by some climate scientists) had already been surpassed.

Joseph suggested that projects with climate impacts might still be justifiable based upon other benefits to society, and Doelle and Sinclair (2021) similarly proposed several criteria for when climate impacts could be considered justified¹⁸. Peloffy et al (2022) identified various loopholes and shortcomings in Canadian climate IA, proposing a test revolving around compatibility with decarbonization pathways and fair shares of the global carbon budget¹⁹.

This unreliable colonial government commitment to climate action adds to the general dissatisfaction with current IA processes and approaches and helps contextualise the emergence of the Gitanyow’s WSAP and climate test.

The Gitanyow People and assessment process

Gitanyow initiated the WSAP in 2019 after decades of experience participating in colonial impact assessments with minimal consideration of climate impacts. The WSAP is an example of not just ILIA but of the legal pluralism that exists in B.C. and Canada at the intersection of major project development, climate, and reconciliation.

Since contact with Europeans in the late 18^th century, Gitanyow has defended the Lax’yip through direct and legal action, negotiation, and diplomacy. The effort to defend the Lax’yip has been and continues to be led by the Simgigyet’m Gitanyow (Hereditary Chiefs, or GHC) working on behalf of the Wilp²⁰.

Major project development, ongoing human activity such as forestry, and global environmental change have all been transforming the Lax’yip. Climate change is a prime example of the latter, which in the Lax’yip manifests as glacial melting, increasingly severe wildfires, and ecosystemic change—all affecting Gitanyow culture, livelihood, and well-being.

In response, Gitanyow have enacted several Ayookxw (laws) to shape development in or affecting the Lax’yip, including the WSAP²¹. The WSAP guides Gitanyow’s decisions with respect to major project development proposals, involving early engagement and project screening, detailed assessment, reporting, decision-making, and monitoring (Figure 1). Gitanyow undertakes the WSAP independent of the decisions of any neighbouring Indigenous nations, and to date three projects have been assessed through the process.

Figure 1. Gitanyow Wilp Sustainability Assessment Process

The initial WSAP was developed by Gitanyow Hereditary Chiefs and the first author of this case study, Tara Marsden/Naxginkw, in 2020 for the GHC with the support of West Coast Environmental Law. It included a preliminary climate test revolving around two criteria: whether a project’s design will minimize its carbon pollution and how a project might impact B.C. and Canada’s abilities to meet the Paris Agreement. The limited scope and vague articulation of these two criteria led the GHC in 2023 to initiate expansion and development of the climate test, which is when the second author, Chris Joseph, became involved.

Methods of development of the Gitanyow Climate Test

Starting in 2023, we reviewed and expanded the preliminary test through a five-step process. First, we re-examined the purpose for the test, clarified objectives for it, and explored gaps in the existing test and in colonial climate IA. We next reviewed relevant literature and engaged with several subject-matter experts (Robert Gibson, University of Waterloo; Graeme Reed, Assembly of First Nations; Thomas Green, David Suzuki Foundation) to identify opportunities. Third, we synthesized the research to use in drafting the new test and an accompanying evaluator’s guide. The fourth step was to engage with Gitanyow Chiefs and representatives for feedback. Finally, we applied the new test to two case study projects (Eskay Creek mine, and Ksi Lisims LNG project); the draft results were presented to Gitanyow Chiefs and representatives, then finalized.

New Gitanyow Climate Test

The new test is a response to a number of deficiencies in current B.C. and Canadian climate IA approaches. First, these governments have a poor track record with respect to emissions reduction. Both provincial and federal emissions trajectories are essentially unchanged since the mid-1990s, despite both orders of government introducing policy including legislated emission reduction requirements—a predictable outcome given repeated approval of fossil fuel projects²². More regression will not be surprising in the current political environment²³. Second, Gitanyow recognize the disconnect between politically-negotiated targets and the Earth’s biophysical systems—politically-set targets are currently insufficient to keep the rising temperature down. Third, Gitanyow see little progress in the climate performance of approved projects, and a lack of material effect from IA overall. Fourth, Gitanyow observed inattention in B.C. and Canada’s limited climate tests to several dimensions of climate change²⁴. As such, Gitanyow has sought to build upon its initial climate test to best inform its own decision-making, shape the trajectory of climate change and its effects on the Lax’yip as much as possible, and strengthen Gitanyow sovereignty²⁵.

Consistent with the WSAP, as well as good practice in IA²⁶, the new test was designed with several principles in mind:

Rigour, transparency, and use of best available evidence;
Simplicity and pragmatism to minimize burden on and maximize willingness in Gitanyow analysts and development project proponents;
Applicability to all types of projects;
Multi-dimensionality so as to best inform decision-making while at the same time minimizing overlap and duplication;
Greater scrutiny for higher-risk projects²⁷; and
Putting the onus on proponents to demonstrate project benignity²⁸.

The test is applied during the WSAP, which is triggered when a project that is in or that may affect Gitanyow Huwilp or Lax’yip triggers a review under B.C. or federal IA law. Once a proponent submits an Initial Description of Activities report to Gitanyow, the WSAP begins and the climate test is launched in parallel. The Impacted Wilp and Hereditary Chiefs may also trigger the WSAP for major projects that provincial and federal governments have not deemed reviewable under their respective legislation, which may now be occurring more as a result of fast-track legislation and exemptions of project review requirements.

The test involves three steps: (1) initial scrutiny of a proposed project, (2) criterion-by-criterion assessment including further information gathering, evaluation, and documentation of findings, and (3) summarizing findings of the evaluation as a whole in a climate impact report (Figure 2).

Figure 2. Three steps of the Gitanyow climate test

The first step of initial scrutiny is substantial in its breadth and depth, covering: the nature of the proposed project, quality of evidence, assumptions, uncertainties, and risks²⁹, scope of assessment (e.g., whether there is any project splitting)³⁰, mitigation plans, and relevant technical matters (e.g., use of appropriate GHG time horizons)³¹.

The second step examines the project on a criterion-by-criterion basis using a total of 13 criteria and sub-criteria (Table 1), along with a scoring rubric that defines good, fair, and poor scores for each. Detailed guidance is provided for each of the issues underlying each criterion and to help evaluators make their assessment. Evaluators applying the test can include independent technical experts and Gitanyow staff and leadership. The key questions listed in Table 1 seek to succinctly communicate the issues under examination for the evaluators and the reader of the test and test results.

Table 1. Criteria in the new Gitanyow climate test

Number	Criterion	Sub-criterion	Key Question
1	Project Design and Mitigation	Ambitious Design³²	Does the design reflect ambition to address the climate crisis?
2		Adherence to Mitigation Hierarchy³³	Is prevention prioritized?
3		Plan for Improvement³⁴	Is there a genuine and solid plan to improve the project’s climate performance over its lifespan?
4		Implementation and Effectiveness Monitoring³⁵	Is there appropriate monitoring of, and response to, climate performance?
5		Confidence in Explanation³⁶	Does the information provided give confidence in successful climate performance?
6		Climate Lock-in³⁷	Is the project going to lock-in climate impacts for long periods of time?
7	Climate Impacts	Comparison to Peers³⁸	How do the project’s GHG emissions compare to peers?
8		Scope 3 Performance³⁹	What is the extent of the project’s lifecycle GHG emissions?
9		Climate Targets and Budgets⁴⁰	Does the project help or hinder its host jurisdiction’s climate objectives?
10		Other Climate Effects⁴¹	Are there any indirect or spillover effects of a climate nature?
11		Distributional Inequities⁴²	Are there any groups that will be disproportionately affected by the project’s climate impacts?
12	Economic Viability⁴³		Is the climate mitigation affordable to the proponent?
13	Proponent Environment-Social-Governance (ESG)		Does the proponent’s corporate behaviour and history give confidence in climate performance?

The third step is the documentation of the results across criteria for inclusion in the broader WSAP. Draft results are shared with proponents and Gitanyow leadership, and then finalized based on any new information that comes to light. The final assessment report is then used by Gitanyow leadership to make what’s referred to as a “significance decision,” in other words a decision on the acceptability of a proposed project.

Case studies

The new climate test has now been applied by the authors to three projects: the brownfield Eskay Creek mine, the Ksi Lisims LNG project, and most recently a third project not profiled here. These are the first applications of any Gitanyow climate test, as the test in its initial form was never used to evaluate a project.

Eskay Creek

Skeena Resources recently sought the provincial government’s approval to reopen the currently-shuttered Eskay Creek gold and silver mine located northwest of Gitanyow territory. Its truck traffic would pass through Gitanyow territory, posing a number of risks to sensitive ecosystems and wildlife such as moose and grizzly bear.

Skeena agreed in 2022 to participate in the Gitanyow WSAP and provided information for the evaluation, which was completed in 2024. While this project on its face does not pose many negative climate impacts, the climate test was applied as part of the broader WSAP evaluation. Overall, the project received nine “good” and four “fair” scores (Figure 3)⁴⁴. To elaborate on two of these scores for the purposes of illustrating how the climate test works, the project received a “good” score for Comparison to Peers due to its low anticipated GHG intensity (due to high ore grade, availability of clean electricity, and it being located at the site of an old mine—also called a brownfield), whereas a “fair” score was given for its Scope 3 Performance due to Skeena’s unclear emissions estimate and limited interest in mitigation. Scope 3 Performance refers to emissions linked to a project either upstream in the supply chain or downstream from the use of the product.

Figure 3. Climate test results for Eskay Creek mine (“good” scores are green and yellow signifies “fair”)

Ksi Lisims LNG

The Ksi Lisims LNG project includes a proposed pipeline that would pass through Gitanyow territory, as well as a proposed export facility located northwest of it. Ksi Lisims LNG’s multiple proponents did not agree to participate in Gitanyow’s WSAP, but the project was evaluated nonetheless over 2024 and 2025 using publicly available information.

As a fossil fuel development, the project raised obvious climate impact issues and the climate test was an important part of Gitanyow’s evaluation. Overall, the project received one “good”, five “fair”, and seven “poor” scores (Figure 4). To elaborate, the project received a “fair” score with respect to Adherence to Mitigation Hierarchy because the electrification of the liquefaction process will avoid a substantial proportion of the project’s climate impacts, even though the proponent plans to rely on offsetting primarily until electrification is possible.

Figure 4. Climate test results for Ksi Lisims LNG (“good” scores are green, yellow are “fair”, and orange are “poor”)

Conclusion

Climate change is already profoundly impacting the Gitanyow territory and people, and consequently they have felt compelled to act. From Gitanyow’s perspective, the provincial and federal governments are failing to achieve climate progress. The climate test within the WSAP plays an important role in Gitanyow people being stewards of the territory for future generations, addressing the shortcomings of colonial impact assessment and climate action, providing transparency for major project impacts, and propelling change.

The advent and implementation of the Gitanyow climate test within the broader WSAP demonstrate the evolving legal landscape in Canadian IA and climate mitigation. In B.C. especially, legal pluralism has been evolving with the jurisdictional overlap of provincial and federal colonial law in addition to numerous independent and sovereign Indigenous nations.

Indigenous-led impact assessment is increasingly playing a role in how projects are assessed, whether they are approved, and in influencing the conditions for approval. Indigenous Peoples in particular—whose cultures, lifestyles, and economies revolve around the natural environment—are particularly engrossed in driving change in how proposed projects are assessed for their climate impacts.

IA, Indigenous reconciliation, and climate policy activism are intertwined and evolving, despite pushback against each by opposing interests.

Evaluation through the Gitanyow climate test has now been completed for three projects since its initial unveiling in 2020 and subsequent revision in 2023. Gitanyow remains open to further revision of the climate test based on new scientifically-proven methods and best available information.

While Gitanyow’s relationship to the land and stewardship of it is not new, the climate test and WSAP are recent expressions of Indigenous laws. Implementation of Indigenous laws in the face of colonial incursion is often hamstrung by the provincial and federal government’s denial of recognizing Gitanyow authority, but there is evidence nonetheless of the potential to nudge project climate performance, push colonial IA practice, and advance reconciliation.

Acknowledgements

The authors would like to thank the Gitanyow Hereditary Chiefs for supporting the development of the climate test and this article.

Indigenous-led electricity transmission projects: A generational opportunity

Acknowledgment

The authors would like to thank Blake Shaffer for his invaluable assistance.

Introduction

In an era when achieving multiple policy goals simultaneously can be elusive, connecting Canada’s provinces via long-distance transmission represents a unique convergence of economic, social, and environmental benefits. While barriers exist, there is a broad consensus across various sectors and political affiliations that Canada must modernize its electric transmission systems, particularly across provincial borders.

For example, Manitoba’s NDP Premier Wab Kinew has noted that a Canada-wide electricity grid is an idea whose time has come—a sentiment supported by a growing body of literature, including region-specific and nationwide reports to which members of our authorship team contributed. Similarly, Conservative leader Pierre Poilievre has called for “nation-building infrastructure” and pre-approved corridors for transmission. Prime Minister Mark Carney has emphasized the need for “moving at a speed not seen in generations to build…energy grids.” Margaret Kenequanash, CEO of pioneering Indigenous majority-owned transmission builder Wataynikaneyap Power, highlighted how such infrastructure improves the quality of life for remote First Nations, ensuring future generations can thrive.

The reasons for this widespread support are manifold. Economically, new transmission promises to lower overall system costs and enhance reliability by integrating previously siloed electricity systems—for instance, allowing for flexible hydro resources in one province to balance the variability of wind and solar in others. Socially, these buildouts serve as a “nation-building” exercise that binds regions together and fosters the participation of Indigenous Peoples and Indigenous Nations in a sector where they have often historically been excluded. Environmentally, transmission infrastructure enables the rapid development of large low-carbon loads, such as data centers, and facilitates the integration of diverse clean energy generation sources. Given these benefits in a moment when Canada is keen to build our nation’s infrastructure and resilience, the opportunity for interprovincial transmission has never been more promising.

Canada’s electricity system is underbuilt and deeply fragmented: more than 80 per cent of Canada’s electricity flows south to the United States, rather than east-west between provinces. Canada currently has more capacity to export electricity to the United States than it has to share between its own jurisdictions, leaving many Indigenous Nations to face unreliable, outdated, or non-existent grid infrastructure. This status quo restricts community ability to develop new economic projects in their territories, adopt clean technologies, or participate in larger-scale renewable generation.

Canada’s fragmented electricity system and the lack of reliable grid infrastructure in many Indigenous communities are often treated as separate challenges; in reality, they are deeply interconnected. Indigenous ownership in transmission is one of the few solutions that addresses both simultaneously: strengthening regional grid reliability while advancing Indigenous self-determination and economic opportunity.

The central challenge is therefore no longer whether to build, but how. Private interests, regulatory differences, and provincial autonomy disputes have traditionally served as barriers.

While no single solution exists, this Perspective examines an ownership model critical to Canada’s energy transition: Indigenous-led transmission.

Historically, Indigenous communities have not owned the infrastructure crossing their territories. The next logical step in economic reconciliation and energy security is for these communities to lead new builds within provinces, while growing their footprint and development plans across provinces.

As rights holders, Indigenous involvement in transmission development is an imperative. Recent projects, such as the North Coast Transmission Line (NCTL) and Hydro One’s equity partnerships, indicate a shift toward significant Indigenous stakes in infrastructure. This work focuses on an ownership model that reframes participation and moves beyond the baseline of Impact Benefit Agreements (IBAs) and minority stakes to place Indigenous communities in control. By doing so, communities can apply their values and capabilities to key development decisions—potentially shaping everything from technical nuances, like corridor selection, to social license and project economics. We argue that outright leadership is the necessary evolution for infrastructure traversing traditional territories.

In the spirit of reconciliation, the authors have come together as practitioner-scholars representing both Indigenous and non-Indigenous perspectives. We contend that the leadership model proposed herein represents sustainable reconciliation in action, and deserves continued support from all levels of government.

Canada’s fragmented electricity system and the lack of reliable grid infrastructure in many Indigenous communities are deeply interconnected. (Murphy Shewchuk/iStock)

Background: Evolution and history of Indigenous leadership in clean energy markets

The precedent for this evolution in how transmission infrastructure is built has already been partially established in a different facet of the energy system—clean electricity generation. In fact, one of the authors was privileged enough to witness the change from IBAs, to minority equity participation, then majority ownership, and eventually wholly-owned asset ownership during time in a remote region of northwestern Ontario (see the 2012 review Blazing a new path forward: A case study on the Pic River First Nation). This remarkable Nation’s journey was not inevitable; indeed, British Columbia-based large infrastructure projects related to clean energy transition did not land at the same final community destination of full Indigenous ownership and leadership, as a companion comparative case study analysis demonstrated.

Every case is unique to the impacted community and provincial regulatory environment; however, significant intraprovincial momentum is building. In Ontario, Hydro One now partners on a 50-50 split model for major projects valued at over $100 million. In British Columbia, BC Hydro is collaborating with the eight-member First Nations-led K’uul Power on the multi-billion-dollar NCTL, supported by early works financing from the Canada Infrastructure Bank.

Interprovincial projects go a step beyond, and involve a complex array of provinces, regulators, and topographies. Potential ideological and cross-cultural challenges can emerge, and success is by no means guaranteed. Nevertheless, while no project is without challenges, mutual benefit can be achieved through structured cooperation.

The scale of this opportunity is quantifiable. A 2023 report commissioned by the First Nations Major Projects Coalition (FNMPC) estimated, as of the time of writing, $27.75 billion in total capital costs in the transmission sector nationally, with $5.2 billion in potential Indigenous equity participation in transmission alone. Transmission ownership is particularly well-suited to community economic development: lines operate under regulated rate-of-return models that provide stable, bond-like revenue streams for decades. Such cash flows create predictable own-source revenue that can, over time, reduce or replace dependence on federal transfer payments. This matters deeply in a context where, as the National Indigenous Economic Strategy for Canada has documented, four out of every five First Nations reserves have median incomes below the poverty line, and over 36 per cent of Indigenous people aged 15 and over rely on government transfers as their main income source.

Yet not every community will or should follow the same path. As the previously-mentioned FNMPC’s transmission report notes, “What works for one Nation may not work for another. The economics, and therefore risk and rewards, of each project are unique and must be evaluated on their own merits.” The distinction between participation, equity, and outright project leadership is therefore not a ladder all Nations must climb—it is a spectrum of options that must be exercised on community-defined terms, grounded in free, prior, and informed consent (FPIC).

Envisioning the gold standard: Indigenous leadership in interprovincial transmission

Across Canada, equity participation has become an important step forward in Indigenous involvement in clean energy projects. The electricity sector is an essential avenue for economic reconciliation, and Indigenous leadership is the new table stakes for project development. Ownership stakes generate long-term predictable revenue, create jobs, build capacity, secure interconnections, and reflect recognition of First Nations rights and title.

Indigenous communities are uniquely positioned to facilitate collaboration with provincial, environmental, and corporate interests. As co-author Kwatuuma Sayers has observed, First Nations territories transcend provincial borders, allowing them to lead conversations with utilities and grid operators. This dynamic creates a once-in-a-generation opportunity for First Nations to lead major infrastructure projects, moving beyond the recognition of FPIC.

However, the traditional model where Nations hold passive equity in projects conceived, structured, and largely governed by others is not the end point—it is a transition point. Transmission infrastructure, in particular, calls for a shift beyond that ownership model toward true Indigenous project leadership. For too long, Canada’s Indigenous Nations have been sidelined on major infrastructure projects that occupy their territories. The Indigenous Power Coalition, which one of the authors leads, supports the capacity to put these Nations at the centre and in the driver’s seat of future clean electricity developments. Indigenous Power Coalition is flipping the script on the role of Indigenous Nations in clean electricity infrastructure development—from responsive to proactive, from consulted partner to leader—on projects that will provide benefits for generations.

The Indigenous Power Coalition accomplishes this in two key ways:

Identifying potential projects and convening Nations around clean electricity infrastructure opportunities to create the collaborative space for coalition building.
Supporting informed decision-making by bringing technical, legal, and financial expertise to the table to provide Nations with informed decision-making about the benefits and risks.

Transmission lines drive the geography of economic opportunity. They determine which regions develop, which resources connect to markets, and how power flows across territories. When First Nations participate as equity partners in projects designed and controlled by external proponents, they may benefit financially, but they are not shaping the core strategic decisions that affect their lands, communities, and long-term development pathways. Project leadership, on the other hand, means First Nations act as the controlling proponents, defining the corridor vision, selecting partners, structuring governance frameworks, negotiating with utilities and regulators, and determining how risk and returns are balanced. Capital is mobilized in service of Nations’ collective priorities—and not the other way around.

For transmission lines specifically, this shift is critical, because it represents generational infrastructure. Transmission lines operate for decades and enable electrification, industrial development, renewables integration, and regional economic resilience. If Nations are to exercise self-determination within the electricity system, leadership in transmission is one of the clearest and most resilient pathways. The traditional model can preserve legacy development patterns: external developers control project design and timelines, while First Nations are invited into ownership once key decisions are largely set. Often, the benefits derived from legacy approaches to asset ownership are not granted—only the risks. Even where equity ownership percentages are meaningful, governance authority and agenda-setting power often remain limited.

Over time, this misconfiguration constrains capacity building and perpetuates reliance on outside proponents. First Nations-led and owned transmission reverses that pattern. It creates space for Nation-to-Nation engagement with provinces, utilities, and investors. It aligns infrastructure planning with Indigenous laws, environmental resource management practices, and long-term economic strategies. It builds internal expertise in finance, regulatory navigation, engineering oversight, and major project delivery. Leadership does not mean going it alone; strategic partnerships remain essential. The distinction between the two models lies in who defines the vision and who holds ultimate decision-making authority.

Moving beyond the traditional model is not simply about increasing ownership percentages—it is about governance, control, and strategic direction.

Transmission is the backbone of the clean electricity system, and Indigenous leadership ensures that infrastructure development reflects rights, responsibilities, and relationships rooted in the territories it crosses.

The community well-being case for ownership is strong. Nations that have moved into transmission ownership report a cascade of downstream benefits beyond revenue. When Wataynikaneyap Power connected 24 remote First Nations communities to Ontario’s electricity grid, it replaced the need for environmentally-damaging and logistically-precarious diesel-powered generators—and for shipping fuel via winter roads that are less reliable due to warmer winters. On-reserve population growth is another pressing driver: new homes built in many communities are uninhabited due to load restrictions and subsequent lack of power. When Nations own the infrastructure connecting their communities to the grid, they gain the ability to respond directly to that growth—funding housing, health centres, schools, and elder-care facilities through own-source revenue rather than grant applications.

The National Indigenous Economic Strategy for Canada makes this connection explicit: “Community economic development directly impacts the quality of life for all community members. Small business development leads to increased workforce participation, which is a key determinant of economic health and overall health in communities.” Infrastructure ownership is one of the fastest routes to that outcome, because it generates stable, long-duration revenue without depending on resource commodity price cycles or government program continuity.

Interprovincial connections amplify these community-level benefits. Stronger east-west interconnections allow utilities to manage resources across seasons and time zones—thereby reducing the need for each province to overbuild generation capacity and passing those savings on to ratepayers. When First Nations own portions of these interties, they capture a share of that value directly. The Wasoqonatl Transmission Line between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick is projected to save Nova Scotia ratepayers approximately $200 million over its operational life—and two Mi’kmaw and Mi’gmaq First Nations entities hold equity ownership stakes in that same asset.

This is the model: Indigenous ownership of interprovincial infrastructure that simultaneously advances grid reliability, lowers system costs, and generates long-term community revenue.

The next phase of clean electricity development must therefore move beyond the traditional model of development from participation toward true Indigenous project leadership. That’s especially important for transmission, where both the opportunities and responsibilities are generational.

The role of Indigenous Nations in clean electricity infrastructure development is shifting from consulted partner to leader. (Don White/iStock)

Cautious optimism: Equity has many benefits, but also risks

It is clear that owning a transmission asset is an enviable proposition for many communities. As already outlined, under many transmission procurement models, a community can own—with a bond-like regulated rate of return—a decarbonization asset that directly supports sovereignty and financial self-reliance. Major project development can be a source of not only tremendous civic pride and political excitement, but also employment and training opportunities. Ownership of revenue-bearing assets can eventually replace federal transfer payments as the primary source of funding to Indigenous communities.

However, there is a misconception that Indigenous equity is without risk. Experience suggests a more nuanced reality. While the goals of political autonomy and fiscal self-reliance are worthy, a thoughtful risk management framework is essential.

As with any form of investment, there are also notable potential costs, and Nations should be clear on that tension.

For one, there is always the fundamental (albeit unlikely) risk that even with the best of intentions, the project may simply not return a positive net present value (financial jargon referring to when a project’s ultimate return on the capital invested falls short of the revenue projections). The more alarming cousin of poor profitability is completion risk—projects may not go ahead, and hard costs (such as legal counsel or advisors) are still typically due regardless of completion. Of course—even with modern financial and engineering project controls—the ultimate ownership benefits can be distorted by unexpected events, cost increases, surprises (such as the discovery of a new endangered species along the corridor designated for the transmission facility), natural disasters, changes in public opinion, and other possibilities too numerous to list.

Second, a Nation often needs to purchase the equity to move beyond a more nominal ownership stake. While contributions such as land access, government grants, environmental assessments, and social permission can net a small equity piece (e.g. 5-10 per cent) in negotiations, only hard-cash investment will create the significant partnership stake (e.g. 30-50 per cent) required in order for Indigenous Nations to truly be equal partners at the table. Making the decision to invest will inevitably divert a community’s scarce financial and non-financial resources that would otherwise be expended on alternative Nation priorities. Communities can be understandably nervous about such a large budget item.

Third, it’s important to remember that sometimes the ultimate decisions are not within a community’s control. Third parties (including other Indigenous organizations) may have final veto over a project’s trajectory. A change in federal, provincial, county, or municipal government can often result in project cancellations or cessation of beneficial legislative frameworks.

Finally, reputational risk is worth considering. Indigenous communities are constantly under the microscope, and public image is a significant factor in decision making. The media has not been kind to Indigenous organizations who have undertaken failed endeavours. No Indigenous organization wishes to receive negative publicity or, even worse, to be seen as having been duped or swindled.

The structural barriers to Indigenous equity participation are not simply about risk appetite — they are embedded in law. As some of the authors have argued elsewhere, Section 89 of the Indian Act prohibits First Nations from pledging reserve-based assets as collateral, making it structurally difficult to access the affordable capital that infrastructure-scale equity investment requires. The Canada Indigenous Loan Guarantee Corporation (CILGC), launched in 2024 and expanded to $10 billion in guarantee capacity in March 2025, represents a direct legislative response to this barrier.

International comparisons reinforce what is possible over time. The Royal Bafokeng Nation in South Africa used mineral royalties—initially extracted from their lands with minimal community benefit—to build Royal Bafokeng Holdings, a community-owned investment portfolio valued at approximately $56 billion South African Rand ($4.6 billion CAD), which today funds schools, health clinics, and infrastructure across 29 villages.

The Māori Queen’s Kotahitanga Fund, launched in 2025 with Indigenous investors pledging approximately $100 million NZD ($81 million CAD) in seed capital, similarly shows how Indigenous-controlled investment vehicles can insulate communities from political volatility and government dependency. These examples affirm both the ambition and the long horizon that transmission ownership requires. They also demonstrate the path from rights holder to infrastructure owner.

In order for First Nations to participate meaningfully, they will have to put up their own capital and have some “skin in the game.” That capital is not likely to come from government grants or other program funding. Most First Nations do not yet have the kind of own-source revenue to fund participation in multi-billion dollar infrastructure projects. The best available solution is the First Nations Finance Authority (FNFA), a statutory institution that allows First Nations to borrow funds from capital markets at rates below bank prime. Proposed amendments to its governing legislation, the First Nations Fiscal Management Act, 2005, would allow for the formation of Special Purpose Vehicles (SPVs). Currently, the FNFA can only lend directly to First Nations governments who have qualified as Borrowing Members, but under an SPV model, specific projects with multiple Indigenous communities impacted or participating can access capital on their own to gain significant equity ownership. At the time of writing, FNFA has an “AA” credit rating from Moody’s and Morningstar DBRS—equal to and better than some provincial issuers. This model could significantly reduce the cost of capital for major projects, potentially saving millions in financing costs.

The proposed structure would create SPVs that are Indigenous-owned, typically structured as Limited Partnerships with defined ownership agreements and clear governance protocols and procedures. At least one participating First Nation must be a pre-approved Borrowing Member of the FNFA, and the remaining participants must also meet required financial governance standards. The SPV entity itself must generate stable cash flow and acquire a loan guarantee from an institution like the CILGC or a provincial body like the Alberta Indigenous Opportunities Corporation. The model brings together and layers multiple stakeholders and entities to create a first of its kind financing stack which could revolutionize the way major projects in Canada get built. Under this model, the SPV becomes the project proponent, putting their Indigenous owners in the driver’s seat.

Indigenous-led transmission is a practical accelerant for Canada’s grid expansion. (ESOlex/iStock)

Call to action/conclusion

For Indigenous governments, we urge a rethink on sovereignty practices and nationhood conceptualization. This would appear as a shift away from lobbying Ottawa for funding and recognition of FPIC towards owning and managing major infrastructure to generate revenue. Ownership and management of major infrastructure and public services are a primary function of government the world over. Many Indigenous governments have taken charge of infrastructure, including roads, water and wastewater, and landfills. A few, such as Nisichawayasihk Cree Nation, are now modestly providing services such as power generation, transmission, and fiber optic or satellite internet/communications. The historical model of receiving grants and relying on disbursements has a very mixed record, and is susceptible to both political volatility and distinct stop-start risks, depending on the policy environment.

Policymakers would be well advised to expedite the passage of the proposed amendments to the First Nations Fiscal Management Act, 2005—allowing FNFA to extend its borrowing capacity to SPVs created for major infrastructure projects and allowing access to FNFA’s below-prime borrowing rates collectively, backed by a federal or provincial loan guarantee such as those now available through CILGC. This amendment has been drafted, presented to Parliament, and championed by FNFA leadership before the Senate Standing Committee on National Finance. It awaits passage. There may be a day when existing funding slices, which are sometimes perceived as insufficient, may dwindle in future throne speeches.

For the federal government and provincial regulators, Indigenous-led transmission is a practical accelerant for Canada’s grid expansion. Every major transmission corridor crosses Indigenous territories, and over the next two decades, Canada must double or triple grid capacity.

Projects built with Indigenous partnership face less opposition, move through regulatory processes faster, and reach operation sooner.

The National Indigenous Economic Strategy’s estimate is instructive: closing the productivity gap between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians would increase Canada’s GDP by $27.7 billion—and infrastructure ownership is one of the most durable pathways to that outcome. The continued economic marginalization of Indigenous Peoples in Canada costs the economy $27.7 billion. Transmission ownership is a positive step towards economic reconciliation.

For capital markets and institutional investors, the CILGC lowers borrowing costs for Indigenous equity investments, while the constitutional protections of Section 35 and UNDRIP provides a stable legal foundation for long-term project governance. As Nations Royalty Corp. and Selkirk Copper Mines Inc. have recently demonstrated, Indigenous-owned enterprises can access public capital markets—a model that transmission-owning entities may eventually pursue.

Going forward, owning infrastructure—critical and otherwise—will be essential to the self-determination many Indigenous communities and community members crave. As already highlighted, this approach can provide the long-duration revenue streams that community membership requires. Owning the grid means owning the future. For Indigenous Nations, transmission lines are instruments of self-determination that connect communities to economic opportunity, reduce diesel dependency, fund the services community members deserve, and affirm the authority of Nations over territories their ancestors have governed since time immemorial.

A note from the authors

All the views expressed, and all errors, remain the responsibility of the authors. Krupa and Busch further affirm that all views expressed herein represent the perspectives of the authors and are therefore not to be taken as representative of the views of any organization(s) with which they were/are affiliated in the past, present, and/or future.

What the land knows: Métis harvesting narratives as climate knowledge

Shotguns and canoes

In 2012, I won a poetry award in my undergrad and used the $1,200 to buy a shotgun and a canoe. My professor told me that was a first. Most people used the cash to go on a trip to Europe. I’d be bringing my new shotgun and used aluminum canoe to Buffalo Pound Lake in the fall. The money from a new government job covered a 1998 blue Chevy Lumina. For the first time since I was a kid, I could actually get out on the land. Stock the freezer. Bring something home to my Grandparents and community. For years before that, I had been stranded in Edmonton with student debt, five bucks in a bank account, no vehicle, and the particular ache of knowing the land was out there and not being able to get to it.

That freezer, the one I finally got to fill again, is what this case study is about. Not literally, but the knowledge system it represented. The understanding, built across generations of Métis harvesting in the lands and waterways surrounding Edmonton, Alberta that the land is not a backdrop to human life, but a participant in it. That harvesting is not extraction but relationship. And the people who have maintained that relationship across decades of displacement, colonial legislation, industrial development, and the particular Canadian talent for pretending none of that happened—they are carrying some of the most detailed and longitudinal climate knowledge in this territory. It just does not come in a format that fits into a government report.

This case study argues that Métis harvesting narratives are not supplementary data. They are primary data that predate the colonial institutions’ reliance on scientific data. The dominant frameworks for understanding climate change and the impacts on the environment were built by the same colonial project that spent three centuries actively removing Métis people from the territories they understood best. That the resulting knowledge gap is now being addressed with consultation processes and Traditional Ecological Knowledge annexes is not quite enough. The stories are the data. The rest is catching up.

[Click to see in English] sîsîpak kâ-ayâcik ekota kâ-tipiskâk

omisi esi tânisi âpihtawikosisân kiskeyihtamowin ohci anima askiy esi âsônamihk. nimâmitoneyihcikanihk, nîsosâp kâwi nitahtopiponân, nimosôm ekwa niya e-samakîyâhk mâswâniskâhk ekota ihkatawâhk (e-pahkwâk ihkatawâw) ekota kâ-cîpâyikamik ispacinâsa sâwanohk moscâstani sîpiy. namôya nikihcinâhon tânisi anihi aspacinâsa esi wîyihkâteki eyiko wîhowin, ekosi anihi nimosôm kâ-esi wîhahk. namôya ceskwa oyasiwewin pâskisikewin wâsaskotawek. anima paskwâw pîsim kâ-pe-sâkewet mistahi tâpiskoc mihcet osâwi-mihkwâw, mihkwâw, ekwa nîpâmâyâtan, ekwa ekota kâ-tipiskâk nipihtawânânak sîsîp mîkwanak ispimihk ekota kâ-nîpawiyâhk. nikwecimâw tânihki tepiyâhk kâ-pâskiswâyâhkik nâpew sîsîpak. niwihtamâk ekwa moy e-kinwâpamit. kinitaweyimânawak iskwew sîsîpak sâwanohk kâhesiyâcik, itwew. ka-wîyinocik. kâwi ka-pe-kîwîyâcik ka-owâwicik. miyo kîsikâw ohci aniki sîsîpak.
namôya awiyak miyikiw masinahikan. namôya awiyak nimiyik nîsta kîkway. kiskinwahamâson ekota ka-ayâyan. kikiskinwahamâson tânisi sakâw esinâkwahk kâ-miywâyâk pihci kîkway moy kwayask. kikiskinwahamâson, eta namôya kîkway awiyak e-itwet, kiya poko ka-wihtaman kîkway kâ-kîwihtâyan pihtaw kiwahkômâkanak e-wî-mîcitik.
anima Manitoba Metis Federation wiyasiwewin ohci mâcewin wihcikâtew kîkway mâcewak âsay itôtahkik: eyikoni âpihtawikosisânak mâcewin okimâwewin e-osihtâhk ekota tâpowakeyihtamowin ana omâcew ekota askîhk ohci, moy kinwâpahtahk ohci wayawetimihk. anima kiskeyihtowin moy ohpime ihtakon ohci anima kâ-esi wahkohtômakahk eta kâ-osihcikâtek eyikwânima, eyikwânima ohci tânihk moy kâ-pimâtahk kâ-otinikâtek ekwa nâstâhk.

Ducks in the darkness

Here is how Métis knowledge about land actually gets transmitted. In my mind, I’m 12 years old again, my Grandfather and I are crouched down in the reeds off a tiny pothole slough (a shallow marshland) in the Haunted Hills south of Moose Jaw. I’m not sure where the hills got that name, it was just how my Grandfather referred to them. It is not legal shooting light yet. The prairie sunrise is creeping out in a thousand shades of orange, red, and purple, and in the darkness we can hear the swoosh of duck wings passing over us. I ask him why we only shoot the drakes. He answers without looking at me. We need the hens to go down south, he says. Get fat. Come back and lay eggs. It is a good day for the ducks.

Nobody handed him a manual. Nobody handed me one either. You learn by being there. You learn what the bush looks like when it is healthy versus when something is off. You learn, without anyone saying it directly, that you are accountable for what you take home because your family is going to eat it.

The Manitoba Métis Federation’s Laws of the Harvest codifies what harvesters already practice: that Métis harvesting governance is built on the principle that the harvester is embedded in the ecosystem, not surveying it from the outside. The knowledge does not exist separately from the relationship to place that produced it, which is why it does not survive being extracted and filed.

My experience as a Métis harvester in Treaty 6 territory is treated throughout this paper as evidence, not as illustration and not as colour, but as data. University of Michigan Professor Kyle Whyte’s 2017 foundational work on Indigenous climate change studies makes the theoretical case for this: dismissing lived experience as subjective while treating remote sensing as objective is a political choice dressed up as methodology. The harvesting knowledge that comes from four generations of being in relationship with a specific piece of land is more granular, more longitudinal, and more place-specific than almost any formal monitoring system currently operating in these territories.

When harvesting territories are inaccessible or when seasons are unpredictable, the transmission of critical knowledge breaks down. (Conor Kerr)

Sharp-tail grouse dancing on a lek

My Uncle, Father, and good family friend and I scattered my Grandfather’s ashes in an abandoned pioneer graveyard in the Haunted Hills. The four of us walked across a washed-out clay road in rubber boots, my father and I carrying our Italian-made Benelli shotguns, my uncle carrying a green shoebox with my Grandfather’s ashes in a plastic bag. No speeches. No ceremony beyond a mickey of Canadian Club passed around and some poured out on the ground. Then my uncle opened the ashes and they dropped into the prairie soil on the wind, and we stood there thinking about the man who had brought us all into this world and into this particular piece of country and instilled an intimate knowledge of the landscapes around us.

Then, forty sharptail grouse came out of nowhere and buzzed us. Close enough to hear the wind off their wings. The family friend, waiting back at the trucks, dropped two. His black lab went to retrieve them before the dust from the ashes had settled. My father said the grouse gave Grandpa a forty-wing salute and only thirty-eight flew away. That is a precise observation. It is also a data point. Forty sharptail grouse in a covey, in country where my dad said he had not seen a flock that size since Grandpa’s younger days. Not a climate model. A specific observation in a specific place by people who had been watching that country for decades. That is what this kind of knowledge looks like, and that is what gets lost when the people who hold it are no longer on the land.

The Otipemisiwak Métis Government’s Mámawi Nistam report documents exactly this pattern: community members flagging changes in species populations, berry yields, and freeze-thaw cycles well before those changes showed up in official monitoring systems. The harvesters were not wrong. There is no more rigorous accountability structure than a family that eats what it brings home. If you stake your winter food supply—the full freezer—on a flawed observation, it can’t be solved in peer review.

Old gravel roads

My Grandmother never stopped harvesting from inside the city. On her daily walks around Beaumaris Lake—an urban man-made lake in Edmonton’s northside—she would cut into the yards backing onto the path and take produce from people’s gardens. When the saskatoon berries came in, she would take the bus down to the river valley and walk the trails filling four-litre ice cream pails, on the same paths her Granny had walked coming out of the Papaschase community. She did not think of this as remarkable, it was just what you did. The city was terrain, same as any other, and she read it the same way.

That is how harvesting knowledge works. It is not stored in a curriculum. It is carried in the body, accumulated across seasons, transmitted through doing. My Grandfather did not use a rangefinder or a mapping app. He had a .22 with a bent barrel and a Coleman propane stove on the tailgate and he would know which caragana rows held coveys of partridge and grouse. When he checked a grouse’s crop to see what the bird had been eating, while frying up its breast and heart, he was practicing field ecology. He just called it lunch.

The same report discusses Métis harvesters adjusting routes, timing, and methods in response to changing conditions—not as crisis management, but as ordinary practice. The adaptability is not new. The Métis were and are always moving, always reading, always adjusting. What is new is the rate at which conditions are changing, and the degree to which the systems harvesters relied on to orient themselves are coming unmoored from the patterns that made them legible.

The old gravel road we drove to get to the gravesite had not seen a grader in a few summers. My Grandfather used to cruise it in an old station wagon with no winter tires, back before that was even a thing people thought about. He got stuck constantly and a lot of walking to random farms to borrow a phone or a tractor. That was a different relationship to uncertainty. You expected the road to be bad and you managed it. What is harder to manage is when you expect the road to be fine and then it is not, and you cannot tell whether this year is an anomaly or a new pattern.

Saskatoon berries

Nobody who has been harvesting in this territory for more than a decade needed to be told the climate was changing. They had been watching it change. The question most of the harvesters had was why it took everyone else so long to notice. Why had policymakers not reacted as familiar rhythms were increasingly interrupted by unpredictable swings?

The saskatoon berries are the thing that comes up most when I think about what has shifted in my own lifetime. My Grandmother knew every slope along the river valley where the berries came in earliest. She knew which bushes to check first by reading the angle of the hillside and the direction it faced, knowledge that had been tested across so many seasons it had become instinct. She filled those four-litre pails reliably. When I returned to the same spots after years away, the timing was off. Some years, the berries came in a full two weeks earlier than they should have. Other years, they got hit with a late frost right at the peak and there was almost nothing. The pattern that her knowledge was built on, the pattern that told you when to get on the bus and where to walk and which bushes to start with; that pattern has become unreliable in a way it was not for her generation. The knowledge still exists. The conditions it was built on are shifting underneath it.

That first fall back on the land, after the shotgun and the Lumina, the country felt different from how I remembered it as a kid. Not dramatically different. Just off, the way a familiar voice sounds wrong on a bad phone connection. The Métis National Council’s 2025 Climate Change Strategy documents this cascading effect in detail: altered freeze-thaw patterns disrupting fishing access, early snowmelt collapsing trapping seasons, berry ripening going sideways in ways that cannot be planned around.

When the patterns your Grandparents knew stop being reliable, you lose not just the information, but also the framework that made the information meaningful.

Spring is the most destabilized season now. It arrives earlier but not consistently earlier. It lurches forward and falls back in ways that confuse both the animals and the harvesters. Moose are showing up in places where they were not expected and are absent from places where they have always been.

Métis harvesting narratives are primary data that predate colonial institutions’ reliance on scientific data. (Conor Kerr)

Empty freezers

Jacob Sansom had just been laid off when he and his uncle Maurice Cardinal drove north to hunt Crown land near Seibert Lake, Alberta. That is what you do when the work dries up and the freezer is getting low. That is what Métis people have done for generations. You go to the land. It is not a romantic impulse. It is a practical one, the same practicality that had my Grandmother on the bus to the river valley with an ice cream pail, the same practicality that had me spending a poetry award on a shotgun instead of a trip to Europe.

They were shot and killed. The RCMP called it an isolated incident with no evidence of racial motivation. I have spent enough time in rural Alberta to know what that message gets across. I have stood in fields talking to settler hunters who told me I was lucky to be out there, implicitly challenging my right to be there at all, and I have nodded and laughed and ended those conversations as fast and safely as I could, because in rural Alberta a lot of people carry weapons in their vehicles and some of them are not afraid to use them.

The fear is not irrational. The Métis Nation-Saskatchewan Climate Change Strategy situates harvesting rights within food sovereignty explicitly: the right of peoples to define their own food systems, to maintain their own relationships to land and food sources, and to make decisions about harvesting according to their own knowledge and governance. When the atmosphere of threat makes harvesters afraid to leave the city, that right becomes theoretical.

The Métis Nation of Alberta’s community monitoring work tracks how environmental disruption compounds this: declining access to traditional food sources, driven by both ecological change and the social conditions that make harvesting dangerous or inaccessible, is pushing communities toward increased dependence on store-bought food. When you cannot harvest, you cannot teach harvesting. That is the long game of both environmental disruption and colonial violence. It’s not just about the food, it’s about the knowledge that sustains it.

Can’t eat oil

There is country west of Edmonton that does not look like itself anymore. Pipelines and oilfield access roads cut through habitat that used to be continuous. To access this country you used to need to know the land to navigate it. Now anyone with a half-ton truck can get in, which means everyone does, so the animals that relied on that difficulty of access for cover have redistributed or thinned out or stopped coming entirely. The physical structure of the harvesting territory has changed. Not metaphorically. Actually. The bush is different now.

The Haunted Hills country south of Moose Jaw is different too, though in different ways. The graveyard where we scattered my Grandfather’s ashes had been reclaimed by overgrown prairie grass and sage and caraganas. The tombstones that had not crumbled away were weathered smooth. A few of the gravesites were covered in the bones of sharp-tail grouse and rabbits, leavings from the big snow-white owls that ran the nights. There was something in that. The way the land had moved back in over the human marks, the way the owls were eating well in a place that had been abandoned. Abandonment and reclamation are not always the same thing. Sometimes the land knows what to do when people leave.

The problem is when people are pushed out of a landscape they were in relationship with, and the landscape changes without them, the knowledge of what it used to hold starts to go.

Bell and Paterson’s 2019 work on Métis harvesting rights in Canadian law traces how consistently those rights have been treated as subordinate to resource extraction. The practical effect is Métis harvesters across the Prairies are watching their territories degrade within a single generation, fast enough that you can name the specific year things started going wrong. I can. That specificity matters. It means the knowledge of what was lost is still alive in the people who watched it go, which means it is not too late to treat that knowledge as the primary evidence it is.

Contamination sits underneath a lot of harvesting decisions now, not loudly but constantly. You do not eat the fish from that drainage anymore. You are not sure if it is actually contaminated or just looks wrong, but you are not going to stake your family’s winter on finding out. The For Our Future: Indigenous Resilience Report documents this widespread and rational caution across multiple territories—communities pulling back from areas they have worked for generations because the industrial footprint has made certainty impossible. The precaution is sensible. It is also a form of dispossession that does not show up in any formal assessment of resource project impacts.

Reading a pothole slough

The climate change conversation in Canada takes place mostly in institutions that were not built for us and were not, for a long time, built with us in mind at all. That is not a hot take. It is a structural description.

The agencies and universities and policy bodies that produce climate knowledge were designed by the same project that spent generations excluding Métis people from decisions about their own lands. Adding a consultation process at the end of a study does not change the design. It adds a room to a building that was already finished.

My Grandfather was functionally illiterate. He enjoyed the pictures in Field & Stream and Outdoor Canada. I used to run across to Tim Hortons to get him a real coffee and come back with those magazines when he was in the hospital and we both knew he was not getting out to fish again. What he could do was read a pothole slough in the dark by sound, read a prairie horizon for weather coming in three days out, read a grouse crop to know what the bird had been eating and what the land was producing. That knowledge is not in any database. It accumulated across a lifetime of being in a specific relationship with a specific piece of land and being accountable to what you found there.

Whyte’s framework for Indigenous climate change studies argues that for Indigenous peoples, many of the conditions that climate discourse treats as future risks are already present. They are not warnings. They are histories. The harvesters in this case study are not being asked to imagine a warming scenario. They are describing what has already happened, in specific places, over specific decades, to specific populations of fish and grouse and berries and ice. That description is primary evidence. The Métis National Council’s Climate Change and Health Vulnerability Report makes this argument in policy terms: effective climate response requires treating Indigenous knowledge as primary, not supplementary, data. Natural Resources Canada’s Indigenous Resilience Report gestures toward this. Gesturing and restructuring are different things. One is a chapter. The other is a different way of doing the work.

Voices on the wind

What comes out of decades of watching specific territories change—specific sloughs, specific traplines, specific berry patches, specific coveys in specific country—is not a theory. The people who hold that body of knowledge have been watching the changes now showing up in formal datasets for twenty or thirty years.

If the goal is early detection and early response, the methodology of early detection should include the people who have been watching longest.

This is not a gesture toward inclusion. It is a methodological argument. Government climate monitoring systems need to be structurally redesigned to incorporate Métis observational knowledge as primary data, not as supplementary commentary appended after the analysis is already done. That means co-developing monitoring frameworks with Métis communities from the design stage, not the consultation stage. It means building data collection systems that are accountable to Métis experience and values, not just legible to existing institutional formats.

Food sovereignty and climate resilience are not separate issues that happen to overlap. They are the same issue approached from different directions. The erosion of harvesting access—through contamination, habitat loss, regulatory barriers, social threat, and the displacement that comes when the animals are no longer where they used to be—is simultaneously a climate impact, a food security crisis, and a cultural rights violation. The architecture of siloed policy built to keep these issues apart cannot adequately address what communities experience as one holistic system. Métis harvesters are not going to the land because they are performing culture. They are going because their families need to eat. That is what Maurice Cardinal and Jacob Sansom were doing. That is what my Grandmother was doing on the bus with her ice cream pail. It is the same thing.

Several policy directions follow from this. Métis governments need to update harvesting policy to reduce the administrative barriers that make access and licensing prohibitively difficult for their own citizens. Federal funding streams designated for Métis community harvesting and food sovereignty projects are needed, not as one-time grants folded into broader Indigenous programming, but as sustained, dedicated investment. Those projects must be designed to support intergenerational knowledge transmission. Anti-racism education and training within the institutions that govern land, wildlife, and public space is a precondition for any of this to work in practice.

The harassment that Métis harvesters face, the challenges to rights, the assumptions about legitimacy, the social conditions that make going out alone feel like a risk you cannot take, do not resolve themselves through policy language. It requires an active, sustained effort to build recognition of Métis rights and culture into the institutions whose agents are, in practice, the people harvesters encounter on the land.

The transmission of harvesting knowledge is itself a climate adaptation strategy, and it is being disrupted at exactly the moment it is most needed. Macdougall and McCallum’s 2018, work on how Métis knowledge travels through family and community shows what that transmission requires: time, proximity, access to the land itself, and enough seasons of doing things together that the knowledge moves from one generation’s body to another’s without having to be explained. When harvesting territories are degraded or inaccessible, when seasons are unpredictable, when the social conditions make going out alone feel like a risk you cannot take, the transmission breaks down. And once it breaks down, you do not automatically get it back when conditions improve. You have to rebuild it deliberately, which is slower and harder and less complete than keeping it going in the first place.

Funding, policy, and governance structures that treat this transmission as a climate adaptation priority—not a cultural heritage footnote—are overdue across every order of government that claims to be serious about resilience in these territories.

Active, sustained effort to build recognition of Métis rights and culture is needed to address the harassment and other challenges that harvesters face in accessing the land. (Conor Kerr)

Filling the freezer

The first time I filled my freezer up again, after the poetry award and the shotgun and the blue Lumina, I drove the meat back to my Grandparents’ place and we filled their fridge freezer right up. Moose, duck, goose, wrapped in butcher paper with the date on it in black marker. My Grandmother did not make a speech about it. She just made room for it, same as she always had. That was the whole point. The freezer was evidence that the relationship with the land was still intact, that the knowledge of how to engage it had moved from one generation to the next, that the continuity had held despite everything that had tried to break it.

I said that this case study is about a freezer but that is a simplification. It is about the knowledge system that allows us to fill it through relationship with the land. The decades of observation about which areas hold moose and when, which hillsides the saskatoons ripen on first, which gravel roads flood out in a wet spring, and which ones hold. The understanding that the land is a participant, not a backdrop, and that the people who have been in relationship with it longest are carrying the most precise and longitudinal record of what it is doing and what is changing.

My Grandmother took the bus to the river valley and filled her ice cream pails on the same trails her Granny walked out of the Papaschase community. My Grandfather knew intimately the different bucks and does of the deer herds in the Haunted Hills. That knowledge is still here. Still accumulating.

Works cited

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Gaudry, Adam, and Darryl Leroux. “White Settler Revisionism and Making Métis Everywhere: The Evocation of Métissage in Quebec and Nova Scotia.” Critical Ethnic Studies, vol. 3, no. 1, 2017, pp. 116–42. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.5749/jcritethnstud.3.1.0116. Accessed 14 Apr. 2026.

Manitoba Métis Federation. Environment and Climate Change. Manitoba Métis Federation, n.d.,www.mmf.mb.ca/environment-climate-change.

Manitoba Métis Federation. Métis Harvesting. Manitoba Métis Federation, n.d.,www.mmf.mb.ca/harvesters.

Manitoba Métis Federation. Métis Laws of the Harvest: Guide to Métis Hunting, Fishing, Trapping and Gathering. Rev. 3rd ed., Manitoba Métis Federation, n.d., https://www.mmf.mb.ca/wcm-docs/docs/departments-citizenship/metis-laws-of-the-harvest_final.pdf.

Métis Nation–Saskatchewan. Climate Change Strategy Report. Métis Nation–Saskatchewan, n.d., https://mns.ca/uploads/public/img/Offices%20&%20Ministries/Lands%20&%20Environment/Environment%20Climate%20Change%20Strat%20Report%20_DIGITAL.pdf

Métis National Council. The Métis Nation Climate Change Strategy: Weaving Resilience and Building Métis Climate Leadership. Métis National Council, 2024, www.metisnation.ca/wp-content/uploads/2025/09/MNC-Metis-Nation-Climate-Change-Strategy-FNL-PDF.pdf.

Métis National Council. Métis Nation Climate Change and Health Vulnerability Assessment. Métis National Council, 2025, www.metisnation.ca/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/MNCHVA-FINAL-Report.pdf.

MNC Response to Environment and Climate Change Canada’s Draft Implementation Framework for the Right to a Healthy Environment, www.metisnation.ca/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/MNC-Response-ECCC-Framework-Report-1.pdf.

Otipemisiwak Métis Government of the Métis Nation within Alberta, and The Resilience Institute. Mâmawi Nistam Ahkamîmowin Iyakohci Siwîpana / Together First: Resilience Through Seasons—Climate Risk and Vulnerability Summary Report for Policy Makers. Nov. 2025, https://albertametis.com/app/uploads/2025/11/Mamawi-Nistam-Climate-Risk-Summary-FINAL_Nov_2025.pdf

Reed, Graeme, et al. For Our Future: Indigenous Resilience Report. Natural Resources Canada, 2024, https://changingclimate.ca/site/assets/uploads/sites/7/2024/03/Indigenous-Resilience-Report_Final_EN.pdf

Whyte, Kyle. “Indigenous Climate Change Studies: Indigenizing Futures, Decolonizing the Anthropocene.” English Language Notes, vol. 55, no. 1, 2017, pp. 153–62. Project MUSE, https://muse.jhu.edu/article/711473.

Who holds the pen? Indigenous dialogues on climate governance and corporate disclosure

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I offer my deepest thanks to the many Elders, Knowledge Keepers, Youth, and business and community leaders who shared their time, stories, and teachings with me in the development of this case study. These conversations were offered with generosity, care, and a deep sense of responsibility to future generations. I am grateful for the trust placed in me to listen and to carry these words forward in a good way. This work is grounded in your voices, and I hold them with respect.

“Reconciliation starts with acknowledging Indigenous Peoples’ rights.”

– First Nation Youth

Canada’s energy transition is increasingly shaped by large-scale energy, mining, and infrastructure projects intended to reduce emissions, support electrification, and expand clean energy systems. These projects are often located on or near lands and waters where First Nations, Métis, and Inuit Peoples³⁴ hold inherent rights, responsibilities, and governing authority. As a result, Canada’s advances towards clean growth and adaptation are not only a matter of technological change or emissions reduction, but also a question of how development decisions intersect with Indigenous jurisdiction.

Corporate disclosures have become an important mechanism through which governments, investors, and the public understand how companies manage environmental and social risks. Sustainability reports, financial statements, and other public filings are increasingly relied upon to signal whether projects align with climate objectives, regulatory expectations, and broader public interest. Within these systems, companies often describe their relationships with Indigenous Peoples as part of their approach to environmental, social, and governance (ESG) reporting.

However, these disclosures do more than simply communicate information. They shape how Indigenous Peoples’ rights are understood by external audiences and influence how authority, responsibility, and legitimacy are understood within climate policy systems.

Yet, there is growing concern that existing disclosure frameworks do not adequately capture the realities of Indigenous Peoples’ rights. Corporate reporting frequently emphasizes consultation processes, partnerships, or community investments while providing limited visibility into questions of jurisdiction, consent, and Indigenous authority over land and resources. In doing so, disclosures may frame Indigenous Nations primarily as stakeholders affected by projects, rather than as governments whose jurisdiction shapes whether and how development proceeds. It approaches corporate disclosure not only as a transparency tool, but as a governance mechanism that can either reveal or obscure the role of Indigenous Peoples in shaping climate-related development in Canada.

This case study examines how the architecture of corporate disclosure intersects with Indigenous jurisdiction. Rather than focusing solely on whether companies report on Indigenous issues, this analysis considers how reporting frameworks influence whose authority is recognized within climate policy. In doing so, it highlights the importance of transparency around Indigenous jurisdiction, consent, and governance relationships in shaping credible climate accountability.

The study asks a foundational question for climate governance:

When Canada writes its climate future, who is holding the pen?

In other words, who has the authority to define how climate decisions are made, whose governance systems are recognized in those decisions, and whose perspectives are reflected in the information used by investors, policymakers, and the public?

A dialogue-based approach bringing together the perspectives of over 50 Indigenous Elders, Youth³⁵, business, and community leaders engaged in climate policy, governance, and economic development was used to explore this question. These conversations, alongside an examination of corporate disclosures in Canada’s public markets, inform an analysis of how Indigenous participants understand climate accountability and where existing disclosure practices fall short. Together, they not only reveal gaps in reporting, but also a deeper question of authorship: who is shaping the narrative, and whose governance systems are being written into Canada’s climate future.

Epcor kīsikāw pīsim solar farm, which means “daylight sun” in Cree, helps to power the Edmonton’s water treatment plant. (Vadimgouida/iStock)

Climate policy is implemented through infrastructure on Indigenous lands

Climate policy is often expressed through legislation, targets, and national strategic plans⁴⁵, but it is realized through projects. Permits must be granted. Land must be accessed. Capital must be deployed. In this shift from policy to project, implementation depends just as much on jurisdictional alignment as it does on engineering and project design.

Across Canada, efforts to reduce emissions and advance economic development are reshaping land. The infrastructure required to meet Canada’s emissions targets overlaps with Indigenous Peoples’ territories.

Climate mitigation, adaptation, and clean growth projects operate within existing systems of Indigenous jurisdiction, treaty relationships, and rights.

These projects take place on lands where Indigenous Nations hold inherent rights and responsibilities relating to land, water, and air. In these contexts, climate policy intersects directly with Indigenous governance systems that predate the Canadian state and continue to shape decisions about land use and resource development. The energy transition is not only a technical or economic undertaking, it requires navigating relationships between federal and provincial regulatory regimes, corporate actors, and self-determining Indigenous Peoples.

Across Canada, Indigenous Peoples are engaging with climate-related development in diverse ways. Some Nations are pursuing ownership or partnership opportunities in renewable energy, transmission infrastructure, and resource projects as part of broader economic development strategies. Others are raising concerns about the environmental, cultural, and governance implications of proposed developments on their territories. In many cases, Nations are doing both: balancing economic participation with the protection of lands, waters, and cultural responsibilities.

Research released in 2021 found that Indigenous communities represent the third-largest owners of clean energy assets in the country, following Crown and private utilities. This underscores a central feature of the transition: project approvals, development timelines, and operating are often shaped by Indigenous governance processes, negotiated agreements, and the recognition of rights affirmed through treaties, court decisions, and modern land claims.

Despite this, Indigenous Peoples’ rights are not always clearly reflected in the public narratives surrounding climate-related development. Policy discussions frequently focus on emissions outcomes, investment flows, and regulatory approvals, while the jurisdictional dimensions of Indigenous Peoples remain less visible. This creates a gap between the realities that shape projects on the ground, and the information made available to policymakers, investors, and the public.

One place where this gap becomes particularly evident is within corporate reporting. Sustainability reports, climate disclosures, and investor communications often provide insight into how companies describe their relationships with Indigenous Peoples. How these relationships are framed, however, shapes whether Indigenous authority in development decisions is recognized, minimized or obscured.

Corporate disclosures should centre Indigenous Nations as rightsholders, not stakeholders

As governments introduce climate policies, companies are using corporate disclosure as a tool to communicate how they plan to manage risks associated with their operations. In recent years, ESG reporting frameworks have become widely used tools for communicating how firms approach issues such as emissions reduction, biodiversity impacts, and relationships with Indigenous Peoples⁴⁶.

These disclosures serve multiple audiences. Investors rely on them to evaluate long-term risks and opportunities. Policymakers use them to understand how companies are responding to regulatory expectations and climate commitments. Civil society organizations and affected communities often draw on them to assess corporate claims about environmental performance and social responsibility. As a result, corporate reporting increasingly shapes how climate accountability is interpreted within financial markets and public policy discussions.

Within land-intensive sectors such as energy, mining, utilities, and other infrastructure development, disclosures frequently address relationships with Indigenous Peoples as part of broader sustainability activities. Companies often highlight engagement processes, partnerships, employment initiatives, or economic participation agreements with Indigenous communities. These disclosures can signal a company’s awareness of the social and governance dimensions of resource development and may reflect efforts to build relationships with Indigenous Nations.

At the same time, the way these relationships are represented in corporate reporting can influence how the governance context of development projects is understood. In many cases, corporate reports frame Indigenous Peoples as stakeholders who are potentially affected by development, rather than as self-determining governments with inherent jurisdiction over lands and resources. Reporting may emphasize engagement activities, scholarships, or community investments without providing clarity on how Indigenous Peoples’ rights are considered in shaping project approvals or operations.

This framing matters because corporate disclosures do not simply describe relationships; they help construct the narrative through which development decisions are interpreted by external audiences. Investors, policymakers, and the public rely on publicly available disclosures when assessing whether projects align with environmental standards, regulatory requirements, and broader societal expectations. If Indigenous Peoples’ rights are not clearly reflected in these disclosures, the resulting narrative may obscure the structural importance of Indigenous authority in shaping project outcomes.

In this way, corporate reporting systems can influence how clean growth projects are understood across policy and financial domains. When disclosures emphasize partnership or engagement with Indigenous Peoples without addressing consent or jurisdictional authority, they can frame these issues as matters of community relations, rather than legal questions of governance and rights.

Despite growing international momentum toward mandatory sustainability reporting, the Canadian Securities Administrators have not yet mandated sustainability-related disclosures for publicly listed companies in Canada⁴⁷. While draft climate-related disclosure rules have been proposed and updated, implementation remains voluntary.

In the absence of a binding, standardized framework that explicitly addresses Indigenous rights and jurisdiction, disclosure practices remain largely principles-based and issuer-driven in corporate disclosures. This creates variability in how governance, consent, and jurisdictional risks are classified and reported.

Corporate disclosures are inconsistent and rarely address Indigenous rights

To understand how Indigenous Peoples’ rights are represented within corporate disclosure systems, the public reports of companies listed on the S&P/TSX Composite Index were examined in 2025. The analysis focused on how companies described their relationships with Indigenous Peoples, and whether those relationships were framed as material governance or risk considerations.

The review included sustainability reports, financial statements, websites, and other publicly available reports produced by companies. While the full index was analyzed, particular attention was paid to land-intensive sectors such as energy, mining, forestry and utilities, where corporate activities most frequently intersect with Indigenous territories and resource governance systems.

Of the 220 companies in the TSX Composite Index examined in 2025, 70 per cent made some type of disclosure relating to Indigenous Peoples⁴⁸. However, only 24 per cent identified Indigenous Peoples, rights, or engagement as a risk factor within their financial statements. Sustainability reports often served as the primary entry point for discussion, with 34 per cent of companies noting Indigenous Peoples as a material topic⁴⁹.

Across these disclosures, there was a large variation in how Indigenous Peoples were described. Companies used a wide range of terms, including “Indigenous communities,” “Indigenous groups,” “local communities,” and, in some cases, more general references such as “stakeholders”. The choice of language matters. Inappropriate language can blur the jurisdictional authority of Indigenous Peoples, particularly where general terms like “groups,” “communities” or “stakeholders” are used instead of specific language that reflects inherent rights or self-governing authority. As such, how Indigenous Peoples are named in disclosures can shape how their role in development is understood.

Disclosures tended to emphasize cultural awareness-based activities, particularly in education, sponsorship, and cultural initiatives. By contrast, disclosures detailing activities that respected Indigenous Peoples’ rights were comparatively rare.

Only 11 per cent of issuers mentioned Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC)—one of the fundamental aspects of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP)—with only five issuers (two per cent) making public commitments to obtain FPIC prior to beginning any new projects.

This gap between narrative references and formal risk recognition highlights an important feature of current disclosure practices. While many companies acknowledge relationships with Indigenous Peoples as part of broader sustainability narratives, relatively few integrate Indigenous rights-related considerations into the core risk frameworks that inform investor decision-making and corporate accountability.

The distinction is significant because the placement of information within corporate reporting carries meaning. Sustainability narratives often emphasize positive stories, celebration of Indigenous days of significance, or community investments. Risk disclosures in the financial statements, by contrast, signal issues that companies consider capable of affecting project timelines, regulatory approvals, or financial performance. When Indigenous Peoples are discussed primarily within narrative-based sustainability reports, the structural role of Indigenous authority in shaping project outcomes may remain less visible to external audiences.

Ultimately, the analysis suggests that current, voluntary, corporate disclosures provide an incomplete picture of the governance dynamics that influence development decisions on Indigenous territories. Projects within land-intensive sectors frequently depend on relationships with Indigenous Nations, including negotiated agreements, regulatory processes involving Indigenous authorities, and evolving legal standards relating to Indigenous rights. Yet these realities are not always reflected in the way companies publicly communicate climate-related risks and responsibilities.

When disclosures omit whether FPIC has been obtained, whether co-governance agreements exist, or how Indigenous equity participation affects control and cash flow, investors receive incomplete information on which to make decisions.

As a result, investors and policymakers who rely on corporate disclosures as indicators of climate accountability may encounter narratives that emphasize partnership or engagement while offering limited visibility into questions of jurisdiction, authority, and consent. Understanding how these dynamics shape climate governance requires moving beyond disclosure statistics to consider how Indigenous Peoples themselves interpret the role of corporate reporting within broader accountability systems.

How development decisions intersect with Indigenous jurisdiction is an important question to ask, as Canada’s clean growth advances. (AscentXmedia/iStock)

Indigenous perspectives on what corporate disclosures reveal and obscure

To complement the analysis of corporate disclosures, this case study draws on conversations with over 50 Indigenous Elders, Youth, business and community leaders engaged in climate governance, economic development, and corporate engagement. These dialogues explored how Indigenous participants interpret the content, impact, and accountability of these disclosures and how corporate disclosures align with their experiences of climate-related development on their territories.

Participants focused on how disclosure practices shape the visibility of Indigenous Peoples’ rights within climate decision-making. Across interviews, several themes emerged that illuminate how Indigenous perspectives understand the relationship between corporate reporting and climate accountability.

Finding 1: Companies control how relationships with Indigenous Peoples are presented in disclosures

“You’re not actually seeing evidence of the relationship, you’re seeing the narrative the company wants investors to believe.” – First Nation business leader

Participants frequently emphasized that corporate disclosures play a powerful role in shaping public narratives about development projects and Indigenous relationships. Sustainability reports and investor communications often present a carefully curated account of engagement processes, partnerships, and community investments. While these narratives may reflect genuine efforts at relationship-building, participants noted that they are ultimately produced and controlled by the companies themselves.

This dynamic creates an imbalance in how relationships are represented publicly. Corporate disclosures often emphasize positive engagement outcomes while providing limited visibility into areas of disagreement, governance negotiations, or unresolved concerns. As a result, disclosures can present projects as more resolved than they are, thereby obscuring ongoing negotiation, disagreement, and the conditions under which decisions are made.

Interview participants described this as a question of narrative authority. When companies control the primary channels through which project relationships are communicated to investors and policymakers, Indigenous Peoples’ experiences may be partially visible but not fully or accurately represented.

Finding 2: Corporate disclosures create the appearance of transparency while obscuring Indigenous rights

“If they don’t have UNDRIP and FPIC in the report, it’s a piece of paper.”

– Métis business leader

A second theme that emerged across dialogues was the distinction between symbolic transparency and meaningful accountability. Participants observed that many companies now reference Indigenous Peoples within sustainability reporting, reflecting growing expectations around environmental, social, and governance performance. However, these references do not always provide insight into how Indigenous rights are factored into project decisions.

Examples raised in conversations included disclosures that describe consultation activities, relationship-building efforts, or community investments without explaining whether Indigenous Nations hold decision-making authority over project approvals, conditions, or monitoring processes. In these cases, reporting may demonstrate awareness of Indigenous issues while leaving key governance questions unresolved.

Participants noted that this type of information can create the appearance of transparency without necessarily clarifying how decisions are made by governments, companies, and Indigenous Peoples. When information about jurisdiction, consent processes, or governance agreements is absent, external audiences may struggle to distinguish between symbolic or performative activities and genuine decision-making authority.

From this perspective, the challenge is not simply whether companies disclose information about Indigenous Peoples, but whether disclosures provide sufficient context to understand how Indigenous Peoples’ rights shape project outcomes.

Canada’s energy transition is increasingly shaped by infrastructure developed on or near territories where First Nations, Métis, and Inuit hold inherent rights. (Laughingmango/iStock)

Finding 3: Corporate disclosures focus on regulatory compliance rather than Indigenous rights

A third theme highlighted in these conversations concerned the distribution of responsibility within climate-related development. Participants noted that corporate disclosures often position federal governments as the primary authority responsible for addressing Indigenous rights and regulatory obligations. Under this framing, companies may present themselves as operating within existing regulatory frameworks while emphasizing compliance with government-led consultation processes.

However, participants emphasized that development decisions often involve navigating complex governance relationships that extend beyond regulatory requirements. Indigenous Nations may exercise authority through negotiated agreements, co-governance processes, or through their rights affirmed through treaties and court decisions. These governance systems can influence whether projects proceed, how they are structured, and how impacts are managed over time.

Examples of land claims, negotiated agreements and co-governance processes

Land Claim: The Tłı̨chǫ Land Claims and Self-government Agreement in the Northwest Territories, recognizes Tłı̨chǫ self-government and establishes co-management processes for land, water, and wildlife decision-making in Wek’èezhìı. In this agreement, Indigenous authority is not limited to only consultation; it is exercised through a constitutionally-protected agreement and ongoing governance institutions.

Negotiated Agreements: On Jan. 17, 2026, Snowline Gold Corp. signed a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) with the First Nation of Na-Cho Nyäk Dun (FNNND) in the Yukon, establishing a framework for collaboration on the Rogue Project. The agreement mandates free, prior, and informed consent from the FNNND before any mine construction.

Co-Governance: The Wataynikaneyap Transmission Project in northwestern Ontario involves 24 partner communities dispersed along an 800 km arc, working together to bring grid connection to communities currently powered by diesel.

“Companies talk about consultation as if that’s the full story, but respecting [Indigenous Peoples’] jurisdiction isn’t a box to check. Whether a project moves forward requires consent, not just a permit.” – First Nation Knowledge-Keeper

However, when corporate disclosures frame Indigenous issues primarily as regulatory or reputational considerations, they may obscure the extent to which Indigenous rights shape the conditions that projects operate under. Participants therefore emphasized that corporate disclosures can present a simplified account of responsibility, one that does not provide visibility into how companies consider Indigenous rights in decision-making in practice.

Taken together, interview participants suggested that corporate disclosure systems play an important role in shaping how climate accountability is interpreted by policymakers, investors, and the public. When reporting emphasizes engagement narratives while providing limited visibility into governance relationships, it may reinforce an incomplete understanding of how climate-related development is negotiated and governed on Indigenous lands.

The final section considers how these insights inform broader discussions about climate accountability and policy design.

One Métis business leader interviewed said without Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC), corporate filings are nothing more than a piece of paper. (Credit: Raylene Whitford)

Policy implications: Rethinking climate governance systems

The findings from both the disclosure analysis and Indigenous dialogues highlight an important challenge: corporate disclosures do not fully capture the governance realities that shape development on Indigenous lands, even though they are a central source of information for investors, regulators, and policymakers seeking to understand how companies are managing climate-related risks and responsibilities.

Improving the visibility of Indigenous rights within sustainability reporting requires more than incremental changes to existing disclosure frameworks. It calls for the development of a distinct reporting standard authored by Indigenous rightsholders themselves.

Such a standard must be grounded in comprehensive, community-based research and informed by Indigenous laws, governance systems, and lived experience. It cannot be developed through conventional standard-setting processes in which a standard setter designs the framework and then seeks feedback through consultation. Nor can it be produced through limited engagement led by a small group of consultants. Instead, its development must involve broad, nation-wide participation by Indigenous Nations and organizations, carried out in a manner that respects and aligns with diverse community protocols and governance structures. Only through this process can Indigenous Nations define what is disclosed, how it is disclosed, and the terms through which accountability is understood.

For policymakers and regulators, this reality is particularly relevant as climate policies increasingly rely on large-scale infrastructure and resource development. Understanding how Indigenous governance systems interact with corporate actors and regulatory frameworks can help ensure that climate policy implementation reflects the governance realities of the lands and waters where projects occur.

For investors and financial institutions, improved transparency around Indigenous rights may also support more accurate assessments of long-term project risk and legitimacy. Development projects that intersect with Indigenous territories often depend on negotiated governance arrangements and evolving legal standards relating to Indigenous rights. When these dynamics are not clearly reflected in corporate disclosures, external audiences may underestimate the factors that influence project timelines, regulatory approvals, and operational stability.

Ultimately, the question of climate accountability extends beyond emissions reporting and environmental performance. It also concerns how authority, responsibility, and decision-making are represented within the systems that document climate-related development. As the climate transition accelerates, ensuring that these systems accurately reflect Indigenous Peoples’ rights will be an increasingly important component of credible climate policy and corporate accountability.

In this sense, the question of who holds the pen is not merely about the authorship of corporate reports. It is about whose authority is visible within the systems that define climate accountability.

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Protecting Treaty 9 Lands and Waters

[Click to see in English] ᐦᐊᑕᓯᓐ-ᒉᐃᒥᔅ ᐯᔨ ᓃᑖᓂᒡ ᐊᓂᑌᐦ ᐙᐸᓅᑖᑦ ᐊᣆᑌᐦᐁᕆᔦᐤ ᑳ ᐄᐦᑕᑣᐤ ᒌ ᐊᒋᔥᑖᐊᐸᔥᑖᐆᒡ ᐯᔭᒄ ᐊᓂᔫ ] ᒫᐆᒡ ᐁᐦ ᒦᔫ ᐋᐸᑕᓃᒡ ᐆᑕᐦ ᐊᔅᒌᒡ ᐁᐐ ᒥᔫᓈᑲᑕᑲᓅᒡ ᐊᔅᒌ ᓀᔥᑕ ᐁᐦ ᒥᔻᑲᒥᑕᑲᓅᒡ ᓂᐲ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒪᓯᐌᐦ ᒉᐦᒀᓐ ᐁᐦ ᐊᔫᔨᒪᑯᒡ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐊᔅᒌᒡ ᒉᒌ ᒥᔫᐸᐐᒡ ᐁᐦᐐ ᐊᑕᔥᑌᔨᑕᒥᒄ ᐃᔨᔫ ᐄᐦᑐᐎᓐ᙮ ᐆ ᓈᔥᒋ ᐁᐦ ᐊᒋᐦᐊᐸᐐᒡ ᐁᐦ ᐋᐦᒋᐸᐐᒡ ᐊᔅᒌ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐄᔨᔫᒡ ᐁᐄᔥ ᐐᑕᒀᒡ ‘ᒪᔅᒉᒄ’ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐊᓂᑌᐦ ᐄᔥ ᓅᒋᒦᐦᒡ ᐁᐦ ᐐᒋᑣᐤ ᐆᒥᔥᑫᐦᒀᐤ ᐄᔨᔫᒡ ᓂᐲᐆᐄᔨᔫᒡ ᐁᐄᔥ ᐊᒋᔅᒉᔨᒫᑲᓅᑣᐤ ᑲᔦᐦ᙮ ᐆᔅᑌᐦ ᓂᔥᑕᒪᑎᓅ ᒦᓐ ᓂᔮᔪ ᒋᐦᐁ ᐱᓪᓕᔭᓐ ᐁᐦ ᐸᐸᒥᐾᑖᓄᒡ ᑳᐦ ᒥᔖᒡ ᒌᒫᓐ ᐁᐦ ᐋᐸᑕᓯᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐁᐦ ᐸᐦᑳᓂᔥᑖᑲᓅᒀᐤ ᒦᓐ ᐊᑕᑑ ᒥᓕᔭᓂᔅ ᒉᒌ ᔭᐆᒐᐸᐐᑖᑦ ᑳ ᒥᔖᒡ ᒌᒫᓐ ᒣᔑᑲᒻ ᐊᐦᐴᓂᐦ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐆ ᐁᐃᔨᔅᐱᓇᑳᑦ ᐎ

The Hudson Bay and James Bay Lowlands of northern Ontario form one of the world’s most vital carbon sinks and life supporting areas, as an ecosystem of profound cultural importance. This vast landscape of peatlands, known in Cree as ‘muskeg’, is home to the Omushkego Cree, known as the water people. Storing over 35 billion tonnes of carbon, sequestering millions of tonnes more each year, this region is helping stabilize the global climate.

These lowlands are the homelands of the Indigenous communities that were signatories to Treaty 9. As the Omushkego people, they have stewarded the land for generations and maintain a deep spiritual and cultural connection to its rivers, wildlife, and muskeg. The region’s ecological wealth underpins traditional ways of life: it is a nursery for biodiversity, supporting threatened species like woodland caribou, wolverine, and sturgeon, as well as a sanctuary for hundreds of migratory birds. Protecting the Hudson—James Bay Lowlands is not only crucial for meeting climate goals and conserving biodiversity, but also for upholding Indigenous peoples’ rights and heritage.

Despite its global significance, this fragile region faces an unprecedented threat from proposed mining development in the area popularly known as the Ring of Fire. The Ring of Fire is the name mining companies have given to a sizable mineral deposit located in Treaty 9. With a lifespan of over 100 years, the proposed mining development will have negative impacts on the healthiness of nature and the ability of current and future generations to exercise Treaty and inherent rights, including rights to conserve and manage the land, and to hunt, fish, and trap.

In this context, the Indigenous grassroots have begun mobilizing to protect their homelands, asserting both environmental, inherent, and Treaty rights. One such grassroots group is the Friends of the Attawapiskat River (the Friends), a coalition of local community members dedicated to protecting the Attawapiskat River watershed from mining in the Ring of Fire. Their efforts highlight the critical need to amplify Indigenous grassroot voices and why honouring Treaty promises is inseparable from meeting climate and conservation goals.

Currently, the allowance of harmful mining practices discredits the Ontario provincial government’s ability to manage and regulate mining-related activities. This has led to calls for decisions to be Indigenous-led and respect the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People (UNDRIP), free, prior, and informed consent (FPIC), and numerous court challenges and rulings requiring mining regulators and governments to drastically improve current practices. Critical minerals for reducing fossil fuels are also located in other areas, not only within the pristine Breathing Lands.

The voice of the grassroots continues to grow in response to government and industry making plans made without proper Indigenous consent. The Friends have since become a leading grassroots voice on rights and climate action in the region. This case study, the quotes and reflections throughout, are from the Friends. Through outreach, ceremony, and advocacy, this case study is among the efforts the Friends are taking to work with allies to protect these peatlands and the rights of those who live downstream of the proposed Ring of Fire development.

This case study examines the Indigenous-led climate action in Treaty 9, focusing on efforts to protect the Hudson-James Bay Lowlands from Ring of Fire mining. It begins by detailing the background and context—the mining proposals, the ecological importance of the region, and the legal landscape—before analyzing how Indigenous communities are mobilizing on the ground and in policy arenas. It then outlines policy recommendations informed by this struggle, such as recognizing Indigenous Protected Areas and enforcing FPIC, and concludes with reflections on the broader significance of grassroots movements.

[Click to see in English] ᐆ ᑲᐐᔅᒃ ᐁ ᒥᓯᐌ ᐁᐦ ‘ᓈᓂᑑᐊᑰᑕᔥᑖᓄᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐁᐐ ᒦᔫᑲᓇᐙᐸᑕᑲᓅᒡ ᐊᓐ ᐐᔓᐌᐎᓐ ᐯᔨᑯᔥᑌᐤ ᐋᔅᒌᐦ ᑲᔦᐦ ᓂᐲᐦ’ ᐗᐦᑏᐌᐅ ᑖᓐ ᐁᐄᔥ ᐊᑯᔅᑖᑕᑲᓃᒡ ᐋᓂᑦ ᐁᐄᔥ ᓃᐴᑣᐤ ᐄᔨᔫᒡ ᐁᐦ ᓃᑳᓂᔥᒀᑲᓅᑖᐤ ᐊᑕᔅᒉᔨᑕᒨᐦᐄᐌᐅᓐ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐯᔭᑯᔥᑌᐆᔖᑉ ᐊᔅᒌᔫᐦ ᐁᐦ ᐄᔅᐸᐐᒡ ᒌᔑᒄ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐊᔅᒌ ᐁᐦ ᒫᔥᑖᓅᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᓈᔥᒋ ᐁ ᓂᑑᐌᔨᑕᒧᒃ ᒉ ᐋᐦᒋᐸᐐᒡ ᒉᒀᓐ ᐁᐄᔥ ᓂᓈᑲᑕᔥᑖᑲᓅᒡ ᐁᐦ ᓅᑲᑕᑲᓅᑦ ᐁ ᐊᒋᔥᑌᐃᑕᑲᓅᑦ ᐄᔨᔫᒡ ᐆ᙮

Through this in-depth exploration, this case study illustrates the critical role of Indigenous leadership in addressing climate change and environmental justice, and the urgent need for systemic change to respect Indigenous rights as a cornerstone to collective action for climate, conservation, and justice.

Background and context

Getting to know the Ring of Fire

More than 33,000 mining claims have been staked in a region dubbed the “Ring of Fire,” covering some 5,000 square km within Treaty 9 territory. Exploration permits granted by the province of Ontario, allowing for line cutting, drilling, and construction activities, are opening up this globally unique and intact peatland centred in the James Bay Lowlands. None of these claims and permits have been issued with the consent of the impacted and downstream Indigenous communities, which the Friends call home.

Spanning the coast of James Bays, the peatland (muskeg) of this region is an ecosystem of global importance. Its peat soils—some extending many meters deep—have accumulated over thousands of years, locking away billions of tonnes of carbon. By one estimate, the peatlands of the Hudson-—James Bay Lowlands contain up to five times as much carbon per square metre as the Amazon rainforest. In total, more than 35 billion tonnes of carbon are stored in these soils.

As long as the peatland ecosystem remains intact (wet and cool), this carbon is kept out of the atmosphere—effectively making the region a natural carbon sink, sequestering greenhouse gases that are vital for drawing down climate damaging emissions.

[Click to see in English] ᓇᒧᐎ ᒨᔥ ᒋᑲ ᒌ ᒨᔅᑳᑲᓀᐦᐁᓐ ᐆᑲᐐᒪᐆ ᐊᔅᒌ ᔔᔮᓐ ᐆᐦᒋ ᑖᐹ ᒦᓐ ᑳᐤ ᒋᑲᒌ ᐄᑕᑲᓐ ᐊᓐ ᒉᒀᓐ᙮’ – ᐯᔭᒃ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐊᐹᒡ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐐᒉᐙᑲᓐᐦ ᒌᐃᔥ ᐐᑕᒻ

You cannot keep digging up Mother Earth for a dollar because you’re digging up something that can’t be replaced.

– member of the Friends

Disturbing this landscape—by draining wetlands, digging them up, or subjecting them to extractive development—risks releasing that carbon, turning a globally significant carbon sink into a source of emissions. In the face of climate change, scientists and Indigenous land users alike warn that protecting these peatlands is critical to prevent climate-altering levels of carbon from being released. In other words, the fate of these Northern peatlands strongly impacts Canada’s ability to meet climate targets and reduce emissions by 40 per cent by 2030.

Beyond the climate regulation and stabilization the Hudson-James Bay Lowlands provides, it is also a rich habitat for wildlife and performs irreplaceable ecological functions. The peatlands filter water and sustain the health of the Attawapiskat, Albany, Winisk, and other great rivers that flow through this area and downstream to James Bay. This region is one of the last strongholds for Woodland Caribou in Ontario and supports other sensitive species such as the wolverine and polar bear at its northern edges. Countless migratory birds nest or stop over in the muskeg and coastal marshes—indeed the coasts of James and Hudson bays are globally significant breeding grounds for waterfowl and shorebirds.

Getting to know the legal landscape

Inaction by industry and governments to implement the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People (UNDRIP) and respect Treaty promises is fuelling violations of Indigenous rights—from rights to clean water, free, prior, and informed consent, and conservation of nature. As Indigenous rights holders continuously struggle to access legal services so that they can document, raise awareness, and call for policy change in response to threats to their rights and interests, advancing access to justice has become critical to the Friends’ efforts to amplify grassroot voices.

In the context of the overlapping laws and jurisdictions impacting the Friends’ rights, as Indigenous and Treaty peoples, this section seeks to unpack a series of reforms in which the Friends have been directly involved and have advocated on behalf of in proposing a way forward.

International law and getting to “consent”

In 2016, Canada announced its endorsement to support the international United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People (UNDRIP) “without qualification” and to implement it. UNDRIP gives particular recognition to rights of Indigenous peoples over developments affecting them and their lands, their right to conserve and protect the environment and productive capacity of their lands and resources.

In 2021, the Canadian Parliament enacted the domestic United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People Act (UNDA) which affirms UNDRIP “as a universal international human rights instrument with application in Canadian law”¹. The Supreme Court of Canada (SCC) recently found that through the UNDA, UNDRIP is “incorporated into the country’s domestic positive law” and the Federal Court found that UNDRIP, as a “framework for reconciliation,” underscores the importance of “free, prior, and informed consent of Indigenous peoples to all decision-making processes that affect them.”

Among the obligations the UNDA imposes on Canada are to:

affirm UNDRIP as a human rights instrument with application within Canada; and
require the implementation of an action plan to achieve the objects of UNDRIP

Despite these recognitions and forward legal momentum, much work remains. As the United Nations Special Rapporteur on the human rights to safe drinking water and sanitation, Pedro Arrojo-Agudo recently found extractive activities, including mining, continue to breach human rights, particularly the right to water of Indigenous People. In spring 2024, Mr. Arrojo-Agudo met with Indigenous representatives receiving compelling testimonies about harsh living conditions on reserve, where, in many cases, not even their human right to drinking water was guaranteed. The Friends met with Mr. Arrojo-Agudo in Ottawa during his Canadian tour and expressed that “people outside the community don’t understand the struggles we face as First Nations. Canada is a prosperous country but it feels like we’re still living in third-world conditions.”

As the Friends explained to the UN Rapporteur, without access to clean water, community members suffer from rashes and other skin-related issues. Threats of mining activities contaminating their rivers and muskeg (peatlands) further impact community members, inducing fear and anxiety. In recognition of these concerns, the UN Rapporteur stated, “Indigenous Peoples disproportionally face the brunt of risks of toxic water contamination with serious health impacts. It is regrettable that those who cause damage to or pollution of water sources are not being held accountable and required to compensate for the harms.”

Among the “deep reforms” recommended by the Rapporteur are laws that promote a human rights-based ecosystem approach, with equal participation of Indigenous Peoples and governments guaranteeing the principle of free, prior, and informed consent.

While these findings are directly applicable to Ontario, and the continued granting of mining claims and permits without the consent of Indigenous peoples, there remains no provincial law adopting UNDRIP and thus the role of it and UNDA is limited. While UNDRIP can be relied on to interpret existing law or aid in resolving ambiguities in statutory language, as a general principle of constitutional law, the federal government cannot make an international or federal law apply in an area of provincial jurisdiction. Instead, it is up to an individual province acting on its own behalf to implement a provincial law that would give effect to an international treaty, like UNDRIP. Therefore, while the UNDA and its accompanying action plan may provide helpful language and policy direction, advocacy is still needed for a provincial law which implements UNDRIP, for it to have a fully binding effect.

Impact assessment law and application to mining projects

Indigenous peoples, including the Friends, continue to vocalize the lack of meaningful consultation on extractive projects. Respecting Indigenous voices and communities, which stand to be most directly affected from the extractive industry’s legacy and new mining projects, means requiring the most robust of assessment processes—and one attuned to Indigenous laws.

There is space for this to occur, too, recognizing that the Impact Assessment Act (IAA) was written with UNDRIP in mind and its implementation is hardwired into its processes and decision-making. For example, the IAA requires consideration of Indigenous rights and Indigenous knowledge, and reaffirms Canada’s commitment to seek the free, prior, and informed consent of Indigenous peoples in relation to decisions under the IAA.

Unfortunately, due to a “threshold” approach, wherein only mining projects of the most significant size are subject to an impact assessment (IA), it means the majority of mining projects—and their accompanying infrastructure, like smelters, are not subject to IA review². This paucity in the application of law then removes the potential to advance Indigenous-led IAs, shared decision-making, and a mechanism that could facilitate the seeking of consent.

Concerns about the Impact Assessment Agency of Canada (IAAC), a federal authority, have also been raised by the Friends, who have been vocal in pushing for Indigenous-led processes. Citing the need to build trust and have the requisite expertise and accreditation to truly undertake a process that respects Natural Law and Treaty, the Friends continue to advocate for the greater inclusion of Indigenous community members in IA processes.

Provincial mining laws and regressive amendments

Recent amendments to the provincial mining law, the Mining Act, ushered in by Bill 71, Building More Mines Act, 2023 (Bill 71), upended already minimal protections in place for Indigenous rights, the environment, and communities. The amendments reduced requirements on mining companies to cover the costs of cleaning up once mining operations have closed, removed the need for detailed closure plans prior to starting operations, and allow mining operators—and not the government—to review the adequacy of technical plans.

There’s a good reason for financial and closure plans to be required in full detail upfront. Ontario is the largest mineral producer in Canada but it’s also the province with a disproportionate share of orphaned and abandoned mines—5,000 of Canada’s 10,000+ are within the province. Bill 71 weakened the existing standard that requires a company to prepare a mine closure plan before it can start building the mine.

As the Friends shared with the Ontario legislature when Bill 71 was proposed, these changes take Ontario back to a time when there was insufficient mine closure planning and financial resourcing, causing hundreds of thousands of tonnes of highly toxic chemicals to remain on the landscape. The impact of these reforms and resulting pollution is most likely to be felt by Indigenous communities. As the UN Rapporteur on toxics observed, following a tour of Canada in 2020, “Indigenous people in particular find themselves on the wrong side of a toxic divide.” It was within this context that the Friends requested Bill 71 be withdrawn in its entirety.

This provincial context is critical to understand in light of the mining interest in the Ring of Fire region. Toronto-based Juno Corp has become the single largest claim-holder in the region, controlling over 17,000 mining claims (covering ~333,000 hectares)—more than half of all claims in the Ring of Fire. The second-largest holder is Ring of Fire Metals (Wyloo’s subsidiary), with over 10,600 claims.

Unfortunately, Ontario has purposely removed the opportunities to ensure that Indigenous peoples have the right to own, use, and control their lands and territories as required by Article 26(2) of UNDRIP; that free, prior, and informed consent for any project affecting Indigenous lands and resources be obtained, per Article 32(2) of UNDRIP. Ontario’s laws remain stagnant on the recognition of and respect for Indigenous Natural Law.

Case study analysis

Land-based mobilization, ceremony, and advocacy

In the face of top-down decisions and near exclusion from decisions being made impacting Indigenous rights and land, the grassroots response to the proposed Ring of Fire development is growing. Its growth is also deeply rooted in the land itself.

A powerful example of this occurred in fall 2023, when the Friends of the Attawapiskat River organized a multi-week canoe expedition down the Attawapiskat River, bringing together youth and Elders from across the region to assert their presence and responsibility on the land. Youth from communities including Attawapiskat and Neskantaga navigated ancestral waterways for 240 miles. Along the journey they held ceremonies at key sites. This journey was far more than a canoe trip—it was a form of ceremonial stewardship.

[Click to see in English] ‘ᐆ ᐊᐳᐎ ᔕᓇᐙᑕᔥᑣᐤ ᓂᑕᔭᒨᓇᓂᔫ ᑭᔦᐦ ᑖᓐ ᐁᐦᐃᔥ ᒋᔅᒡᔩᑖᑰᐦᐆᔮᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐁᐦ ᐄᔨᔫ ᑖᐸᐌᐦᑕᒨᓂᐦ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐁᐦ ᐐ ᑲᓇᐌᔩᑕᒫᒡ ᒉ ᒫᒨ ᐊᐸᑕᔥᑖᔮᒡ ᐊᔅᒌ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒉ ᒦᔫ ᐐᒉᐆᑑᔮᒡ᙮’ -ᐯᔭᒃ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐊᐹᒡ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐐᒉᐙᑲᓐᐦ ᒌᐃᔥ ᐐᑕᒻ

“This paddle is our statement, in recognition of who we are, as Treaty peoples, in honouring promises to be Kind, to Share, to be Honest – that is our Strength.”

— member of the Friends

By travelling the river and caring for the water through ceremony, participants reinforced their spiritual connection to the territory and drew attention to what is at stake if the river were to be polluted or harmed by development. Such land-based actions embody the principle that climate action is not just about policy but also about relationship to place, demonstrating an Indigenous approach of environmental guardianship that blends activism with cultural practice.

Insights and challenges from the grassroots mobilization

The Indigenous-led climate action around the proposed Ring of Fire development offers several key insights.

First, it demonstrates that Indigenous laws and knowledge are central to viable climate solutions. Whether through the revival of Treaties as living agreements or the formation of coalitions like Friends of the Attawapiskat River that operate according to Indigenous values, these efforts show alternative models of stewardship. Because of governments’ reticence to implement UNDRIP into provincial law and industry’s lack of respect that consent must be provided before any extractive developments occur on Indigenous lands, getting to a time and place when there is respect for Indigenous Natural Law remains a critical goal of the Friends’ work and advocacy.

Second, the Indigenous grassroots movement underscores the importance of ceremony and land-based healing in activism. By conducting ceremonies at places harmed by extraction, Indigenous land protectors both recognize the trauma to the land and reaffirm their duty to care for those places. This process can strengthen community resolve and present a moral narrative that aligns with Indigenous worldviews and law. It reminds everyone that beyond the charts of ore deposits and carbon emissions, there are sacred relationships and spiritual bonds that cannot be quantified. While impact assessment, as a process, is one mechanism that could allow for considerations of social and cultural values (and also allows space to substitute Crown IA processes for Indigenous-led processes), because of its broad lack of application to most mining projects, this remains an underdeveloped forum for Indigenous-led decision-making.

Due to years of feeling misled or excluded, the Friends are among the Indigenous voices pointing out a deep erosion of trust in government and industry actors. The grassroots people—the people of Treaty 9—are owed a fiduciary duty. Instead, Ontario is relying on divide-and-conquer tactics to push forward a project absent the free, prior, and informed consent of all communities.

[Click to see in English] ‘ᐊᓂᒌ ᒥᔑᑲᔔᐊᓂᒡ ᐊᔭᐆᒡ ᐁᐄᔥ ᐯᐦᑖᑲᓯᑣᐤ᙮ ᓇᒪᐐ ᐆᔦᔑᓐ ᐐᒌᓀ ᓀᔥᑕ ᐋᑳ ᐐᒌᓀ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐄᔨᔫ ᐄᑕᐎᓂᒡ᙮ ᐐᑖᑲᓐ ᐊᓐᒌ ᑳ ᓂᑑᐦᐆᑣᐤ ᐊᒃᔦᐦ ᑳ ᓅᑕᒣᓭᑣᐤ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐊᔅᒌᒡ᙮’ -ᐯᔭᒃ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐊᐹᒡ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐐᒉᐙᑲᓐᐦ ᒌᐃᔥ ᐐᑕᒻ

“The grassroots have a voice. It doesn’t matter if you live on or off reserve. It means everybody that hunted, trapped, fished on the land.”

– member of the Friends

Policy recommendations

Recommendation 1: Recognize and support Indigenous declarations of lands protection

A powerful long-term solution to safeguard the Hudson—James Bay Lowlands is to establish Indigenous Protected and Conserved Areas (IPCAs) led by Indigenous peoples. While the meaning of an IPCA will vary among communities, they often share three core principles: (1) they are Indigenous-led; (2) they represent a long-term commitment to conservation; and (3) they elevate Indigenous rights and responsibilities.

The creation of IPCAs creates the space for Indigenous communities to lead in protecting lands and waters. An IPCA would formally designate large swaths of the peatlands and watersheds as protected from industrial development, under governance models that centre Indigenous law and stewardship. Such IPCAs would recognize—at their core—the need to uphold Treaty rights.

[Click to see in English] ‘ᐐ ᔮᔫᑕᐆᒡ ᐊᔅᒌᔫ ᐁᐆᒃ ᐙ ᐄᑑᑕᒀᐤ᙮ ᐋᐹᐦᑑ ᒉᐄᒥᔅ ᐯᐄ ᐁᐦᐄᔥᐸᔖᒡ ᒋᑲᐄᔥ ᐲᑲᐸᑕᒨᒡ᙮ ᒋᒃ ᓅᑲᓐ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐆᒡ ᒌᔑᑯᕝᐦ ᑲᔩᔥ ᒪᔑᓈᔥᑌᐦᐾᒡ᙮ ᐁᐦᑲ ᒫᒃ ᐄᑑᑕᒥᒣᐦ ᐊᓐ ᑲᔩᔥ ᐐ ᐄᑐᑕᒥᓐ ᑭᔭᐦ ᔖᔥ ᐆᓈᑕᔥᑕᔩᓐ᙮ ᔖᐧᐦ ᑕᔅᑖᑯᐗᐦᐋᐤ ᐆᑳᐐᒫᐤ ᐊᔅᒌ᙮’ -ᐯᔭᒃ ᐊᓐ ᑳ ᐊᐹᒡ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐐᒉᐙᑲᓐᐦ ᒌᐃᔥ ᐐᑕᒻ

“What they’re going to do is basically rape the land. You’re talking about an area maybe half the size of James Bay that they’re going to tear apart. It’s going to show up in the satellite. And once you do that, you’ve already damaged it. Mother Earth has already been hurt.”

– member of the Friends

In calling for the protection of region where the Ring of Fire is proposed, the Friends have released a declaration stating:

[Click to see in English] ᒌᔭᓅ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐅ ᐁᔨᐅᓯᓇᑳᓱᐐᒃ ᒥᔑᑲᔔᐊᓂᒡ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐆᒡ ᐄᔫᐊᑕᔥᑌᔨᑕᒨᐎᓐ 9 ᑲᔦᐦ ᐋᐌᓂᒡ ᐄᔨᔫ ᑳ ᓇᓃᐴᔥᑕᒧᐙᑣᐤ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐊᓐᑐᐌᐄᑖᑯᒡ ᒉᒌ ᐊᓂᔥᑲᒨᔮᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐁᐦ ᐸᑕᔅᒋᓂᒫᒡ ᐁᔥᒃ ᐋᑳ ᐆᔥᑕᑲᓅᒡ ᐊᑕᐦᑑ ᒉᒌ ᐊᑎᔅᒀᑏᐸᐧᐎᒡ ᒉᒀᓐ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᒋᑕᔅᒌᓅᒡ᙮

ᐆᔥᑖᐦ ᐆ ᐊᔑᒪᐙᑎᔒᐌᐎᓐ ᐁ ᒦᔫ ᑲᓇᐗᑉᑕᑲᓅᒀᐤ ᐊᒌᐦ ᑲᔦᐦ ᓂᐲᐦ ᐁᐦ ᐄᔅᐸᓂᑳᒡ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐆᕝᐦ ᐊᔥᒌᐃ ᐁᐦ ᓇᓈᑲᑕᔥᑖᑲᓅᒀᐤ ᐊᑕᐯᔨᒋᒉᓲ ᐄᑕᔅᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐊᓐ ᒋᔨᔥ ᐋᐸᑕᓰᑲᑕᒨᒃ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐄᔥ ᓃᔣᔥᒡ ᐋᐴᓂᐦ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒉᒌ ᒌᑲᐙᐸᑕᑲᓅᒡ ᒪᒨ ᐁᐄᔥ ᑲᓇᐗᐸᑕᒃᓅᒡ ᒉ ᒋᐤ ᒦᔫ ᓃᐴᒪᑯᒡ ᐊᒻᑦ ᐄᔨᔫ ᐊᑕᔥᑌᔨᑕᒨᐙᑲᓐ ᒉ ᒦᔫᑲᑑᑕᒫᑐᐐᒃ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒉ ᒦᔫᐊᑎᔥᒉᐃᑕᒨᐦᐄᑕᐐᒃ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒉ ᒪᒨ ᐋᐸᑕᔥᑕᔨᒃ ᐊᔅᒌ

WE, AS THE GRASSROOTS of TREATY 9, who are Indigenous rights holders and whose consultation and consent is required prior to any development in our territories

MAKE THIS DECLARATION OF PROTECTION FOR THE LANDS AND WATERS under our Natural Laws and as our commitment to the next seven generations, and in recognition of our shared responsibility to uphold Treaty rights to be kind, to be honest, to share the land

This statement, which remains open for public sign-on and endorsement by allies, is akin to an IPCA, recognizing that Canada’s commitment to protect 30 per cent of its lands and waters by 2030 cannot be met without protecting places like the James Bay Lowlands, and doing so in partnership with Indigenous peoples offers a path consistent with reconciliation.

The declaration also advances the global targets for biodiversity protection set out in the recent Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework reached at COP15. Among the targets that promises the furtherance of Indigenous leadership in conservation is Target 22. It is pivotal in providing new starting points for the protection of environmental human rights defenders, requiring conservation decision-making to fully and equitably respect the cultures and rights over lands, territories, resources, and traditional knowledge of Indigenous Peoples. As the text reads:

TARGET 22

Ensure the full, equitable, inclusive, effective, and gender-responsive representation and participation in decision-making, and access to justice and information related to biodiversity by Indigenous peoples and local communities, respecting their cultures and their rights over lands, territories, resources, and traditional knowledge, as well as by women and girls, children and youth, and persons with disabilities, and ensure the full protection of environmental human rights defenders.

For the federal government to achieve Target 22, IPCAs (like the protection declaration made by the Friends), are a critical way forward. The intrinsic value of IPCAs in safeguarding biodiversity echoes the growing recognition that Indigenous Natural Laws, which teach respect and responsibility to lands, have been more effective at protecting the health of ecosystems and species than the traditional conservation practices established by the governments in Canada.

ᒋᒌ ᐄᑐᑕᒃᓅᒡ 2: ᐁᐦᓇᑐᐌᔨᑕᑯᒡ ᐁᐦ ᐐᑖᑲᒡ ᒥᔐᐁ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐆᑖᒡ ᑲᔦᐦᓄᐦ ᒋᔅᒉᔨᑲᒪᐦᐊᑲᓅᑦ ᒉ ᓇᐦᐁᔨᑕᒃ (FPIC) ᑆᐅᒥᔥ ᐊᑕᐦᑑ ᐗᔨᐦᐆ | Recommendation 2: Require meaningful free, prior, and informed consent before any further approval

As a matter of urgency, the Friends have called for a moratorium on decision-making for the proposed Ring of Fire, urging governments to halt the practice of granting mining claims and mineral exploration permits absent the free, prior, and informed consent (FPIC) of Indigenous rights holders. FPIC means that Indigenous communities have the freedom to decide (free of coercion), are engaged early (prior to any final decision or ground disturbance), and are fully informed of all implications, with the opportunity to say yes or no on their own terms.

To implement this, the Friends have said that Ontario and Canada should, at minimum, pause the approval of any new mining exploration permits, road construction, or other project advancements until consent is obtained from all affected First Nations. Grassroots voices, not just Band council leadership, need to be heard and heeded; special effort should be made to include Elders, women, and youth, whose perspectives are sometimes bypassed in Crown consultation frameworks.

ᒋᒌ ᐄᑐᑕᒃᓅᒡ 3: ᐁᐦ ᐃᑕᔥᑌᔪᑕᒃᓅᒡ ᐄᔨᔫᒡ ᐆᐐᔗᐎᓂᐅᐗᐅ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᐄᔥᐸᒥᒡ ᐁᐅᒡ ᓇᓈᑲᑎᔥᑕᑲᓄᐐᒡ᙮ | Recommendation 3: Respect Indigenous assertions of sovereignty

As a corollary to the above recommendations, policymakers should seriously consider the call issued by multiple First Nations and environmental groups for a moratorium on development in the Ring of Fire until certain conditions are met. Those conditions, as articulated by the Friends include: (a) robust protection plans in place for the sensitive peatlands and waterways, and (b) the basic needs of local communities (like clean drinking water, housing, and health services) being addressed before any mining “opportunities”.

[Click to see in English] ᒋᑲ ᑲᓄᐌᔨᑌᓅ ᐊᓐ ᑲ ᓂᔅᑯᒥᓇᓅᒡ ᐊᓐᒌᔥ ᑲᔦᐦ ᓇᐐ ᐊᑐᔥᑐᑦᔐᓈᓐ ᐊᔭᒨᐎᓐ ᐁᐦᐐ ᑲᓄᐌᔨᑕᒧᒃ ᐊᓐ ᑲᔨᔥ ᓇᔅᑯᒧᓈᓅᒡ ᒋᔩᔥ ᐐᑕᒨᒡ ᐊᓐᒌ ᐄᔫᒡ ᑲ ᐄᑕᑕᐗᒡ ᐊᓐᑕ ᐐᒉᐙᑲᓂᒡ᙮

“We have to keep that harmony today… We’re trying to send a message that we need to keep the harmony in place.”

– member of the Friends

No development should go ahead in an area when fundamental environmental and social safeguards are absent. By instituting a temporary moratorium, governments would create space for the proper assessments, FPIC processes, and conservation planning to occur. The precautionary principle in environmental policy dictates that lack of full scientific certainty (for instance, about the hydrogeology of peatlands or the cumulative climate impact of mines) is not a reason to postpone measures to prevent degradation. In line with this, a pause on Ring of Fire activity would prevent irreversible decisions from being made in haste.

Conclusion

The advocacy of the Friends in protecting Treaty 9 lands and waters in the face of proposed Ring of Fire development is a reminder that Treaties are living promises that must guide present and future actions for ‘as long as the sun shines, as long as the river flows, as long as the grass is green and the Anishinaabe are here.’ The Friends’ grassroots efforts show a path forward. Whether a policy maker, industry representative, or member of the public, everyone has a shared responsibility to uphold shared Treaty rights and commitments to be kind, to be honest, and to share.

[Click to see in English] ᐊᓐ ᐐᒉᐙᑲᓂᐦ ᐊᑎᐸᒋᒨᓐ ᐊᐌᐃᔐᑌᐤ ᒉ ᐊᑌᐦᐳᐗᑕᑲᓅᒡ ᐋᒌᔫᓐ: ᒉ ᐐᒋᐦᐊᑲᓅᒡ ᐃᔨᔫ ᐁᐦ ᓈᑭᑌᔨᑖᒃ ᐊᔅᒋᔫ ᑲᔦᐦ ᐊᓐ ᒉ ᐊᑕᒋᔐᔨᑕᒨᐦᐄᐌᑦ ᐊᓂᔫ ᐐᔑᐌᐎᓂᐦ ᐊᔅᒌ ᐆᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒉᒌ ᐊᑦᔥᑌᔨᑕᑲᓄᐐᒡ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒉᒌ ᓅᑲᑕᐦᑲᓄᐎᒡ ᐁᐦ ᓇᓈᑲᒋᔥᑕᑲᓄᐐᒡ ᒋᔅᑕᔅᒋᔫᓂᔫ ᑲᔦᐦ ᓃᐲᔫᐦ ᑲᔦᐦ ᒋᔅᑖᐎᓂᔫ ᐄᔥᒌᔗᐆᒡ ᒉ ᒥᔫ ᑲᓇᐙᐸᑕᒀᒡ ᐊᓐᑌᐦ ᓃᔥᑕᒥᒡ᙮

The Friends of the Attawapiskat River story serves as a call to action: Support Indigenous land protectors, advocate for the Natural Laws and that they be respected, and recognize that protecting lands, water, and communities means safeguarding our collective future.

¹ United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act, SC 2021, c 14, s 4(a)

2 See sections 18 – 25 of the regulation commonly known as the ‘Project List,’ Physical Activities Regulations, SOR/2019-285

Moose protection and Anishnabe governance as climate policy | Moz Kipiwa-n Acitcj Anishnabe Onakinagewin Oja Aki

The Anishnabe Moose Committee (AMC) is a grassroots collective of people from several Anishnabe (Algonquin) communities working directly with our communities to protect the moose, land, and culture. The authors of this case study are Shannon, the coordinator of the AMC, and Jaimie, the Land Studies coordinator for the AMC. We are writing this case study as individuals representing perspectives from the AMC and Anishnabe knowledge.

Rooted in traditional governance, AMC prioritizes community-led decision-making, knowledge-sharing, and land-based education. AMC’s work began in response to the alarming decline of moose populations in La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve. However, Elders emphasized that moose decline is an issue that must be addressed as a nation. These efforts quickly expanded to all Anishnabe communities across the Ottawa River watershed—our traditional territory.

Throughout 2022, we held community workshops in nine Anishnabe communities, gathering insights from Elders, hunters, and land users. This work culminated in a preliminary report released in 2022 (available here). Climate change, forestry, and over-hunting were identified as the main drivers of moose decline in and around La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve. Community-driven solutions were also proposed to revitalize the moose population. Since then, the AMC has continued working with communities and Elders to follow through on the recommendations that come directly from communities.

[Click to see in English] Wedi ojabigin Moz Anike-Niganiziwog kagi-ojibegawatcj eja nisistimatcj Aki Inakonigewin kija kipwa-nag kina moazag.

This case study provides an overview of policy lessons learned from the AMC’s work and recommendations for advancing climate policy that protects the moose both within and beyond the Ottawa River watershed.

Mozag kijenenimanan, tedago nogom tija nanegadjitog | Moose are our relatives, and they are in trouble

Moose have taken care of Anishnabeg since time immemorial. They have kept us alive, providing healthy food, shelter, mukluks, baby clothes, moccasins, and drums made from the hides. Moose have given us ceremonies, education, stories, and economies. Moose are part of our way of life; they protect and provide for us. They are essential to Anishnabe food sovereignty, sustaining our culture and families for generations. Many of our people still rely on moose as a traditional food source, especially where access to grocery stores is limited.

Aja anawadj te mozag, mi kina awesh ejasewag aki kag. Moose tabendagozi nokamig. Apinamo mitikgon keja nitawgeyasitcj, keja wesinitcj, acitcj onadindan keja mishanig eja mitogog kija tikanaweg. Kina ka-mitikenaniwag, eja anikej matikogoje acitcj aki ana kwetamigog odanimegon kina mozag.

However, moose are declining in Anishnabe territory, as they are elsewhere in Canada¹. Moose are a part of the forest ecosystem; they rely on young forests and aquatic plants for quality food and on mature forests for shelter. They live in colder climates and need large areas to thrive. Industrial forestry pressures, sport hunting, and climate change have placed immense strain on moose populations.

This impacts Anishnabe culture and food sovereignty. Furthermore, Anishnabeg continue to face racism, discrimination, and harassment on our territory from sport hunters and wildlife agents, which restricts our cultural safety with our families.

This is the context in which our work began. Elders and Land users are concerned about the health of the moose population across the territory in La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve in western Quebec². The moose population in La Vérendrye has never been comprehensively studied, and from our perspective, has not been subject to effective moose management since its inception. Land users and Elders have already noticed the alarming decline in moose population, and even the provincial government’s surveys estimated a sharp decline in the past decade³. Following a second year of grassroots, community-led organizing, a temporary two-year moratorium on sport hunting was obtained in La Vérendrye at the beginning of 2021, with subsequent years being dependent on the result of studies. When it became apparent that no studies were being undertaken by the province in a comprehensive or inclusive way, the AMC was formed to take up this important work for ourselves.

Moz eja kikindagozag ena pagidjishewog | The cause of moose decline

Moose are suffering due to colonialism. Multiple pressures—including sport hunting, industrial logging, unsustainable management practices, and climate change—negatively impact moose in our territory. However, the underlying issue and throughline is the continuation of colonial practices and policies, which undermine Anishnabeg’s ability to steward the land moose depend on, as we have done since time immemorial.

Industrial logging reduces the quality of moose habitat. While initially, the moose return to the cut area to feed, they are more exposed and vulnerable in these open areas. Furthermore, these cutblocks do not provide food for the moose in the long term. Reducing the amount of forest cover also reduces the important shade and cover habitat they need during the hot summer months and impacts the forest’s ability to adapt to climate change. It is unethical, and goes against Anishnabeg knowledge and ethics, to alter moose habitat into small patchworks of forest, removing the space they need to fully thrive.

Moose are also affected by Quebec and Ontario moose management policies, which focus primarily on economic benefits of selling moose tags and outfitting packages, and prioritize sport hunter access, rather than sustaining a healthy population⁴.Ontario sport hunting functions with a lottery system, limiting the number of moose tags sold per year for a given area. Through this mechanism, there is some measure of control on the sport hunting pressure. Quebec sport hunting does not limit the number of tags sold per hunting zone, but instead manages which segment of the moose population (e.g. males, females, or calves) can be taken from a given hunting zone, with the objective of achieving a target moose density for the region.

It is clear that both of these systems are failing. The moose density in La Vérendrye sits below provincial targets for this area. Furthermore, neither system prohibits wasteful practices like discarding parts of the moose, collecting only the head of the bull moose as a trophy, or not retrieving moose that have been shot with a bow and arrow. Unfortunately, as reported in the AMC’s preliminary report, these wasteful and unethical behaviours, which go against Anishnabeg values, are often observed in the Algonquin territory.

Mozag kipiwo eja agwamtamigag eja tikanan acitcj nogom ana kitchi kijidek. Kitchi Ogima kan ogizgamasin adi mozan eja madizinjin. Kan obamidinindisin adi keja minajagin awesisan keja mino-madizinjin.

Moose are anticipated to be even more vulnerable in the context of climate change. Moose need shade in the summer to cool off. The shade habitat that forest cover provides becomes even more critical during the longer and hotter summers predicted as a result of climate change. Provincial forestry policies do not account for the needs of the moose and the larger ecosystem in their forest management plans.

Winter ticks, tiny parasites that latch onto moose, are already present, even more so in cutblocks, and are predicted to increase in a warming climate. These parasites cause discomfort in adult moose, causing them to scratch themselves to the point of losing fur, which keeps them warm in the winter. Young moose are more vulnerable to die from winter ticks than adult moose.

Additionally, as the deer population moves northward under a changing climate, moose will be increasingly exposed to the parasites that deer carry, such as brainworm, which is fatal for moose.

Agonen ke postowig ki-tcimankag? Kan Kitchi-ogima o’wesagindamowin kida tagosonan aji | What do we want to bring with us in our canoe? Solutions cannot perpetuate colonial harm

The solutions that first come to many people’s minds when discussing the decline of the moose population are either 1) creating a better management plan, which is what we initially had set out to do, or 2) creating co-management, where there is collaboration between Indigenous Peoples and colonial governments regarding wildlife management decisions. From our perspective, these options are not real solutions.

First, a wildlife management plan cannot in itself address the imbalance of power that colonial governments impose on our Lands. Second, we cannot enter into collaborative agreements if trust is not established at the root.

As described in detail in the following section, the decline of the moose population is a symptom of broader systemic issues resulting from imposed colonial government control on our Lands. To be effective, solutions would need to address that. As one of AMC’s members, Anida Decoursay, offered, “If we think of someone who must pack their canoe for a voyage to a new place, they cannot fit everything in their canoe; they must be selective in what they choose. As a nation, we must decide how we will pack our canoe for the times of climate change ahead. Do we want to bring a moose management plan, a colonial policy tool, with us on this voyage? Or would we rather bring true systems change and Anishnabe governance revitalization with us?” Our solutions must address the root causes. Colonialism is at the root of the moose decline in our territory, so we must find decolonial solutions and ensure future generations inherit a healthy land.

When the Anishnabe Moose Committee began our community-led research process, we were working with the idea of creating and implementing an Anishnabe Moose Management Plan, which would be shaped by what we heard from communities. The solutions brought forth by communities included better wildlife regulations and enforcement, leadership and education for the next generations, inclusion of Anishnabe laws, Elders gatherings, and whole-nation information sharing and decision-making. Additionally, a longer, five- to 10-year moratorium with a comprehensive study on the moose population is needed. These are elements of traditional governance that are explained in more detail below.

Collaborative management, or co-management, is not an acceptable solution for our people either, because of the ongoing legacy of distrust with provincial wildlife departments that have broken agreements with our nation in the past. Elders have shared with us stories of historical agreements with colonial governments. Again and again, the agreements which we made with them were violated. One recent example of these broken agreements specifically relates to the moose in La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve, which is now the largest wildlife reserve in Quebec, with over 4,000 lakes and rivers and two huge hydro reservoirs. From the 1950s until the 1970s, La Vérendrye was a protected area. In 1964, the Quebec government began a pilot project. It was agreed with the community of Barriere Lake that this would be a five-year pilot project where they would open up the park for the hunting of moose. They said this would be for only five years. At the time of agreement, they agreed that non-Indigenous hunters would need to have an Anishnabe guide during their hunt. After five years, when the pilot project was supposed to end, Quebec changed its position.

They then said that they meant five years of hunting bulls, followed by five years of hunting females and five years of hunting calves, thereby extending this “pilot project” to a total of 15 years, which was not the agreement the community of Barriere Lake had agreed to in 1964. At this point, Quebec also started to increase tourism, bringing in wealthy Americans to hunt and fish on the territory. They established a presence in La Vérendrye. They established game wardens. During this time, they observed all the pine species, white birch, spruce, and poplar, and saw all the wealth within the park, including moose, foxes, rabbits, bears, partridges, beavers, wolves, walleye, northern pike, lake trout, bass, and sturgeon. By 1979, La Vérendrye became a Réserve Faunique (“Wildlife Reserve”), which removes protections from forestry and hunting. In the early 1980s, Anishnabe guides were used as fishing and hunting guides but that practice was dropped in the early 1990s. The original five-year pilot project agreement was violated. Clearly, Quebec had no intention of honoring that agreement and continuously encroached on La Vérendrye in the following decades without the consent of the Anishnabe people.

This was not the first agreement that was broken. During the time of the fur trade and wars between the English and French colonists, our People began to observe resources becoming depleted, as they began to dig for gold and cut various trees. It became abundantly clear that inherent to the colonial presence was the extraction of our resources and destruction of our lands, waters, and communities.

To address this, an agreement was made and ratified through the Hudson Bay wampum belt. Through this treaty, it was agreed that they would not harvest more than one kind of tree and could not dig more than three feet deep in the ground—as long as the sun shines, the rivers flow, the leaves fall, and the wind blows. That is what the agreement said. We knew such limits would be necessary. But they violated that treaty, generation after generation, time and time again. Government and industry have been voraciously extracting resources from our territories, taking from our communities and lands and harming the moose, and offering very little in return.

Kina Kitchi-ogima eja wejigedj acticj eja nagok aki-ni panama nisitagon adi awa eja minosek kija-wedokwagantcj mozag. Kan kidatagosonon minosodiwin e’ja pagejishiwatcj mozag acitcj keja mino-madizitcj kewin mozag mojag.

The living legacy of colonialism and its ongoing consequences for our territories and our communities must be understood and taken into account when we seek solutions for the declining moose population. If not, we will simply perpetuate the same unbalanced and unjust power dynamics of colonialism.

Mitchogozi odanakonagewin odimbabdon Anishnabe Inindamowin eja kijagabidag Od’aki | Colonial laws and policies disrupt our traditional ways of caring for the Land

In Anishnabe territory, we cared for the land through our family territory system, which allowed us to closely observe and monitor a large territory. Each family would share that knowledge with the rest of the nation during an annual gathering. These yearly gatherings are part of our traditional governance, where the state of the Land was discussed, and any needed changes were made through a consensus process. Colonial government assimilatory and genocidal laws and policies aimed to remove Indigenous Peoples from exercising our sovereign rights on the territory through the implementation of the reservation system, the Indian Act, and residential schools, among others.

The Band Council system is a colonial tool created through the Indian Act that usurps traditional governance systems and replaces them with an ineffective top-down administrative structure. It creates division and conflicts within our communities and is a barrier to making decisions as a nation. Our traditional Indigenous governance is foundational to caring for our territories as sovereign people, but it cannot thrive under current policies that function through the Indian Act governance system and outright ignore our sovereignty.

Industries like mining and forestry work through Indian Act structures to extract natural resources within our territories and drastically alter the quality of the whole landscape. In Ontario and Quebec, provincial ministries do not involve Indigenous nations regarding wildlife management decisions (other than those with modern treaties in northern Quebec).

Colonial laws and policies have disrupted our traditional governance and ways of caring for the Land. They do not honour nation-to-nation relationships, such as they were understood in the original treaties. The strength of our traditional governance is tied to the health of the Land. It is our responsibility as Anishnabeg to fulfill our role as caretakers of our territory.

Aki eja kwikitamigog kina kiga animegomin | Climate change affects us all

At the same time, we must acknowledge that moose populations are declining in other territories as well. In Manitoba there is a serious concern about the state of the moose population, and in Mi’kmaq territory (Cape Breton), there has been a severe moose decline. While we cannot speak to the specific causes of the declines in other territories, it is clear that climate change is a common threat. It must therefore be addressed collaboratively. We must renew respectful nation-to-nation relationships to effectively work through climate change solutions. To do so, we need to return to the sacred treaties that mean the most to First Nations people.

Oshi Nigansodewin kija ojitowig Aki eja Kwiktamigog nogom | Treaty renewal under climate change

The original sacred treaties, such as those created with wampum belts, honour traditional governance. While many of these agreements are ignored or forgotten by colonial governments, they are the only way to begin repairing the relationship and to build respectful nation-to-nation approaches. When these original treaties were made, the sovereignty of Indigenous nations—that is, the recognition of Indigenous rights to self-govern and manage our affairs and territory—was respected. Our responsibilities as caretakers of the Land were embedded within them. Treaties ensured peace: peace for the signatory nations, peace for the territory, peace for the Land and peace for all other-than-human beings.

Original treaties between Indigenous nations and European settlers were made when forests were healthy, moose were abundant, and the climate was stable. Even so, environmental clauses were incorporated into the treaties such as within the Hudson Bay wampum. The current climate crisis creates a new urgency for renewing these original sacred treaties to address our shared responsibilities to address climate change. Returning to the original intent of the treaties now would require us to incorporate specific climate change considerations and the specific industrial activities that contribute to climate change, like forestry and the extraction of non-renewable natural resources. True climate adaptation should guarantee Indigenous decision-making about Land use within our territories under our traditional governance systems.

These treaties were forgotten; the accountability toward the treaties and responsibilities were forgotten because they were not revisited, as they were supposed to have been, every two years. This process of accountability was called “polishing the chain”. If this accountability process is maintained, renewed treaties can hold the promise of reversing climate change.

The ultimate goal of treaty renewal is ensuring that seven generations from now will inherit healthy lands. Restoring traditional governance allows for more space for Indigenous rights, language, culture, and ceremony to flourish on the territory. This will lead to healthier moose populations and better climate solutions for all. If we can achieve peace with each other through renewed treaties, then we will have achieved true reconciliation.

Oshki Nigansodewin nogom ta minsidjiade Anishnabeg odinakinagewin keja mikimatcj Aki-Tcojojonam kija wedokwaganitcj. Tadagon mino ijitigewin kija mamikikadeg aki keja minomadizitcj acitcj kina Wabanog Anishnabeg oda shawindana aki onakinagewin. Anish adi keja majitayag bin?

Renewed treaties would restore Indigenous governance systems that allow for the nation-to-nation relationship that is required to find true climate policy solutions. Furthermore, unity within the Anishnabe (Algonquin) nation and other eastern Indigenous nations would strengthen climate action. We acknowledge that this is no small task. So, how do we get there?

Eshpin kijigabidameg nigansodewin, panama nitim Anishnabe eja kendik aki kida mamwisemagin | The first step toward treaty renewal: A community-led forum for knowledge sharing

The revitalization of treaties needs to be community-led, because it depends on the knowledge holders, where treaty is held by community. Elected leadership and colonial governments need to play a part as well, by providing space to have these discussions. Building and bridging understanding is paramount to start repairing the trust necessary for reconciliation and treaty renewal.

Kija tagog nisistemowin oja kina kabi-ijaweybig aki kag. Kina Wabinog Anishnabeg ta-mamwisewag kija tabajamog megis kikendamowin keja wabidameg ishkwag kaja be inakonigewag Anishnabeg weshkitcj (“Keko masigetcj Kizis, Keko nibish nitagog, Keko nodin eh tanoweg acitjc keko nibi pimidjwog”).

To build a common understanding of historical sacred treaties, we must create a sacred space for discussion and knowledge-sharing. We suggest a large multi-day forum, where the community members and knowledge holders of the eastern Indigenous nations gather. Each nation would have the opportunity to recite the treaties they hold, and the conditions under which they were first made (“as long as the sun shines, the wind blows, the waters flow, and the grass grows…”).

In this context, traditional governance takes up the most space; traditional leadership and governance come from Anishnabeg, it comes from the people, it is not a top-down approach. Elders and knowledge keepers must be given the appropriate recognition and respect regarding the knowledge they have of the environment and history and provide the spiritual guidance that is needed to restore our climate.

Elected leadership and colonial governments can take place as listeners and learners in this space. Giving the space to knowledge holders honours the community-led ways of traditional governance. This mark of respect is owed to communities. This would open dialogue between knowledge holders and elected leadership. It is an opportunity for knowledge holders and community members to voice their concerns, visions, and guidance. We expect that this knowledge sharing would need to take place over three days.

This would ground the gathering in ceremony with an understanding of the original intent of the treaties, which creates a greater awareness of how the environmental and social conditions have changed and must be taken into account in modern times.

Following this first period of knowledge-sharing, community members can decide their own path and follow their own protocols regarding treaty renewal. This also provides an opportunity for the elected leadership to be accountable to the wishes of their people. Together, each nation can build their own recommendations and solutions for treaty renewal under climate change. This forum is a first step, an opening, that allows us to build understanding before deciding on the next steps.

Crown governments can get involved in this process by facilitating the funding for this forum, attending and listening, and supporting the community-led treaty research and discussions that will take place before and after the forum. Community-based treaty research allows for communities to discuss treaties within their own nations before entering into discussions with others. In-community discussions will follow the forum, and it will be important to support that momentum and be accountable to each other and the knowledge learned during the forum.

Conclusion

This work started when Elders and Land users warned us about the moose decline. Protecting the moose led us to the bigger questions about how we all care for the land. Moose are our relatives that have taken care of us since time immemorial. Their decline is a warning that we must return to balance.

Treaty renewal must be transparent and inclusive. This means that everyone should have a voice, especially the people who live closest to the Land and see what’s really happening. We need to listen to the grassroots, to the ones who feel the changes in the water, the air, and the animals. We need to talk about responsibility to protect the land, the water, the animals, and each other.

Our communities have always known how to live in balance with the land. We carry that knowledge in our stories, in our ceremonies, and even in our dreams. The systems that hurt the land also hurt our communities. Logging, mining, and dams might create money, but they also destroy the homes of the animals and the health of our waters. These are not peaceful ways.

There is no peace in extraction, no peace in deforestation. These acts harm the animals and the people who have always lived in relation with them.

We know that energy and building homes are necessary, but we also know that change is needed. We must be willing to leave behind destructive ways and choose a new path that respects the Earth.

As Anishnabeg, we’ve faced colonization, language loss, and residential schools. These things disconnected us from who we are. But we’re still here. And we still carry the knowledge we need to rebuild. That’s what treaty is really about: returning to who we are, returning to our laws, our clan systems, our creation stories, and our responsibilities. Treaty is about restoring peace: peace for the land, peace for animals, and peace for our people. What we do now will shape what’s left for the next generations. We must choose wisely.

1 E.g. Manitoba and Cape Breton.

² Anishnabe Moose Committee. November 2022. Anishnabe knowledge and governance for the protection of the moose populations in and around La Verendrye Park. Preliminary report from the Anishnabe Moose studies.

³ Inventaire aérien de l’orignal de la réserve faunique La Vérendrye réalisé à l’hiver 2020 Résumé des résultats. https://mffp.gouv.qc.ca/documents/faune/RA_inventaire_orignal_RFLV_hiver_2020.pdf

⁴ Honour’s thesis report led by Ken Downe. https://anishnabeanikiwin.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/amc-newsletter-november-2024-2.pdf