In April 2026, the Líl̓wat Nation and N’Quatqua, the third-largest First Nation in “British Columbia,” notified the “British Columbia” provincial government of a specific requirement: for 72 days that year, Pipi7íyekw, the unceded ancestral territory known on provincial maps as “Joffre Lakes Park,” needed to be closed to recreational visitors. The specified dates were not chosen at random. They were carefully aligned with seasonal periods necessary for Líl̓wat members to hold ceremonies and pass intergenerational knowledge down to their youth on their traditional homelands. The provincial government’s response arrived a month later. Without prior discussion of the dates with the Líl̓wat, the province publicly announced that the park would indeed close for cultural reconnection, but only for a total of 29 days. By significantly altering the requested schedule, the provincial government ensured the park would remain open to the public during several of the most popular summer hiking windows.
“These dates were not requests,” said Líl̓wat Political Chief Dean Nelson in a public statement following the province’s announcement. “They are the Reconnection Periods that Líl̓wat requires so our people can harvest, hold ceremony, teach our children on the land, and carry out our stewardship responsibilities in Pipi7íyekw.”
This administrative clash over a calendar captures a much deeper tension at the heart of the modern environmental movement. If Indigenous Nations are increasingly recognized as essential partners in conservation, why does a provincial government still possess the unilateral authority to dictate how many days those communities can access their own territory without tourists?
What began as a scheduling dispute has become a flashpoint for Indigenous sovereignty, rooted in the changes affecting Pipi7íyekw today. The region was designated a provincial recreation area in 1988 and upgraded to a Class A provincial park in 1996. Those designations established legal boundaries and offered a shield against industrial logging, but they also imposed a colonial framework over a landscape that Indigenous peoples had already successfully stewarded for millennia. In the decades that followed, the primary threat to the land shifted from resource extraction to mass recreation. Driven by the viral appeal of its turquoise glacial waters on social media, the park experienced a staggering 222% increase in visitation between 2010 and 2019, peaking at over 196,000 visitors that year. The resulting ecological toll was heavily documented by BC Parks itself: overflowing parking infrastructure, illegal campfires, displaced wildlife, and severe wear on trails. The sheer volume of foot traffic began degrading sensitive alpine habitats, where vegetation grows slowly and recovers poorly from trampling. Some of the park’s old-growth forest, estimated to be more than 250 years old, faced unprecedented environmental pressure from a management model that prioritized public recreation over ecological carrying capacity.
For the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations, the surge in ecotourism was not simply an environmental management issue. Heavy recreational use, especially from late spring through early fall, interfered with their right to practice ceremonies and safely carry out traditional activities.
By August 2023, the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations had already called for the park to be closed. After years of seeking meaningful communication with the Parks Board and receiving no response to repeated meeting requests, they closed the park themselves to carry out their cultural practices, giving the public less than a day’s notice. “We need to be heard. Now we have their attention,” Chief Nelson told reporters at the time. That unprecedented closure effectively forced the province’s hand, leading to a formalized Visitor Use Management Strategy between BC Parks and the Nations. The agreement established temporary reconnection periods alongside strict conservation measures designed to mitigate the crushing weight of tourism. Under the framework, public access is capped at 500 daily visitors through a mandatory day-use pass system; dogs and domestic pets are strictly prohibited to protect wildlife; and backcountry camping is severely limited to 26 tent pads.
On paper, this collaborative framework looks like a progressive model of co-governance. But the agreement contained a critical caveat: it did not guarantee a set number of closure days each year. Instead, it left the final approval of the annual calendar in the hands of the provincial government. That structural loophole is exactly what led to the current dispute. When the Líl̓wat Nation utilized the agreement’s framework to require 72 days for the 2026 season, the province exercised its ultimate authority to slash that number to 29. The management strategy created a process for the Nations to negotiate their presence, but it ensured the province retained the power to dictate the terms.
The dispute at Pipi7íyekw is an acute symptom of a foundational ideology within Western environmentalism that scholars refer to as “fortress conservation.” Originating in the 19th century with the creation of the first “North American” national parks, this model operates on the assumption that wilderness must be entirely emptied of human presence to be truly protected. It treats nature and human habitation as inherently incompatible. While creating the romanticized illusion of untouched wilderness—a model established by early parks such as Yellowstone and Yosemite in the “United States”—colonial governments systematically displaced Indigenous peoples from their lands, ignoring that Indigenous stewardship had helped shape and sustain the biodiversity that settlers later sought to protect.
Help us in our mission to create Indigenous led journalism and media content. We are the only free Indigenous created and operated independent international publication that runs in English and Spanish and that is committed to disability and language justice.
Our work crosses borders, oceans, languages, disabilities, digital divides, and prison walls. Your donation is essential to continuing our work.
The scale of this historical dispossession is difficult to overstate. A study led by researchers at the Yale School of the Environment was among the first, with researchers finding that Indigenous Nations across the “United States” have lost 98.9% of their historical land base since European settlement. The reality in “Canada” is equally stark; according to the federal Indian Land Registry System, the combined surface area of all First Nations reserves today accounts for only 0.36% of “Canada’s” total landmass. Beyond the staggering loss of acreage, the study also found that Indigenous peoples are frequently forced onto smaller parcels of land that are significantly more exposed to extreme climate change risks and hazards. While the specific treaties, land claims, and historical mechanisms differ between the “United States” and “Canada,” the underlying pattern is similar: ancestral Indigenous lands were taken, reclassified as public property, and placed under the control of government agencies.
Indigenous stewardship challenges the “fortress conservation” model. The reality of this tension played out on the ground. Ultimately, the province enforced its 29-day limit. The park was closed to the public in two distinct windows: a late-spring period aligning with the summer solstice; and a late-September period for the fall harvest, which recently concluded. During these windows, the gates were locked to tourists and the land was returned to its original stewards. The communities successfully utilized this time to harvest traditional foods, gather seasonal medicines, and host youth education camps away from the public gaze. While the 29-day closures were executed, the underlying conflict remains entirely unresolved.
With the 2026 season winding down, community leadership views this restricted window not as a compromise, but as a baseline. They have vowed to continue pushing for the original 72 days—and, more importantly, for the recognized jurisdiction to determine those dates themselves in the years to come. As Chief Nelson emphasized, this effort is fundamentally about authority over their home. “This is about asserting our Title and Rights within our unceded territory to care for our lands and our people,” he stated, underlining that the broader reclamation of territory is exactly what makes the reclamation of cultural practices and environmental stewardship possible.
Notably, the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua Nations do not publicly report exact headcounts of participants or itemize the specific sacred ceremonies performed during these closures. They do not owe the public a ledger of their cultural practices. To demand that Indigenous communities quantify their ceremonies to justify their access to the land is simply a continuation of colonial oversight.
Today, the modern conservation movement frequently attempts to distance itself from this legacy of dispossession. Policy papers and government press releases are suddenly filled with commitments to “co-management” and the incorporation of Indigenous knowledge as a necessary response to the climate crisis.
But these buzzwords often mask the same old colonial dynamic. There is a fundamental difference between inviting Indigenous communities to advise on a government-led management plan and recognizing those Nations as sovereign decision-makers with inherent authority over their own lands. The province’s willingness to grant 29 days of closure is an act of co-management; its unilateral refusal to grant the requested 72 days is a denial of sovereignty.
The story of Pipi7íyekw sits squarely within this transition. Its collaborative framework does not erase the history of dispossession, nor does it resolve the fundamental disagreement over who ultimately controls the land. Every time Pipi7íyekw closes to the public so the Líl̓wat and N’Quatqua can return, a much older reality takes its place. But the debate over 72 versus 29 days proves that true reclamation cannot merely be about hitting conservation goals or securing temporary access permits. As long as Indigenous Nations are forced to ask a provincial government for permission to practice their traditions on their own ancestral territory, true sovereignty remains out of reach.
The ongoing struggle at Pipi7íyekw makes one thing clear: this is not only an environmental fight. It is a fight to revive cultural practices and, ultimately, to reclaim stolen land. The future of these spaces will not be defined strictly by how the ecosystem is protected, but by returning the land to the people who have the inherent right to govern it.
Kehinde Grace Adepetun is a freelance journalist and researcher whose work explores culture, identity, technology and the social forces shaping people’s lives. Her writing has appeared in award-winning publications including Metro UK, Tagg Magazine, Stylist and JoySauce. She is particularly interested in underreported stories that examine inequality and the experiences of marginalized communities.
