Canada First Nations fight 'broken' system for green lighting oil projects

Editor's note: This is the second in a four-part series on Canada's oil boom. The first article explored the low-paid temporary worker economy that fuels the service sector in Alberta oil towns. 

WOOD BUFFALO, Alberta — Marvin L’Hommecourt gazes over the valley at the headwaters of the Muskeg River. Five years ago, the narrow creek threading along the valley floor reached the top of the bank, 10 feet above. Now, the creek is just a trickle. In recent years, oil companies have been draining it because they need the water for mining operations nearby. Eventually, all the land in sight could be turned into an open-pit mine.

L’Hommecourt, a member of the Athabasca Chipewyan First Nations Band, is standing in front of a trapping cabin on grounds he has leased for 20 years and his family has been using for far longer. This land is at the center of the Alberta oil sands, the third-largest oil deposit in the world. In this region, Athabasca, the tarry, semisolid form of oil mixed with sand and silt is mined and then refined into crude oil. That crude has reaped trillions in revenue for oil companies, but also radically transformed the landscape and created environmental hazards, including air pollution and ponds of toxic byproduct. Although the recent drop in oil prices has led many companies to put new projects on hold, the slowdown isn’t apparent in the area around L’Hommecourt’s cabin, where mining projects have been underway for more than a decade.

In his day job, L’Hommecourt works as a heavy-machine operator at the Imperial Oil site next door. But it’s his ability to trap that is under threat. His trapline, or hunting route, intersects with the leases of five oil companies. When he first began visiting this spot, only a narrow trail led from a dirt road to his cabin. Today, there’s a giant parking lot for buses transporting workers to the Imperial Oil mine. In the winter, which is prime trapping season, the buses idle to keep the engines from freezing. That sends up clouds of exhaust that L’Hommecourt says have given him headaches and nausea. And thanks to all the development, he says, the lynx and marten he traps have dwindled in number.

His predicament echoes the frustrations of First Nations members across the region. Most of the oil-sands extraction is taking place in the indigenous people’s traditional territories — land in which they have constitutionally guaranteed rights to access for hunting, gathering and performing ceremonies. In recent years, Alberta First Nations have repeatedly sued oil companies, as well as the provincial and federal governments, over new projects and policies that, the aboriginal people argue, violate their traditional rights to these grounds. The suits have created costly delays for oil companies. In response, the Alberta government recently overhauled its system for reviewing oil projects, a move designed to formalize aboriginal participation and streamline the entire process. However, First Nations oppose the new consultation process, arguing that it leaves too much power in the hands of the government.

“[It’s] a lackadaisical, broken consultation structure that doesn’t work in partnership with the First Nations to address any issues,” said Eriel Deranger, spokeswoman for the Athabasca Chipewyan First Nations. Earlier this year, the band sued the Alberta government for failing to consult it over the proposed Grand Rapids pipeline, which will weave through its traditional territory. “They didn’t come out to the communities,” said Deranger of government officials. “They didn’t engage with the First Nations to determine the impacts of this project, which puts to the question how they are supposed to determine how communities are impacted.”

The Alberta government has acknowledged problems with the new consultation process. A year after it went into effect, then-Alberta premier Jim Prentice said, “We can’t have consultation legislation that none of the people who are being consulted support.” Environmentalists are hopeful that the victory of Alberta’s left-leaning New Democratic Party in May’s provincial election could bring changes, as Rachel Notley, the party leader, has pledged to review the province’s environmental rules and review processes. In a statement, provincial government spokeswoman Michelle Davio wrote, “The Government of Alberta is committed to a new relationship with the Aboriginal People and to consulting in a manner that promotes and supports their relationship.”

Lisa King is director of the Athabasca Chipewyan’s Industry Relations Corporation, which liaises with oil companies. She says the ACO did not explain its reasoning. (The ACO declined to comment on the case.) But King suspects the organization was relying on an outdated map, from 2000, that excluded the hunting and trapping sites of all but First Nations members who live in the largest community, Fort Chipewyan. King also argues, however, that the details of the map are beside the point: Roughly half the pipeline falls within the band’s traditional territory. In fact, she says, requiring First Nations to identify specific sites where they trap and hunt allows oil companies to simply modify the path of a pipeline ever so slightly. That, she says, enables the government to pay lip service to First Nations while essentially rubber-stamping projects.

The band was notified of TransCanada’s application in November 2013, after it had been submitted. The Athabasca Chipewyan were given a month to apply to participate in the review process. That left them with little time to gather evidence of the pipeline’s “direct and adverse” impact on their communities, the standard of proof set by the AER. The band felt that a technical review of the project and a land-use study were both necessary, but would take months to complete and cost tens of thousands of dollars. Given the 30-day deadline, the Athabasca Chipewyan settled for condensed versions of both. (TransCanada eventually agreed to finance the studies.) At the same time, the band was scrambling to respond to applications for two other TransCanada projects. But the final straw didn’t come until the hearing for the Grand Rapids pipeline in June 2014, when TransCanada unexpectedly filed the final draft of an environmental assessment detailing the company’s plans for mitigating environmental damage and responding to emergencies. The band had been asking for the draft for months. Although it was hundreds of pages long, the AER panel only gave the Athabasca Chipewyan one day to review it. The band decided to boycott the hearing rather than participate in a process it saw as unjust.

“They have a lot more staff than we do and money and resources,” said King. “The whole thing was just stacked against [us]. We thought it was unfair. We made a statement and then we pulled out.” 

Despite the exhaust fumes and inconveniences, L’Hommecourt still drives the seven hours to his trapline from his home in Cold Lake several times a month. (He works 10 days on, 10 days off at Imperial Oil.) Occasionally, his three children visit the shack with him. But they are adults now with children of their own, and they all work in a casino in Calgary, almost 10 hours away. L’Hommecourt could be the last generation of his immediate family to spend more than mere vacations out on the land. “Before, you trapped to make money,” said L’Hommecourt. “Now you need money to trap.”

He believes he will eventually be forced to leave his trapline altogether. Six years ago, he had just completed the walls of a log cabin he was building about 100 feet away from his current shack when Imperial Oil asked him to relocate. The new cabin blocked access to a bridge that trucks needed to reach the nearby mine, the company said. L’Hommecourt refused, but trucks carrying gravel began arriving at daybreak, and eventually, the noise and disturbance made him acquiesce. He took the 8,500-Canadian-dollar compensation the company offered, allowed its workers to dismantle his cabin, and built the shack instead.

Anticipating the day he will have to leave, L’Hommecourt has started building a log cabin on the land where he was born in Poplar Point, the Chipewyan reserve a couple of hours farther north. Accessible in summertime only by boating up the Athabasca River, Poplar Point remains largely undeveloped, with only around 10 residents at any time of the year. There, he will be able to trap in relative peace.

“I’m kind of cheering [oil prices] to go up so I can have job security,” he said. “But on the other hand, I’m looking at the oil prices and it’s going down. I’m thinking, ‘It’s going to be less guys out there trying to get in there and dig it up, less exploration and everything.’ They’ll leave me alone in terms of my trapline.”