Starving owls ending up at northern Ontario wildlife rescues in triple their usual numbers
A wildlife rehabilitation centre in Val Caron, Ont. says it's seen triple the number of injured and emaciated owls this winter that it typically sees in a winter season.
And it blames the situation on snow.
"They're starving," said Gloria Morissette, the authorized wildlife custodian at the Turtle Pond Wildlife Centre.
"The deep snow is making it harder for the owls to find their prey, the mice and rodents."
The centre has cared for between 12 and 15 of the birds so far this winter, Morissette said, far more than the three or four they'd typically see.
"I think we've seen just about every native owl to northern Ontario this year," she said.
"We've seen snowy. We've had great greys come through – the great horned owls. We've had several boreal owls, which is not something we admit every year, and we have a little saw-whet."
This winter is in irruption year, explained Jenn Salo, an authorized wildlife custodian for birds of prey in Thunder Bay.
An irruption year
That means there's been a crash in the vole population in the Arctic, prompting owls and other birds that would generally stay in the north to fly south in search of food.
"A lot of them are coming into our areas in starving conditions," she said.
"And then when the weather gets tough or we get huge dumps of snow — like southern Ontario has gotten record amounts of snow -- that makes it extremely hard for the owls to hunt."
Salo, like Morissette has taken in more than a dozen owls this year.
That's up from an average of five in a typical season, she said.
The Owl Foundation, a specialist raptor rescue on the Niagara peninsula, issued an Ontario Owl Alert on its Facebook page in February saying that eastern screech owls were struggling to catch prey due to deep snow.
It urged people to call a rehab organization if they see an owl in distress.
Owls typically fly away from humans, Morissette said, but emaciated owls will just stay in one place.
"We had one little barred owl just admitted last week, and he'd been sitting on a person's deck railing for three days," she said.
"And by the third day, he was sitting on the railing and kind of leaning into the side of the house. And so they called us, and they were able to bring it into us, and if they hadn't brought it in when they did, I don't think that bird would've survived another day."
Wildlife rehabilitator says stay away from the owls
Any owl that stays in one place for more than 24 hours probably needs help, she added.
Many of the owls at Turtle Pond have arrived from cities to the north, such as Timmins, Morissette said.
But one was discovered in downtown Sudbury.
Salo urged people who see owls to stay away from them and not to encourage others to crowd around them and take photographs.
"Humans flock to the locations where these owls are trying to hunt, not realizing that these owls are on the verge of starvation, and human presence makes it much more difficult to hunt," she said.
"And it stresses the bird out having all these eyes on them."
Turtle Pond has not seen any owls with avian flu yet, Morissette said, but wildlife rescues in southern Ontario have warned people not to approach sick birds and to call rescues to come and collect them.
The Windsor Essex County Health Unit has warned anyone wanting to interact with wild birds to don personal protective equipment such as a mask and gloves.
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Ottawa Citizen
02-07-2025
- Ottawa Citizen
Why new Canadian ranger rifles are bleeding red dye
Article content Canadian Rangers who use their new rifles in the rain are finding their hands covered in red dye because the stocks on the weapons can't handle moisture, according to newly released military records. Article content The problem was discovered in May 2018 as the new C-19 rifles were initially being distributed to Canadian Ranger units as part of a $32.8-million contract with Colt Canada. The .308 C-19, which is equipped with a red stock, replaced the Lee Enfield .303 rifle that had been used by Canadian Rangers since 1947. Article content Article content Article content Under the contract, the new rifles were required to withstand extremely cold temperatures in the Arctic as well as moderate-to-high humidity in the coastal and forested regions of the country. Article content 'Obviously from a health and safety perspective having dye released onto the skin is not a good situation,' Arthur Hall, who is with the Department of National Defence's small arms program, noted in a May 9, 2018 email regarding the C-19. Article content Further complaints continued to come in from Ranger units who also found the stocks were cracking. Article content 'The issue is that when exposed to moisture the red dye in the stock will run, and will discolour the hands of the user,' Luke Foster of the Directorate of Soldier Systems Program Management, pointed out in a July 3, 2018 email. 'This is also an indication that the stocks are not properly protected from the elements.' Article content Article content One report from an officer assigned to the Rangers noted he took his new rifle outside in the rain for only five minutes before returning indoors. Once back inside he noticed the weapon was dripping red dye. 'I held the weapon for approximately 5-10 mins and it stated to stain my hand,' Captain T.M. Collier wrote in a May 9, 2018 email. The documents, acquired by the Ottawa Citizen, were released under the Access to Information Act. Article content Department of National Defence officials, however, say it will be up to taxpayers to cover the costs of replacing the stocks on the 6,800 new rifles. That cost is estimated to be up to $10 million. Article content 'The performance requirements detailed performance against specific environmental conditions (cold, wet, etc), and the C19 met these criteria,' DND spokesperson Alex Tétreault stated in an email to the Ottawa Citizen. 'Therefore, Colt Canada fulfilled its contractual requirements, based on what was asked. There are no warranties that addresses the current issue being faced.'
CBC
01-07-2025
- CBC
Building anew on Inuit land
Inuit were once master designers and builders of the shelters that helped them survive and thrive in the Arctic. But many of those traditional skills were lost over generations, as people were forced into a more settled lifestyle in northern communities largely designed by southerners. Some say it's time for Inuit to reclaim their place at the centre of northern architecture and design. Solomon Awa building a qaggiq in Iqaluit in Harvey/Radio-Canada Matisse Harvey Translated by Francis Tessier-Burns Jul. 1, 2025 The blinding March sun beat down on the snow outside of Iqaluit, making the ground sparkle like crystal. An icy fog swirled above the houses on this spring equinox in 2021 — a sign that the bitter cold had yet to bow out for the season. For nearly a week, about a dozen residents cut, transported and assembled some 1,200 blocks of snow at the entrance of Sylvia Grinnell (Iqaluit Kuunga) Territorial Park. The tiny army of workers was building a qaggiq, a giant igloo measuring 65 square metres — roughly the size of a small apartment. Inuit families traditionally built these structures in spring as they gathered in celebration, but the practice has been nearly lost over generations. Solomon Awa, an Iqaluit elder and well-known igloo expert, was the designated foreman at the frozen construction site in 2021. A few small ice crystals gleamed on his sun-beaten face as he plunged the blade of his pana, a traditional long knife, into the compact snow and meticulously carved out each building block. Awa — now Iqaluit's mayor — is a seasoned hunter who was born in 1959 in a qarmaq, a traditional Inuit shelter made of stone, whale bone and sod, near what is now the community of Igloolik, Nunavut. He's neither a trained architect nor engineer, but over the course of his life he's mastered the art of building igloos, or igluvigat. It's a skill he first learned from his father when he was 14. He describes snow as an excellent insulator, and a versatile building material with textures that vary depending on humidity and temperature. 'Snow is alive,' he said. 'It will move, melt, freeze, crack.' Awa says Inuit have traditionally been both artists and engineers, making them the architects of their communities. But over time, many of the links that allowed that traditional knowledge to be passed on from one generation to the next have been severed. To Awa, that loss of knowledge can have dire consequences. Hunters have died when out on the land because they didn't have the skills to build an igloo for life-saving shelter. Moses Oyukuluk is an elder who as a child lived a nomadic life near what is now Arctic Bay (Ikpiarjuk), shaped by the changing seasons and the tenets of Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit, or traditional Inuit knowledge. "We used to live in a land called Arvaaqtuuq, where we would move around and stay in qarmat,' said Oyukuluk in Inuktitut, referring to a type of traditional dwelling. Growing up, he witnessed the transition toward a more settled life in communities, a change that fundamentally upset Oyukuluk's way of life and that of many Inuit families. A number of factors contributed to the change, including the federal government's efforts to forcibly relocate Inuit families and establish permanent communities in the eastern Arctic as a way of asserting sovereignty in the region. The infamous slaughter of Inuit sled dogs also contributed to the loss of traditional ways. Nearly 20 years ago, the Qikiqtani Truth Commission shed more light on that dark chapter in Canadian history. As part of its work, the commission noted that 24 prefabricated houses were assembled in Arctic Bay between 1956 and 1967. Oyukuluk was a teenager when he was hired to help build them. 'I was young and didn't understand. I was happy about how we would be getting nice houses,' he said. 'But when I look back, it was a way for settlers to take away the culture and assimilate [us into] Western civilization — by charging rent. 'As time went on, it started getting expensive.' Looking back on his youth, Oyukuluk is ambivalent. His experiences sparked an interest in construction and ultimately led to him starting his own company. But the transition to a more settled life in communities has left an indelible mark on him and others of his generation. Futuristic 'omnibuilding' During the Cold War, Canada's North became a testing ground for emerging ideas in the architecture world, often grounded in a view of the Arctic as a desolate and hostile environment. In a 1972 paper titled 'Psychological Problems and Environmental Design in the North,' architect Leo R. Zrudlo described the North as an environment to be overcome. "In the design of the buildings the main objectives are to provide an environment rich in stimulating experiences, as well as giving security and protection from the climate," he wrote. Other architects promoted building designs divorced from the realities of northern landscapes. For example, the British architect Ralph Erskine developed the concept of "omnibuilding" in the 1950s: futuristic cities made up of modular, interconnected structures. Central to the concept was a dome that would contain all the necessities of a modern community, such as a hospital, school, hotel, restaurant, pool and other recreational spaces. While the idea was never fully realized in the North, it inspired the design of the Iqaluit 'high rise' building, known as the Astro Hill complex, and 'the Wall' housing complex in Fermont, Quebec. images expandArchitects in the last century developed fanciful designs for building in the North, often divorced from the realities of northern landscapes. Today, Alain Fournier bristles at these utopian ideas of northern architecture. He's a founding partner of EVOQ Architecture, a firm behind several projects in Nunavut, Nunavik and Nunatsiavut. 'At the time, the Arctic was considered to be … like Mars: extremely cold with nobody outside, an unfriendly, harsh climate. They wanted to design buildings that were almost like space stations, extremely resistant and durable,' Fournier said, in French. The 1960s and 1970s saw the rising use of fiberglass-reinforced polyester, a waterproof and weather-resistant material that was easy to transport and assemble. Builders used the new material in building projects throughout Nunavut, including Inuksuk High School (formerly the Gordon Robertson Educational Centre) and Nakasuk Elementary School in Iqaluit, the Igloolik Research Centre, and the former air terminal in Kuujjuaq, Que. The buildings are easily recognizable by their bulbous shape, rounded corners and small windows, meant to reduce energy consumption. Fournier's first design project in the North — Iqaluit's old airport terminal, built in the 1980s — is also made of the material. The building's bright yellow colour was inspired by the vivid works of Inuk artist Pudlo Pudlat. Looking back, Fournier now considers the lack of input from Inuit to be that project's biggest shortcoming. "Consulting them wasn't even a thought," he recalled. "The entire project was carried out with Transport Canada's technical staff.' Architectural reminders of colonization remain scattered across Nunavut, and have now mostly blended into both the landscape and the collective consciousness. Fournier says that it's now inconceivable to design a building without including communities in the process — especially in the North. 'Architects in training are encouraged to develop their own vision … but here, our vision needs to serve Inuit or First Nations communities,' he said. 'What's important is not our vision of Inuit, but their vision of themselves.' Today, many architects are willing to take a different approach than in the past, with increased consultation, the incorporation of Inuit traditional knowledge and community needs, and building designs intended to stand in harmony with their environment. The Canadian High Arctic Research Station in Cambridge Bay, Nunavut, as well as the Inuusirvik Community Wellness Hub and the future Nunavut Inuit Heritage Centre in Iqaluit stand as proof of this different approach. However, there are few if any Inuit architects. And that's why Nicole Luke, who is Inuk and Red River Métis (on her father's side), is pursuing the profession. Luke was born in Yellowknife but spent most of her life in Manitoba with occasional visits to family in Rankin Inlet and Chesterfield Inlet. 'Growing up, I noticed the lack of representation, and how different it was to build in the North,' she said. 'Buildings are pretty much designed by southern firms and people that likely only know a certain perspective about the cultural realities and the way of life.' To Luke, there are several reasons why Inuit are underrepresented among architects, including the lack of educational or training programs in the North. That forces anyone interested in the field to move down south, disconnecting them from their language and culture. A complicated relationship with the South Every year, Nunavut's early summer weather is accompanied by an industrial symphony: rocks crunching under ATV tires, revving boat motors, and the drone of construction equipment. It all serves to remind residents of the busy construction season ahead. The warmer temperatures bring in labourers — mostly from the south — to drive steel piles into the permafrost and lay the foundation for new buildings. It's something that's been even more evident since 2022, when the Nunavut government promised to address the housing crisis that affects more than 50 per cent of the territory's population, by building 3,000 housing units by 2030. Without roads connecting the communities, the movement of supplies must depend on sealift operations in the summer and air transportation year-round. A short construction season, and a lack of qualified local workers are other hurdles to building in the North. The labour costs for most northern projects is 'much more expensive,' according to Kristel Derkowski, manager of research and development for Taylor Architecture Group, a Yellowknife-based firm that focuses on northern projects. 'If you're flying somebody in there to do the work on a project, you're paying for their flights, their accommodation, their meals every day, and you're probably paying a little bit of a premium to convince them to go to a camp that's very far away from their home ... for weeks at a time,' she said. Simon Taylor, the firm's principal architect, said designs for the North need to take into account some of the region's unique features beyond just the colder temperatures, such as the treeless topography and the extreme variations in daylight through the year. 'Natural light in a facility is very important,' he said. 'It's important anywhere, but it's particularly important up here because of the darkness in the winters and, depending on where you are, the full light in the summers.' Shared realities in Greenland A similar dynamic between southern architects and builders and the northern regions they work in exists in Greenland, where Danish firms are often brought north for major projects. Architect Helena Lennert of TNT Nuuk, based in Greenland's capital, says Danish firms are generally bigger and have more sway, while those in Greenland keep hitting a glass ceiling and don't get the chance to work on larger projects. 'Local knowledge should be more valued than prestige,' she said. 'Danish companies are really good at ... creating exciting spaces and facades, but we shouldn't neglect the stuff you can't see as easily: the wind, the local knowledge ... and the culture.' Some local architects feel that Danish firms working in Greenland rely on stereotypes in their designs, which are often inspired by animals or other elements in nature. Johan Rosbach, the project director for Greenland-based architecture firm Qarsoq, points to the Nuuk Center shopping mall as an example. The building is covered in an iron mesh that collects falling snow. 'From a distance, when the snow is on the building [it looks like] an iceberg,' Rosbach said. 'That's [clearly] the vision of an outsider who thinks we need to have an iceberg on the land. We have a lot of them [already] in the fjord.' Qarsoq's principal architect and cofounder, Mario Jensen, says their firm's watchword is 'practicality.' In other words, substance over style. 'We focus more on making the construction process as easy as possible … so there's not a lot of room for errors and issues with weather, [and] water and snow don't affect the building,' he said. Recent residential projects are a good example of the firm's approach. Many of the homes have large spaces meant for storing hunting equipment and processing meat, or for big social gatherings. More than just consultants Lennert would like to see more Greenlandic firms take the reins of large-scale projects, even if that means occasionally seeking certain expertise in Denmark. She says it's 'annoying' when Greenland's architects are only consulted for some local knowledge. 'I don't want to be a local partner, I want to be part of the project,' she said. Thousands of kilometres away, Nicole Luke shares that opinion. 'I don't just want to be an Inuk representative on the project, I actually want to be part of the process, meet the community, do some of the design work, do some of the drawings and more backbone work,' Luke said. The future architect is already getting work in Nunavut. She's contributed to the design of both the new cultural centre and long-term care facility in Cambridge Bay. She's also helped on the administrative side throughout the construction of the long-term care facility in Rankin Inlet. To Luke, architecture can contribute to reconciliation with Inuit in the North but she also recognizes that it will be a long and complicated process. Can contemporary architecture and traditional Inuit culture — nomadic at heart — ever truly reconcile and coexist? 'I think it needs to be explored more,' says Luke. 'And I just don't think there's enough Inuit to continue to ask these questions.' About the Author Related Stories Footer Links My Account Profile CBC Gem Newsletters Connect with CBC Facebook Twitter YouTube Instagram Mobile RSS Podcasts Contact CBC Submit Feedback Help Centre Audience Relations, CBC P.O. Box 500 Station A Toronto, ON Canada, M5W 1E6 Toll-free (Canada only): 1-866-306-4636 TTY/Teletype writer: 1-866-220-6045 About CBC Corporate Info Sitemap Reuse & Permission Terms of Use Privacy Jobs Our Unions Independent Producers Political Ads Registry AdChoices Services Ombudsman Public Appearances Commercial Services CBC Shop Doing Business with Us Renting Facilities Accessibility It is a priority for CBC to create a website that is accessible to all Canadians including people with visual, hearing, motor and cognitive challenges. Closed Captioning and Described Video is available for many CBC shows offered on CBC Gem. About CBC Accessibility Accessibility Feedback © 2025 CBC/Radio-Canada. All rights reserved. Visitez
Winnipeg Free Press
01-07-2025
- Winnipeg Free Press
An ancient village in the Himalayas ran out of water. Then, it moved and started over
SAMJUNG, Nepal (AP) — The Himalayan village of Samjung did not die in a day. Perched in a wind-carved valley in Nepal's Upper Mustang, more than 13,000 feet (3,962 meters) above sea level, the Buddhist village lived by slow, deliberate rhythms — herding yaks and sheep and harvesting barley under sheer ochre cliffs honeycombed with 'sky caves' — 2,000-year-old chambers used for ancestral burials, meditation and shelter. Then the water dried up. Snow-capped mountains turned brown and barren as, year after year, snowfall declined. Springs and canals vanished and when it did rain, the water came all at once, flooding fields and melting away the mud homes. Families left one by one, leaving the skeletal remains of a community transformed by climate change: crumbling mud homes, cracked terraces and unkempt shrines. A changing climate The Hindu Kush and Himalayan mountain regions — stretching from Afghanistan to Myanmar — hold more ice than anywhere else outside the Arctic and Antarctic. Their glaciers feed major rivers that support 240 million people in the mountains — and 1.65 billion more downstream. Such high-altitude areas are warming faster than lowlands. Glaciers are retreating and permafrost areas are thawing as snowfall becomes scarcer and more erratic, according to the Kathmandu-based International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development or ICMOD. Kunga Gurung is among many in the high Himalayas already living through the irreversible effects of climate change. 'We moved because there was no water. We need water to drink and to farm. But there is none there. Three streams, and all three dried up,' said Gurung, 54. Climate change is quietly reshaping where people can live and work by disrupting farming, water access, and weather patterns, said Neil Adger, a professor of human geography at the University of Exeter. In places like Mustang, that's making life harder, even if people don't always say climate change is why they moved. 'On the everyday basis, the changing weather patterns … it's actually affecting the ability of people to live in particular places,' Adger said. Communities forced to move Around the globe, extreme weather due to climate change is forcing communities to move, whether it's powerful tropical storms in The Philippines and Honduras, drought in Somalia or forest fires in California. In the world's highest mountains, Samjung isn't the only community to have to start over, said Amina Maharjan, a migration specialist at ICMOD. Some villages move only short distances, but inevitably the key driver is lack of water. 'The water scarcity is getting chronic,' she said. Retreating glaciers — rivers of ice shrinking back as the world warms — are the most tangible and direct evidence of climate change. Up to 80% of the glacier volume in the Hindu Kush and Himalayas could vanish in this century if greenhouse gas emissions aren't drastically cut, a 2023 report warned. It hasn't snowed in Upper Mustang for nearly three years, a dire blow for those living and farming in high-altitude villages. Snowfall traditionally sets the seasonal calendar, determining when crops of barley, buckwheat, and potatoes are planted and affecting the health of grazing livestock. 'It is critically important,' Maharjan said. For Samjung, the drought and mounting losses began around the turn of the century. Traditional mud homes built for a dry, cold mountain climate fell apart as monsoon rains grew more intense — a shift scientists link to climate change. The region's steep slopes and narrow valleys funnel water into flash floods that destroyed homes and farmland, triggering a wave of migration that began a decade ago. Finding a place for a new village Moving a village — even one with fewer than 100 residents like Samjung — was no simple endeavor. They needed reliable access to water and nearby communities for support during disasters. Relocating closer to winding mountain roads would allow villagers to market their crops and benefit from growing tourism. Eventually, the king of Mustang, who still owns large tracts of land in the area nearly two decades after Nepal abolished its monarchy, provided suitable land for a new village. Pemba Gurung, 18, and her sister Toshi Lama Gurung, 22, don't remember much about the move from their old village. But they remember how hard it was to start over. Families spent years gathering materials to build new mud homes with bright tin roofs on the banks of the glacial Kali Gandaki river, nearly 15 kilometers (9 miles) away. They constructed shelters for livestock and canals to bring water to their homes. Only then could they move. Monday Mornings The latest local business news and a lookahead to the coming week. Some villagers still herd sheep and yak, but life is a bit different in New Samjung, which is close to Lo Manthang, a medieval walled city cut off from the world until 1992, when foreigners were first allowed to visit. It's a hub for pilgrims and tourists who want to trek in the high mountains and explore its ancient Buddhist culture, so some villagers work in tourism. The sisters Pemba and Toshi are grateful not to have to spend hours fetching water every day. But they miss their old home. 'It is the place of our origin. We wish to go back. But I don't think it will ever be possible,' said Toshi. ___ The Associated Press' climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from multiple private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP's standards for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and funded coverage areas at
