The mountain slopes above Lillooet, B.C., are eerily quiet this spring. Standing at the edge of what remains of the Bridge Glacier, I feel a sense of witnessing something both ancient and fleeting. The glacier has retreated more than 3.5 kilometers since 1980, leaving behind a landscape of fresh rock and sediment that hasn’t seen sunlight in thousands of years.
“I’ve been monitoring this glacier for over two decades now,” says Dr. Michele Koppes, a glaciologist at the University of British Columbia. She points toward the bare valley floor where ice once stood 100 meters thick. “What we’re seeing isn’t just seasonal melt—it’s the accelerated collapse of an entire system.”
New research published in Nature Communications reveals a devastating reality: most western Canadian glaciers are now committed to disappear regardless of future climate action. The study, led by researchers at the University of Northern British Columbia and Environment and Climate Change Canada, found that glaciers in western Canada have already crossed a critical threshold.
“Even if we stopped all greenhouse gas emissions today, between 60 to 80 percent of the glacier ice in western Canada will vanish by the end of this century,” explains Dr. Brian Menounos, the study’s lead author and Canada Research Chair in Glacier Change.
The researchers analyzed decades of glacier measurements, combining field data with satellite observations and advanced computer modeling. What makes their findings particularly alarming is how the rate of loss has accelerated beyond what previous models predicted.
For communities across British Columbia and Alberta, these aren’t just abstract scientific concerns. Glacial meltwater feeds major river systems that millions of people depend on for drinking water, agriculture, and hydroelectric power. The glaciers also hold cultural significance for many Indigenous communities who have lived alongside these ice formations since time immemorial.
In Canmore, Alberta, retired wilderness guide Robert Sandford has witnessed the transformation firsthand. “Twenty years ago, I’d take visitors up to these magnificent sheets of ice that had been here since before human settlement,” he tells me over coffee. “Now, some of those same glaciers are just stains on the mountainside.”
The science behind the melt involves a complex interplay of warming temperatures, changing precipitation patterns, and what glaciologists call “committed loss”—the idea that even if temperatures stabilized today, many glaciers have already been pushed past their equilibrium point. Like a melting ice cube taken from the freezer but left on the counter, their fate is already sealed.
Data from the Geological Survey of Canada shows that western Canadian glaciers have lost approximately 15 percent of their total area since 1985, with the rate of loss accelerating in recent decades. The Columbia Icefield, which feeds major river systems like the Columbia, Athabasca, and North Saskatchewan, has lost nearly a quarter of its volume since the 1970s.
For Sheila Louie, a member of the Lil’wat First Nation whose traditional territory includes several rapidly retreating glaciers, the changes represent more than environmental loss.
“These ice ancestors have been part of our stories and ceremonies for countless generations,” she explains as we walk along a newly formed glacial lake near Pemberton. “When they disappear, we’re not just losing water sources—we’re losing connection to our history.”
Downstream impacts are already manifesting. Late-summer streamflows in glacier-fed rivers have declined, affecting everything from salmon migration to agricultural irrigation. Communities that depend on predictable water cycles are facing new uncertainties.
In Invermere, B.C., organic farmer Caroline Grégoire has been adapting her operation to the changing reality. “Ten years ago, we could count on glacier-fed creeks running strong through August,” she says, showing me her newly installed water storage system. “Now those same creeks run dry by mid-July.”
While the broader pattern of loss appears unavoidable, climate action could still determine how many glaciers survive and in what state. The research indicates that immediate and substantial emissions reductions could preserve approximately 20-40 percent of current glacier volume, primarily at higher elevations.
“The choices we make in the next decade will determine whether our grandchildren see any glaciers at all in places like Banff or Jasper,” notes Dr. Menounos.
Communities across western Canada are now grappling with adaptation strategies. Water resource managers in Calgary are reassessing long-term supply plans. Tourism operators in glacier-dependent areas are diversifying their offerings. Indigenous communities are documenting traditional knowledge about changing landscapes for future generations.
For scientists like Dr. Koppes, communicating these realities comes with emotional weight. “Sometimes I’m asked if there’s hope,” she says as we make our way back down from the Bridge Glacier’s receding edge. “I say there’s always a spectrum of possible futures. We’ve lost the chance to keep all our glaciers, but we haven’t lost the chance to save some of them.”
As the sun sets behind the Coast Mountains, casting long shadows across newly exposed rock where ice stood for millennia, that spectrum of possibilities feels narrower with each passing season. The glaciers of western Canada are sending us a clear message—one written in meltwater and retreat—about the world we’ve created and the choices we still have before us.
