The students stand in an open space sandwiched between the Takhini River and the Alaska Highway. Underfoot, below 80 centimetres of snow, lies an old section of the road. Recently, the highway was relocated due to what’s known locally as “the slump.” An area of ice-rich permafrost has thawed, causing the ground to cave in and slide into the river. The road was at risk of getting swallowed by the slump, so the Yukon government began moving it in 2023.
Retrogressive thaw slumps (that’s the technical name) are rarely so accessible, and this one’s proximity to Whitehorse—just 30 kilometres away—makes for a great permafrost lesson. That’s why the students are here. The seven adults in Yukon University’s environmental monitoring certificate program, which is open only to northern First Nations students, are completing fieldwork training that will prepare them to work for mining companies, governments and consultants. Lessons cover data collection, aquatic and terrestrial monitoring, remediation at contaminated sites, erosion, GPS use and navigation and climate and weather.
Students learn hands-on skills and graduate ready for the industry, where there’s big demand for people with this training. The program also incorporates western science and traditional knowledge. “Whether you’re out there with a bunch of western sensors or you’re out there on your trapline with your First Nations family, if things on the land matter to you, then you want to protect them,” says lead instructor Scott Keesey. “And you’re in a better position to protect them if you can make informed decisions, and informed decisions come from information.”
Before heading out to the slump, students sit in a basement boardroom at the university’s Whitehorse campus for a crash course with permafrost researcher Louis-Philippe Roy. They jot down notes in yellow Rite in the Rain notebooks as Roy poses questions about their existing knowledge of permafrost. Some of the students already have experience working for their First Nations.
“What influences permafrost distribution?” reads one slide. The students pipe up with their responses, and as Roy clicks on his laptop, each answer appears on the screen: latitude, elevation, surficial geology, aspect and ground cover. Tussock grasses are an indication of permafrost, says Roy, though they’re “a bitch to walk through.” The class laughs and then a student from Ross River Dena Council chimes in: “Especially if you’re carrying a caribou.”
When it’s time to see an example of permafrost thaw, a small, white bus transports the group to the slump. Wearing red safety vests, the students traipse single file down a snowy slope to the old section of highway, where a weather station with a solar panel collects data. Some of them are at different stages in the program, because the 10 week-long modules, which roll out over 18 months, don’t have to be taken in sequence. Students can work full-time while they study.
Darren Bullen is finishing his ninth module. As a land and resources officer for his First Nation, the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in, he inspects mines, rivers and creeks, patrols the Dempster Highway for poachers and deals with firewood permits. “We watch everything,” he says. Bullen has had the job for 15 years, but he sees the program as a way to learn about new techniques and tools. He also runs a business doing geographic information system mapping and data collection using drones, and he thinks what he learns will help him with that, too.
The program isn’t Whitehorse-centric. One of Bullen’s favourite modules was the week he spent in Atlin, B.C., learning about water monitoring at an old mining area that’s now in reclamation. Students studied fish habitat and watched a grayling run. This year, students will visit the Minto and Keno Hill mines and the Snowline Gold and Casino exploration projects.
On the side of the Alaska Highway, the bright sun makes 20 below feel almost balmy. Standing near the massive slump, the students question Roy: Could highway vibrations have contributed? (Good thinking, but not likely.) Could vegetation be added to stabilize it? (Right instinct, though this thaw is too big and happened too fast.) What about planting poplar trees along the highway? (Their roots aren’t deep enough.) They talk about how permafrost has affected their home communities, from Dawson City’s unstable recreation centre to Ross River’s crumbling school. The subtext seems clear: Having observed the environmental changes happening around them, these students already have experience that’s relevant to the field of monitoring.
As the group prepares to trudge back up the hill to the bus, everyone’s eyes turn to the mountains across the highway. Two patches of light—sun dogs—flank the sun. A halo overtop is mirrored by a small, upside-down rainbow. Exclamations of “Whoa!” and “Wow!” ripple through the group.
“That’s a circumzenithal arc,” Keesey says, referring to the flipped rainbow. “This is right out of a sun dog textbook. Each one of these features is the sun shining through a different ice crystal.” A permafrost lesson with a side of sky study—all environmental monitoring.
