Written by: Laurie Hamelin
A towering flame hisses against the mountains of Kitimat, at the mouth of the Douglas Channel on British Columbia’s (B.C.) north central coast. LNG Canada’s flare stack cuts an unmistakable silhouette against the coastal skyline—a burning symbol of B.C.’s fossil fuel ambitions.
Across the water from the flare lies Kitamaat Village, the principal community of the Haisla Nation. For the Haisla, the LNG Canada project represents a long-overdue economic partnership.
For others, it marks a deepening fracture—within Indigenous communities, colonial governments, and the lands and waters they’ve long fought to protect.
“When you get people that sign on for money, they are ignoring our natural law,” says Chief Na’Moks, the highest ranking chief of the Wet’suwet’en Nation’s Tsayu Clan.
“This is where we come from—our land. We don’t own it. We are only caretakers. We are born to look after it. If we don’t look after it, how is it going to look out for us? Right now, it’s being absolutely abused.”
LNG Canada was greenlit in 2018 and stands as the country’s first major liquefied natural gas (LNG) export facility. Fracked methane gas from northeast B.C. will travel more than 670 kilometres to Kitimat via the newly built—and highly controversial—Coastal GasLink (CGL) pipeline, where it will be liquefied and shipped overseas to markets primarily in Asia.
The Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs never consented to the CGL pipeline—though they did propose alternative routes that would avoid crossing their sacred waterway, Wedzin Kwa. Those offers were considered but ultimately rejected.
Chief Na’Moks explains this history as we sit beside Witset Canyon, an ancient fishing site along the Bulkley River, which is connected to Wedzin Kwa in Wet’suwet’en territory.
“I drink out of this river,” he says. “There’s not many places in this world where you can do that.”
Five of six elected Wet’suwet’en band councils signed agreements with TransCanada (now TC Energy)—the original owner and developer of the CGL pipeline. These councils, established under the Indian Act, have jurisdiction over reserve lands, but not over the broader traditional territory governed by the Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs.
“When you talk about an elected government that was created by Canada, the whole purpose was to take us off our land, put us on little pieces of land,” says Chief Na’Moks.
“Meanwhile, they went after the resources. Now they’ve flipped the table—now they say this elected government they created has authority on the land, so they can go back and take even more.”
The pipeline project moved ahead anyway—cutting through critical habitats and disrupting ecosystems that sustain entire Nations. It sparked widespread opposition and placed the Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs at the heart of the resistance. They stood firm in defence of their Yintah (territory) and traditional governance.
In response, the RCMP invaded their lands and raided peaceful camps. The government pressed forward—trampling Indigenous law and violating the principles of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP).
“Our law is hereditary—it never changed,” says Chief Na’Moks. “We’re born to look after this land. We were born and raised to uphold those laws.”
“What we’re going through is unbelievable. We don’t want that for the next generation.”
Despite years of legal challenges, outcry from Indigenous leaders and land defenders, and mounting international scrutiny, Phase One of the LNG Canada project is now on track to begin shipping liquefied natural gas this year. It is expected to export up to 14 million tonnes annually for the next 40 years. The terminal received its first import cargo for testing and commissioning in April.
As some celebrate this milestone, others are left asking: how did we get here?
Fifteen years ago, First Nations across northwest B.C. and along the coast stood in a powerful alliance against the proposed Northern Gateway pipeline. The Enbridge project would have carried diluted bitumen from Alberta’s tar sands to the very same coastal waters now slated for LNG export.
There was deep concern over the risk of oil spills and the dramatic increase in tanker traffic that would be required to navigate the narrow, winding waters of the Douglas Channel—waters home to critical habitat of humpback and fin whales, orcas, and other vulnerable marine species.
Coastal Nations warned that even a single accident could devastate their fisheries, food sources, and way of life. But even without a spill, the constant ocean noise posed a serious threat to marine life and survival.
Whales and other acoustically sensitive marine mammals rely on a quiet ocean to communicate, navigate, forage and stay connected. Tankers are the loudest vessels operating in the ocean and the underwater noise they cause directly impacts their ability to survive.
In 2016, the federal government officially rejected the Northern Gateway project, citing environmental risks and a lack of social licence.
Oil in Eden: The Battle to Protect Canada’s Pacific Coast
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aO4s4P7eFk4
But the fossil fuel industry wasn’t done with B.C.’s coast.
As Northern Gateway was shelved, a new wave of proposals emerged—this time for liquefied natural gas (LNG) export.
Many of these projects followed the very same corridor out through the Douglas Channel. And while the long-term consequences of an LNG accident may be different from oil, for whales, the difference is meaningless: a tanker is a tanker. The underwater noise pollution caused by these massive ships is just as disruptive—no matter what they’re carrying.
LNG gained momentum anyway, marketed as Canada’s next great energy strategy: a cleaner fossil fuel, a transitional bridge to a low-carbon future, and a way to help Asian markets move off coal.
Gwii Lok’im Gibuu/Jesse Stoeppler, a member of the Wet’suwet’en and Gitxsan Nations, says LNG was framed as a climate solution, carefully packaged to sway public opinion.
“At the beginning of this massive national push for LNG—as part of an energy boom—we were led to believe by our own government that it was about transitioning away from other fossil fuels,” says Jesse.
“From coal, for example—anything that leaves behind a large carbon footprint. I think a lot of people got confused. There’s a lot of greenwashing.”
Independent studies have since debunked many of these claims—highlighting LNG’s real climate impacts, especially the methane emissions associated with fracking, processing, and transport. Research shows that over its full lifecycle, LNG can be as damaging to the climate as coal, particularly when methane leaks are accounted for. Others warn that the long-term infrastructure built for LNG locks in fossil fuel dependence for decades—delaying, not accelerating, the transition to renewable energy.
For a brief moment, there was a glimmer of progress. Climate targets were set. Renewables were prioritized. Commitments to Indigenous rights—like the adoption of B.C.’s landmark legislation, the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act (DRIPA) in 2019—signaled a shift for real change.
And in 2024, Canada passed Bill C-59, introducing new rules to crack down on misleading environmental claims—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of just how effective greenwashing had become.
But Canada—and much of the world—now finds itself at a dramatic turning point: a moment defined by escalating climate breakdown, economic volatility, the rise of far-right populism, climate denial, and an intensifying battle between truth and disinformation.
As global temperatures rise, wildfires rage, and extreme weather events intensify, oil and gas expansion is once again being framed as a national imperative—driven by political pressure and marketed as the solution to mounting economic insecurity.
U.S. President Donald Trump’s rollercoaster of tariff threats and trade hostility has left Canada’s resource sector on edge. His offhand remarks about Canada becoming the “51st state” have only deepened anxieties around sovereignty and national direction—leaving Canadian leaders scrambling to reduce economic dependence on the U.S.
Alberta Premier Danielle Smith has openly threatened separation if the province can’t secure pipeline routes to the East or West Coast—arguing that access to global markets is critical to Alberta’s economic future.
But the completion of the Trans Mountain Expansion (TMX) pipeline in May 2024 undercuts that urgency. TMX has significantly boosted Canada’s oil export capacity—tripling its original volume from 300,000 to 890,000 barrels per day—and opening up new market access while reducing reliance on the U.S.
Satellite tracking of oil tankers leaving Burrard Inlet shows that more than half of the diluted bitumen shipped through Trans Mountain is now bound for Asia, with China receiving the largest share.
And yet, in response, B.C. Premier David Eby doubled down—passing Bills 14 and 15, controversial legislation to fast-track major infrastructure and resource projects. Just days later, his government approved the Prince Rupert Gas Transmission pipeline.
Meanwhile, Canada’s new Prime Minister, Mark Carney—once a global champion of net-zero finance—has declared a vision of Canada as an energy superpower. Under the banner of a so-called green industrial strategy, he has signaled openness to new oil and gas pipelines, including talk of producing “decarbonized oil”.
Carney’s first major move in Ottawa: his government is rushing Bill C‑5 through Parliament, aiming to advance it before the summer recess. If passed, the legislation would grant sweeping powers to accelerate major projects, including the authority to override existing laws deemed “in the national interest.” This includes environmental protections and Indigenous rights.
It’s a political landscape that feels less like a shift—and more like a calculated strategy: crafted by politicians and lobbyists, built for industry, and driven by the interests of the wealthy.
“This only helps the rich get richer, that’s all,” says Chief Na’Moks.
“We don’t have to kill this planet just for the rich people. We don’t have to kill this planet to make sure the market is viable. The market should be ourselves.”
As the CGL pipeline prepares to push fracked gas through Na’Moks’ territory to the LNG Canada terminal, the Prince Rupert Gas Transmission (PRGT) pipeline—once presumed dead and now slated to cut through Gitxsan territory—is reigniting fears of ecological destruction, colonial overreach, and foreign profiteering.
“They’re using this economic crisis to justify pipelines,” says Drew Harris of the Lax’yip Firekeepers—a youth-led group dedicated to protecting the Gitxsan lax’yip (traditional territory).
“Half of the investors and ownership of PRGT is American,” she adds, “we’ll be filling Trump’s inner circle’s pockets singlehandedly with this pipeline.”
PRGT is an 800-kilometre pipeline that would also carry fracked methane gas from northeast B.C. to the province’s coast.
Originally designed to supply the cancelled Pacific NorthWest LNG terminal on Lelu Island, the PRGT pipeline project stalled in 2017. But in late 2023, the pipeline was quietly revived—this time to serve the proposed Ksi Lisims LNG project, a floating terminal at the mouth of the Nass River aiming to export up to 12 million tonnes of LNG annually.
Not only did the PRGT project receive a new destination and modified route—it was also on the brink of losing its environmental assessment certificate. Then, in a stunning decision on June 5, B.C.’s Environmental Assessment Office ruled that the project had been “substantially started”.
The ruling means the certificate will remain in effect with no further deadline, allowing construction to move forward—despite the fact that less than 2% of the route had been hastily cleared and no pipeline has been laid. However, the PRGT’s final route remains under review, as the proponents have submitted applications to amend the corridor.
“There’s always going to be a political crisis somewhere in the world,” emphasizes Lax’Yip Firekeeper, Grace Vickers.
“Seeing them use fear to fast-track their agenda—it’s a common strategy. It’s something we’ve seen throughout time, and it’s hard to see it used back on our people.”
Last August, before formally coming together as a group, Drew and Grace helped organize a powerful meeting in Gitanmaax Village near Hazelton B.C. Alongside other Indigenous youth, they voiced their deep concerns about the proposed PRGT pipeline directly to Gitxsan hereditary chiefs, Elders, and community members.
Drew describes how that gathering marked the beginning of something bigger.
“We’ve had an insane amount of support from all over Canada reach out to us ever since,” says Harris.
“When we got together, it wasn’t just about the pipeline—it was about cultural revitalization, learning our language, bringing back traditional values, and decolonizing as many spaces as we can here. And just really trying to look at a future that we want—and how we can make that happen, where everyone is included.”
If built, the PRGT pipeline would cut through Grace and Drew’s homelands on Gitxsan lax’yip—a region of rugged beauty and ecological richness in northwest B.C. Towering mountains, ancient forests, and glacial-fed rivers define the landscape. Across this vast territory, Indigenous people hunt moose and elk, fish for salmon, and gather berries and medicines—resources protected by their ancestors for future generations.
Grace becomes emotional as she recalls her first hunting trip with her father and brothers.
“It was all—wow, okay, we’re going to be taking a life,” says Grace. “Life, it’s giving itself to us to sustain our family.”
“And when we got the first elk down, the first thing we did was we all put our hands on it. And my dad sang a song—it was a thank you. All my brothers were there, and there were tears streaming down their faces.”
Here, salmon are more than sustenance—they are the lifeblood of the people and the land. Their migration routes, spawning grounds, and interconnected lifecycles sustain not only ecosystems, but also the cultures, economies, and food security of Indigenous Nations across the region.
PRGT would cross more than 1,000 waterways along the route, including major salmon-bearing rivers and tributaries—a risk too great to justify, says Grace.
“I think it should be at the focal point of everything that we do,” she says.
“We need to think about that when we’re making decisions—how it’s going to impact us seven generations from now. Are our great-great-grandchildren going to be able to go down to the river and catch fish?”
PRGT is backed in part by Blackstone, one of the world’s largest private equity firms. Its CEO, Stephen Schwarzman, has been a prominent supporter of Donald Trump—donating millions to his election campaign.
The Nisga’a Nation acquired the PRGT pipeline in March 2024, in partnership with Western LNG, a U.S. energy company headquartered in Houston, Texas. The project was originally developed by TransCanada (now TC Energy). The Ksi Lisims LNG export facility that PRGT is proposed to connect to is being co-developed by the Nisga’a Nation, Rockies LNG, and Western LNG.
The Nisga’a have framed both the PRGT pipeline and Ksi Lisims LNG as part of a broader vision for economic reconciliation and Indigenous self-determination. And while Indigenous sovereignty is essential, not all Nations along the pipeline route support the projects.
In this video shared by the Gitanyow Hereditary Chiefs, Wilp Sustainability Director Naxginkw/Tara Marsden challenges how the term ‘economic reconciliation’ is used—pointing directly to the PRGT pipeline.
“Economic reconciliation, like the term natural gas, unfortunately has been co-opted and it’s a phrase that is being used to disguise and to mislead,” she says.
“With the case of PRGT, a toxic asset that has essentially been stranded for 10 years is being offloaded to an impoverished Indigenous Nation. It is using Federal Loan Guarantee, so taxpayer money for a corporate bailout. TC Energy had significant cost overruns with the Coastal GasLink pipeline and was looking to offload as many of their assets as possible. So economic reconciliation is not about giving the loser projects to Indigenous people—and with the legacy of impacting their neighbouring nations.
Economic reconciliation in a truer sense would be to design and develop projects and industries in partnership with Indigenous people, and to live up to the vision of sustainability that each Indigenous Nation has. In the case of PRGT, it is simply a pretty bow that they want to put on a toxic package and hope that nobody notices.”
PRGT is currently the subject of mounting legal challenges, including from the Gitanyow Hereditary Chiefs—part of the larger Gitxsan Nation—and the Kispiox Band of the Gitxsan Nation with Skeena Watershed Conservation Coalition, citing concerns over inadequate consultation and threats to salmon-bearing waters.
Chief Na’Moks knows all too well what his Gitxsan neighbours are up against.
“They burned down our homes. They come to our doors with axes,” he says. “I’m the son of a Second World War veteran—he fought so we could live in a democratic country. And now I have to step outside and face guns?”
After multiple RCMP raids on Wet’suwet’en territory over the past six years, Chief Na’Moks says the tactics follow a calculated playbook—one rooted not only in colonial history, but in modern corporate strategy.
Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co. (KKR), one of the world’s largest private equity firms, is a majority owner of the Coastal GasLink pipeline. Among its leadership is former CIA director and U.S. Army General David Petraeus—known for developing counterinsurgency strategies in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“He created a playbook when he was in the eastern countries—about raiding, going in and killing, how they take over,” says Chief Na’Moks. “In that playbook, it says that you either buy them off. If they don’t want money, then you use violence.”
Internal RCMP documents obtained by journalists revealed that snipers deployed during the first major raid on Wet’suwet’en territory, on January 7, 2019, were prepared to use deadly force against Indigenous land defenders. The approach echoes the very tactics Petraeus helped design: frame resistance as insurgency, deploy militarized police, and fracture Indigenous solidarity through surveillance, force, and psychological pressure.
This disturbing reality is powerfully captured in the multi-award-winning documentary Yintah.
While the trauma of past violence still weighs heavily on the hearts and minds of land defenders, a new generation is rising with renewed strength and resolve. The Lax’yip Firekeepers have made it clear: the PRGT pipeline will not pass quietly through their traditional lands.
“We are the youth who are going to keep the fight going—a fight our ancestors began—to resist colonization and keep our land protected and safe,” says Drew. “And we’re going to keep passing that torch to the next generation.”
As we write this blog article, wildfires are raging across Canada—and it’s only June. The hottest months are still to come. Grace and Drew are deeply worried about the climate crisis and refuse to accept fossil fuel expansion as inevitable.
“If it comes to taking a stand and defending the Lax’yip, there’s no question in my mind—I’ll do it,” says Grace.
Grace is in university, completing a double major in political science and Indigenous studies. She has a bright future ahead—but instead of looking forward with ease, she’s preparing to defend her home and future.
“It’s not just a choice. It’s a responsibility that’s been passed on to me, and I know it’s mine to uphold. If that’s my calling, then that’s my calling.”
The Lax’Yip Firekeepers know what’s at stake—and they’re not walking away.
Once again, Indigenous peoples—on the frontlines of both resource extraction and climate change—are leading the fight for a livable future.
