https://www.macleans.ca/news/canada/canada-far-north-arctic-ice-melting-climate-change-inuit/
The plan to save Canada’s rapidly-melting Arctic ice
The Trudeau government has bowed to years of persuasion by Inuit and has
declared a marine protected area in the Far North
by Nick Taylor-Vaisey
Aug 1, 2019
Nunavut’s first premier is, by his own admission, not a talented hunter.
But Paul Okalik, who’s now speaking about Arctic issues for WWF-Canada,
recalls with awe his last trip out to the sea ice near Grise Fiord, on
the south side of Ellesmere Island in Canada’s Far North.
WWF-Canada was the first to call the vast frozen expanse that covers much
of that region the Last Ice Area—the thickest, most stubborn multi-year
pack ice that’s expected to serve as a final refuge for High Arctic
wildlife. On that summertime trip many years ago, Okalik failed to bag a
seal he had in his sights, but the memory that sticks is that of pure
solitude in the midst of 24-hour daylight.
“You can’t tell time. You’re the only human, pretty much, at times. You
are in such a tranquil and quiet environment, all you hear is nature,”
says Okalik. “You’re relaxing, and you’re waiting for a seal to come
your way.” He reflects on his experience with a chuckle. “I missed. What
can you do?”
Inuit have a name—Tuvaijuittuq, an Inuktitut word meaning “the place
where the ice never melts”—for the region that stretches north of the
85th parallel, past the remote military base at Alert, to the edge of
Canada’s maritime boundary. Tuvaijuittuq’s fate lies largely in the
hands of climate change, which is melting Arctic ice at an alarming pace
that’s often hard to predict.
But those who live nearest to the melt, led by the Qikiqtani Inuit
Association (QIA), aren’t waiting for the rest of the world to turn down
the global temperature. QIA, which represents Inuit in the region, has a
plan to protect the ice and secure food sovereignty for several
far-flung communities in eastern and northern Nunavut. And its leaders
have been diligently persuading politicians in Ottawa to secure more
than $250 million to make it happen.
On Aug. 1, the feds—alongside gleeful QIA officials—bought into the Inuit
plan. How, in the face of rising temperatures controlled by neither
Ottawa nor Inuit, can they hope to save the ice? They’re starting with a
ministerial order to freeze human development in Tuvaijuittuq for five
years. The area is remote enough that there’s no current ship traffic or
oil and gas activity, but this prevents any seismic testing or
well-drilling that could weaken the ice. As part of a benefits agreement
related to an adjacent national marine conservation area in the High
Arctic named Tallurutiup Imanga, the federal government will fund
full-time hunters and build small-craft harbours, as well as
food-processing facilities, in five Inuit communities that touch
Tallurutiup Imanga.
P.J. Akeeagok, QIA’s president, hails the benefits agreement and the
government’s commitment to protect the ice as a global model for
conservation—and a blueprint that Inuit have had at their fingertips for
decades, waiting for a government that would listen.
The final boundaries of the Tallurutiup Imanga conservation area emerged
from seven years of consultation and incorporated traditional knowledge
of hunting routes and habitat of wildlife, including narwhals and polar
bears, that depend on the ice. “It’s since the ’50s and ’60s when Inuit
really started to mobilize,” says Akeeagok. “It gives you an
appreciation for how patient Inuit are.”
Now they’re playing a crucial role in their own sustainability, he adds.
(Akeeagok, himself, caught Arctic char the day he spoke to Maclean’s.)
The federally funded hunters and harvesters—Nauttiqsuqtiit, or
“guardians”—will both put food on tables in their communities and serve
as the eyes and ears of climate change in remote areas. They’ll also
participate in search-and-rescue operations. “To be able to create such
meaningful jobs is truly a game-changer,” says Akeeagok. “Kids will be
able to look up to the Nauttiqsuqtiit.”
Few Canadians, or anyone else for that matter, ever see Tuvaijuittuq.
Most who do are military personnel posted to CFS Alert for six-month
stints. Sgt. Mike Drouillard, who arrived in February and handles the
station’s incoming supply shipments, says the 24-hour darkness, followed
by constant sunlight, took some psychological adjustment. But, he
remarks, “the weather is quite consistent up here.”
Indeed, Environment and Climate Change Canada measured temperatures
fluctuating only a few degrees each day in much of June and July. But
only two days after Drouillard spoke, Alert hit 21 C—warmer on July 14
than balmy Victoria, 4,200 kilometres to the south. Temperatures
remained in the teens for days.
Heat waves bode ill for the place where the ice never melts. Alek Petty,
a NASA scientist at the University of Maryland who monitors Arctic sea
ice, says it’s hard to predict the rate of change, and observers are
still developing reliable models to project the future of the hardiest
ice shelves. Still, the trend for the Arctic is clear: even if some
years are icier than others, the planet is warming, sea levels are
rising, and there’s less of the frozen stuff.
Akeeagok acknowledges the science, but refuses to lament what might be
inevitable. He’s too busy protecting his people’s ability to live within
their means and proving to the world there’s a better way to treat the
planet. To him, the future of the sea and whatever comes next for his
people are one and the same. “This is just the next chapter in our
story,” Akeeagok says. “It feels like the exercise of nation-building is
finally reaching to the North.”
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