By Sonal Gupta, Local Journalism Initiative
For generations, the Hay River and its tributaries carried hunters, trappers and fishers deep into the northern bush. Today, the waters have dropped so low that a First Nation community in the southern Northwest Territories says its way of life is drying up — forcing hunters to drive thousands of kilometres in search of a single moose.
Hawkins Tambour, a father of six from K’atl’odeeche First Nation, has hunted along the Hay River since his early teens. What was once a simple boat trip is now nearly impossible.
“Back in the day, you used to be able to take your boat down the river, no problem,” Tambour said. “Now, we can’t even take a jet boat up the river. It’s that shallow — you can walk right across it in probably ankle-deep [water].”
Water levels continue to fall
Water levels have been falling for seven years. Government data show levels, as of Oct. 8, are well below the seasonal average. The situation can be traced primarily to drought since 2022, compounded by several dry summers that continued through 2025. Precipitation has stayed well below average.
At the same time, the Hay River area has been battered by disaster after disaster, including devastating wildfires and floods in recent years. Driving toward his hunting grounds, Tambour passes through Enterprise, a community nearly erased by a 2023 wildfire.
The ecological effects are immediate. Moose depend on wetlands and swamps fed by the water, but as those disappear, so do the animals. Tambour estimates he once harvested 12 to 13 moose annually. Now, he is lucky to find one or two.
Travelling further to hunt
Last fall, Tambour drove 15,000 kilometres across northern British Columbia and Alberta, following highways instead of waterways, as shallow rivers choked K’atl’odeeche’s traditional hunting grounds. On one trip alone, he drove 2,600 kilometres one way just to harvest two moose.
“The moose are moving farther away. You just have to keep going further and further to find them,” he said.
His brother, Henry Tambour, also made a 1,200-kilometre, one-way drive for a single moose. “It only makes sense based on tradition,” he said, adding that the moose have likely followed the remaining water.
Today, nobody in the community hunts on the river anymore. “It’s not a river, it’s a stream,” Henry said.
And the further they go, the more expensive it gets. “Gas prices, truck parts, everything’s gone up. Hawkins said.
While the community can still find a few moose by travelling farther, the hunts can no longer fill freezers for the winter, leaving families more dependent on costly store-bought food — a double hardship in northern communities, where groceries often cost two to three times more than in southern Canada.
Henry said hunting is not just about sustenance but maintaining cultural bonds and passing on traditions, as well. While there’s still no food insecurity, the impact is felt in the inability to share with elders and the wider community.
“We share what we harvest; it’s a big part of our culture,” he said.
Ongoing drought and a changing environment
Hunters and fishers in the region believe part of the problem begins upriver — in British Columbia’s system of hydroelectric dams on the Peace and Athabasca watersheds.
“What I understand is those dams, A, B and D, they shut them down and plug them up,” Hawkins said. “That’s why no water’s coming through.”
When the reservoirs release in spring, the sudden surge floods communities downstream. “They should open it up in the wintertime,” he said. “Then it would flow under the ice and keep everything frozen right. But in spring, when they open it, that’s when it floods us.”
Claudia Azigwe, environmental program manager at K’atl’odeeche First Nation, said the dam issue is just one layer of a complex problem.
“I wouldn’t necessarily say, ‘Oh, it’s the dam that’s the problem or it’s part of the problem,’ but it’s a combination of things happening,” she said.
Azigwe said climate change, drought and other environmental factors play crucial roles in the current low water levels.
The Katlodeeche First Nation recently also endured fierce wildfires that scorched thousands of hectares of habitat and pushed wildlife out of the region — displacing moose, caribou, bears and birds that once thrived in the vast northern forests.
For Hawkins, it’s not only about food — it’s about livelihood. “If we don’t get moose or hides to sell, we don’t make money. It’s tough to live here,” he said.
The Hay River once carried Henry’s boat smoothly through autumn fog and spring melt. Now, it’s often a patchwork of rock and sand, with ice that never thickens enough to cross safely.
“In the winter, the river doesn’t freeze now,” Henry said. “It’s just slush and shallow water. We used to take skidoos and sneak down the river trails. Nobody does that anymore — too risky.”
Low water levels squeeze fish populations
The low water levels are also squeezing fish populations. For most of his 76 years, Peter Sarbouin has spent his life hunting, fishing and tracking the rhythms of the land. But lately, the rhythms have stopped making sense. The changes over the last four years have turned deep, blue wetlands into cracked meadows, he said. The fish that once spawned in the shallows now hide in deeper, cooler water — making them harder to find and smaller when caught.
The ice, too, has thinned. Where Sarbouin once drilled through six feet in winter, he now waits until January before it’s safe. “Last year, the ice was barely four feet thick,” he said.
For Hawkins, the shifting river and parched landscape threaten the continuation of a way of life. His hope remains tied to the return of the river itself. He wants his children to experience what he did — hunting and fishing along the currents that sustained their people for generations.
“Get the water back fully — that’s what I can pretty much hope for,” he said.
This story first published by The Canadian Press on Nov. 8, 2025.