As wildfire season approaches, remote First Nations prepare to fight from the ground up

As Calvin Charles sprays water up and down a tree trunk, the force from the hose is strong enough to make its target sway.

It's a clear, sunny day on the shores of Lac la Plonge in northern Saskatchewan, but in Charles's mind, that tree is on fire.

"I grew up on the trapline and I've been around trees my whole life," he said.

"When I see them burn, I don't like that. The aspect of saving nature is really heart‐ warming."

But it was saving homes and people that brought Charles and about two dozen others here for firefighting training put on by the Prince

Albert Grand Council. Some are brand new to the craft while others, like Charles, have volunteered for years. After this training, he'll be able to work seasonally as a firefighter based in the north.

He first suited up after Stanley Mission, his own First Nation, was almost de‐ stroyed by a fire in 2015.

"After getting evacuated, I felt helpless," he said.

"Getting the training I needed to be able to put that fire out - I feel less helpless."

When it comes to remote wildfires, First Nations com‐ munity members are often the first to feel the heat, smell the smoke and deal with the danger.

The federal government suggests 80 per cent of First

Nations are in areas prone to wildfires, and many commu‐ nities are preparing for what they worry could be a cata‐ strophic season.

Minimum, standardized training for First Na‐ tions

In Saskatchewan, there are different levels of firefighting training. Charles and the oth‐ ers won't fight fire from above, but they can help mop up sections doused by water bombers and work to control sections from the ground.

And in the north, you use what you can.

The group learns how to connect a small, cord-pull motor to a half-frozen lake for their hoses. They practice building fire breaks into the forest floor with pickaxes, since machines often can't get to their remote locations.

They've all had to travel for hours to get here, since there aren't enough trainers to get to each community in time.

Access to firefighting training has been a long‐ standing issue for First Na‐ tions. In a national, five-year strategy to protect First Na‐ tions from fire, Ottawa and other groups hope to have minimum, standardized fire‐ fighting training for commu‐ nities by 2025.

That goal might be unreal‐ istic, according to some, since many communities don't even have basic infra‐ structure.

"Especially rural and re‐ mote communities, they don't even have access com‐ ing in and out to get training. There are many First Nations communities that don't even have Internet or cell service," said Cindy Woodhouse Nepinak, national chief of the Assembly of First Nations.

"We have to keep that all in the back of our minds that not everybody's in downtown Toronto."

While Ottawa dedi‐ cated$175 million in this year's budget to help First Nations address this year's and future fire seasons, Woodhouse Nepinak hoped for more to get newer equip‐ ment for First Nations fire‐ fighting crews.

But even if funding had been higher, there are other barriers to getting systems set up quickly for this fire season.

"Most communities I deal with, there are no paved roads. There are no water re‐ sources like hydrants," said Jason Wigton, director of technical emergency services for the Kee Tas Kee Now Trib‐ al Council, which serves five First Nations in northern Al‐ berta. Four of those were forced to evacuate due to wildfire last year.

"Getting a custom truck takes 18 to 24 months. I've ordered trucks last Novem‐ ber that won't be ready until spring of 2025."

While Wigton and others are preparing as best they can, he says teaching fire prevention and safety will help the most this season.

First Nations in Alberta get emergency coordi‐ nators

Last year, wildfires caused more than 90 evacuations in First Nations communities across Canada - many in northern Alberta. This year, Ottawa is giving each First Nation in that province mon‐ ey to hire an emergency management coordinator.

Other communities across Canada have these positions, but the Alberta jobs are unique since there will be one per community, and the position will be full-time. The funding lasts for three years.

The position could be cru‐ cial for the Athabasca Chipey‐ wan First Nation, whose members were forced to flee their homes last year. Many residents can only leave in an emergency by air or water. It's a complex process only made worse this year since low water levels threaten to trap boats in the bay.

"People in the community say that they've never seen it this bad in their lifetime," Chief Allan Adam said.

"The whole community is at risk if there was a forest fire that burned out of con‐ trol."

Adam said the bulk of the new emergency manage‐ ment coordinator's urgent work would be fire preven‐ tion education, like teaching people how to clear debris from their homes and re‐ minding them not to burn during bans.

But there will be emer‐ gencies to plan for, he said. Fires are pressing, but floods and dangerous cold snaps have all caused danger and damage in recent years.

So while the emergency coordinator position is wel‐ comed, Adam says the three years of funding isn't enough to deal with these long-term problems.

"Climate change is hap‐ pening. It's not going away, and it's getting worse every year," he said.

"Unfortunately, we're not going to escape it either."