Amid the horror of the opioid crisis, it's clear the rural life is vanishing and there’s no pill to cure it. What can we do?
Globalization, capitalism and neoliberalism have normalized ideas that are still radical to those in rural places: that freedom of movement is paramount; that tradition is suspect; that land is a resource to be tapped not a home to be cultivated. In the last few decades, rural Alberta has seen its small-town schoolhouses close and its grain elevators topple. Its grocery stores, banks, entertainment and industry have migrated to urban centres. Crime is up, populations are down, and the cost of farmland has doubled in the last five years. The richest 20 per cent of farms produce 80 per cent of the products.
And there are no jobs, especially jobs young people might stick around for. Politicians pledge to make our cities great places to live, not just do business, but few candidates promise to invest enough money and resources in rural communities. People who live in rural places are acutely aware that this way of life is disappearing, and a sensitivity to the bits of our culture that remain manifests in “Cowboy Pride,” as Ian Tyson titled his song. Combine these things—the loss of the agrarian lifestyle, the fight against the inevitable, the shame of wanting to leave, the shame of being left behind—and you can see the kind of hole that opens up, a hole that drugs promise to fill.
Jonathan Avis had a gift for turning around distressed food businesses. But, after a whirlwind of misfortune, the one business he couldn’t turn around was his own — until now
In the harbour of balmy Puerto Escondido, Mexico, Avis lines a 50-gallon oil drum with firebrick, installs a chimney on one end and cooks Neapolitan pizzas over crackling Baja mesquite. Four decades creating food products have brought him — a towering, lanky Brit with a permanent open-mouth smile — to this one. Nothing’s momentous about this product, though. It won’t help him reach $20 million in sales, it’ll win him no awards of excellence. It’s a meek slice of margherita, which he’ll sell to raise money for the boating club he commandeers. Avis speaks scant Spanish, but an aphorism catches his ear: A falta de pan, buenas son tortas. With nothing better, this will do.
Amid chronic underfunding, administrative red tape and a breakdown in trust, Alberta First Nations take their fight for safe drinking water to all levels of government
Even in the summer, there are days when no one’s on the lake. Alexis says blue-green algae, a poisonous, soup-like slime, returns every year. Alberta Health Services issued a health advisory for Lac Ste. Anne this past July, just a day before thousands of pilgrims were set to arrive. As a child, Alexis could drink straight out of the lake and nearby springs, and it’s still the source for the community’s drinking water. “We take water from here, it comes into our water-filtering system and from there it goes into a reservoir,” he says, gesturing to a sky-blue facility northeast of the peninsula. But the algae, and a host of compounding factors, puts the water in jeopardy. “We used to have our own wells, but drilling for oil and gas, fracking, those kinds of things, are disrupting the aquifers,” he says. It means Alexis’s community is one of 19 in Alberta under a boil-water advisory, and that Alexis is at the forefront of a long-running national debate about unsafe drinking water.
Jay and Robert Peers defrauded investors of $80 million, scarring their family's 100-year-old legacy
For years, Jay’s investors saw returns. But by 2010, there were cracks in the edifice. Jay had been preparing financial statements in-house to cut overhead and, at first, few people noticed. Spencer says that for two or three years, the statements hadn’t been audited. “I don’t think any of us ever clued in to the fact that maybe there’s a reason why there are no audited financial statements,” Spencer says. But then investors in FMC raised concerns about the businesses they were funding. At an investors’ meeting in 2009, Stack listened to Jay give a presentation about a company called TitanWall. He stood up and said, “Jay, what does this have to do with me? Our money is in mortgages – is that not correct?”
“Absolutely it’s in mortgages,” Jay told him.
Following the irrigation network that feeds the world and defines a province
"You know, when Palliser came, it was nothing like it is now,” [Lazarus] says. He’s referring to the explorer John Palliser, who declared the land unsuitable for crops during a survey expedition in the 1850s, amid a prolonged drought. Along with southwest Saskatchewan, the area was christened Palliser’s Triangle. But in 1884, Sir Alexander Galt, one of the fathers of Confederation, made an agreement with the federal government to build a railroad from Medicine Hat to Fort McLeod, which was underwritten by contracts with Canadian Pacific Railway. Then he made a deal with a group of Mormons under Charles Ora Card from Utah, who’d established the eponymous village of Cardston. Card had irrigation experience from his farm in Salt Lake City, and while he and his band of pioneers weren’t the first to irrigate in Alberta – that’d be rancher John Quirk, in Sheep Creek in 1878 – they “were the first to do so on a scale large enough to involve their immediate community,” according to James MacGregor’s History of Alberta. Galt leased them 700,000 acres, expecting they’d build an irrigation network and entice more settlers. He saw irrigation as a technology that would suborn the land to the needs of the settlers.
Lack of capital meant Galt’s dream never came to fruition. But eventually Sir Alexander’s son, E.T. Galt, founded what would become the Canadian Northwest Irrigation Company. He secured land by the St. Mary River and hired Mormons to build canals. In 1912, he sold the company to the CPR; within a decade, farmers were irrigating 65,000 acres, and the westward movement of immigrants and easterners ploughed ahead. In heeding his father’s ambition, Galt showed that southern Alberta was not, as Palliser had said, where dreams go to perish. It’s where they went to be resurrected.
After the costliest natural disaster in Canadian history, inside Fort McMurray as it reopens for business
On the easternmost reaches of Fort McMurray, across from Dickinsfield, I meet a pastor named Kunle Oladebo in a mostly barren 100-acre plot called Abraham’s Land. He invited me here to glimpse the city’s future. The tract is named after the biblical nomad – sacred to Christians and Muslims alike – who was called by God to a land he’d make his own. As congregations in Fort McMurray outgrew their churches, the municipality offered them a package deal: a plot big enough that Catholics, Protestants, Muslims and Hindus, sharing in the expense, could build their places of worship.
The name of this site has taken on a new significance since The Beast. In the Book of Genesis, Abraham was cast into an inferno by Nimrod, who conjectured that if Abraham had sufficient faith he’d be protected from the fire. The people and businesses of Fort McMurray have confidence in their city – the question of whether or not Fort McMurray can rebuild should be answered with another question: How was it ever able to build in the first place?
As marijuana lurches toward legalization, Big Weed takes aim at the little guys
MACROS has 1,200 members, people suffering from glaucoma, arthritis, epilepsy and cancer. While such dispensaries are illegal in Canada, there are about 175 of them (mostly in Vancouver) and Bott has run his, unimpeded by law enforcement, for 11 years. But on this day, the Green Team arrests Bott, charging him with possession and intent to traffic. They tell him they’ve already arrested his brother, for housing an illegal entity, and his mother and stepfather, who have a grow-op in their home in Sturgeon River.
Three months later, while Bott awaits his court date, Justin Trudeau becomes Prime Minister and pledges to legalize marijuana. The next day, the share price of a company trading under the symbol “ACB” on the Canadian Securities Exchange triples, and soon the first shipments of pharmaceutical-grade medical cannabis leave its $12-million, 50,000-square-foot facility north of Cremona, in the Rocky Mountain foothills north of Cochrane.
Does the expiration of the U.S.-Canada softwood lumber agreement spell the end of Alberta’s forestry industry?
Nestled in Alberta’s boreal forest, at the confluence of four waterways, is Whitecourt, population 9,600. The town sits at the metaphorical centre of Alberta’s forestry sector, which anchors a network of lumber yards, pulp mills and paper plants that stretch across the nearly two-thirds of this province that is forested. Some of the country’s largest lumber companies operate here. It’s home to Millar Western’s pulp mill and lumber yard, and is a base for West Fraser and Alberta Newsprint Company, all within earshot of minor hubs like Fox Creek and Blue Ridge. Forestry in Alberta is a $4-billion-per-year industry, and the lifeblood of oft-forgotten northern towns like Kinuso and Hines Creek. The province’s sector is remarkably well-positioned, too: not far south is a nation of nearly 320 million people that has an appetite for lumber. Whitecourt should be the beating heart of a thriving sector.
But the industry is tense. The trade of lumber between Canada and the U.S. isn’t free, exactly. It’s been brokered by a succession of treaties, the most recent being the Softwood Lumber Agreement, which stood for nine years. That agreement expired last October, leaving the two countries at, as it were, loggerheads. While Canada is advocating for a new agreement in Washington, U.S. lumber producers have no such ambition. Instead, many of them want to sue us.
Century Downs aims to revive Alberta's horse racing industry. Is it a safe bet?
Ryneveld takes me to the casino’s roof, from where we can see CrossIron Mills in the distance. He points to a section of land where ground has been raised for the foundation of a grandstand that never came to fruition, where the new racetrack was initially supposed to be.
“It was going to be the Taj Mahal of racetracks,” he says, citing the $250-million price tag – nearly 10 times the cost of Century Downs. The grandstand would have held 15,000 people.
“It would have gone bankrupt in a year,” he says.
The harvest of 2013 should have been a windfall for prairie farmers. Instead, the grain industry lost billions. Farmers blame the railways – and they’re banding together to change the rules
Kelly McIntyre has finally quelled the fallout from his 2013 harvest. It should have been one of the best years ever for the Fairview farmer; wheat production across the prairies was up almost 40 per cent from a year earlier. Instead, it was a crisis. There weren’t enough railcars to get his grain – or anyone else’s – to the coast. By January of 2014, prairie elevators were at a bin-busting 95 per cent capacity while export terminals in Vancouver sat hollow at just 30 per cent. “Everyone in Canada seemed to know that there was a huge crop coming,” McIntyre says, “except the railroads.”
As harvest rolls in, so do publicly funded insurance payments to drought-stricken farmers. But do the payments actually mitigate the drought's impact? Or is it a billion-dollar solution to the wrong problem?
The biggest concern to the cattle industry is that conditions could expedite a selloff of cattle as producers become unable to pay for the high cost of feed. As Bloomberg reported in June, Canada’s herd is already at its lowest point in 22 years, and meat processing plants are running at just 74 per cent of capacity – a seven-year low. The cost of hay, meanwhile, has ballooned. As of early August, a 1,200-pound bale could sell for $200, more than four times its usual price. It seems like the drought has corralled some producers into a thorny crossroads: do they pay exorbitant amounts of money for feed or sell their cattle?