I stepped off the small Twin Otter aircraft onto scorched earth. The smell hit me first—a primal mixture of ash and resin that clings to your clothes for days. My boots crunched over blackened pine needles as I followed Greg Sutherland, a seasoned firefighter with 22 years of experience, through what remained of the forest outside Fort Nelson, British Columbia.
“We’ve never seen anything like this,” Sutherland told me, gesturing at the charred landscape stretching toward the horizon. “Not in my lifetime, not in my father’s.”
The wildfires currently raging across northern British Columbia and Alberta have triggered what officials are calling “the largest evacuation in living memory” for the province. More than 67,000 people have fled their homes in the past week alone, with smoke plumes now pushing south across the U.S. border.
In Fort Nelson, the evacuation order came at 3 a.m. last Tuesday. Families had less than two hours to gather their essentials before the only highway out of town became impassable. Sophie Laramee, a mother of three, described the frantic moments as she decided what to save.
“How do you choose? Photos? Documents? My daughter’s asthma medication—that came first,” she said, sitting in a makeshift shelter in Fort St. John. “We could see the glow on the horizon through our kitchen window. The air was so thick you couldn’t see the neighbor’s house.”
Climate scientists at Environment Canada have been tracking these fires with growing concern. Their data shows that Canada experienced 235% more burned area last year than the 10-year average, a trend that appears to be continuing in 2024. Dr. Melissa Chipman at the Canadian Forest Service told me these statistics reflect a troubling new reality.
“What we’re seeing isn’t just a bad fire season—it’s a fundamental shift in fire behavior,” Chipman explained. “Fires are burning hotter, spreading faster, and showing resistance to traditional containment methods due to drier conditions and longer fire seasons.”
Indigenous communities have been particularly hard hit. In northeastern Alberta, five First Nations territories have been evacuated, displacing over 3,000 people. For many, this marks the second or third evacuation in recent years.
When I visited the Beaver First Nation evacuation center in Grande Prairie, Elder Joseph Cardinal sat quietly watching the news. At 78, he has witnessed the changing relationship between his people and the forest.
“Our stories tell us fire is natural, fire is renewal,” he said. “But these fires are different. The land doesn’t heal the same way anymore. The medicines don’t come back the same.”
The economic impact has been equally devastating. The Canadian oil and gas industry has shut down operations across northern Alberta, with major producers like Suncor Energy and Canadian Natural Resources Limited reporting production losses of up to 40,000 barrels per day.
Meanwhile, the health impacts extend far beyond the evacuation zones. Air quality readings in Edmonton reached over 10 times the acceptable threshold last weekend, causing a 68% increase in emergency room visits for respiratory complaints, according to Alberta Health Services.
Dr. Sanjana Mehta, a pulmonologist at University Hospital in Edmonton, has been treating patients affected by the smoke. “We’re seeing people with no previous respiratory issues developing symptoms,” she explained. “And for vulnerable populations—children, elderly, those with asthma or COPD—this isn’t just discomfort, it’s potentially life-threatening.”
The smoke has now crossed international borders. The U.S. National Weather Service has issued air quality alerts for states as far south as Colorado and as far east as Minnesota. Satellite images from NASA show massive plumes curling over the Great Lakes region, affecting tens of millions of Americans.
Back in Fort St. John, at the Northern Lights College gymnasium turned evacuation center, I met Darren Whalley, a regional emergency coordinator who hasn’t slept more than four hours a night in two weeks.
“The reality we’re facing is that many of these people won’t have homes to go back to,” he said quietly, away from the families setting up cots. “We’re already talking about winterized temporary housing, but with lumber prices what they are and construction schedules backed up, we’re looking at a recovery timeline measured in years, not months.”
For communities that depend on the forest industry, the long-term outlook is particularly grim. The Parker Sawmill outside Fort Nelson employed 82 people before the fire tore through it last Wednesday. Now it’s gone—along with approximately 175,000 hectares of harvestable timber.
Climate policy experts at the Canadian Climate Institute estimate that without significant adaptation investments, wildfire costs could double by 2050. Their research suggests that proactive forest management, including controlled burns and wildfire-resistant infrastructure, could save billions in the long run.
But for families like the Laramees, currently sleeping on gymnasium floors, these policy discussions feel distant. As Sophie tucked her children in for another night away from home, she wondered aloud about the future.
“My grandmother never had to evacuate once in her 92 years living up north. My kids have already evacuated twice in their short lives,” she said. “Is this just what summer means now? Packing emergency bags and watching the sky?”
As I prepared to leave Fort St. John, my phone buzzed with new evacuation alerts for communities further south. The fire season, officials warn, is just beginning.
