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CTV News
3 hours ago
- CTV News
Toronto's Canada Day forecast calls for sun and cloud mix, risk of thunderstorms
Canadian flags are seen flying behind the National Archives building in Ottawa Friday, Feb 14, 2025 in Ottawa. Saturday marks the 60th Anniversary of the National Flag of Canada Day. THE CANADIAN PRESS/Adrian Wyld Toronto will see a mix of sun and cloud on Canada Day paired with a high of 28 C and a risk of thunderstorms. Environment Canada says the early afternoon and evening will be marked by a 40 per cent chance of showers before the sun breaks through at around 8 p.m. Skies will remain clear as the sun sets about an hour later, and the temperature will drop to 22 C while fireworks displays go off across the city. Mostly sunny conditions are expected for the rest of the week and the temperature will stay in the balmy high 20s.
CTV News
4 hours ago
- CTV News
No damage expected after earthquake recorded Monday near Watson Lake, Yukon
A seismograph in Virginia Beach, Va. is shown in a Tuesday, August 23, 2011 file photo. THE CANADIAN PRESS/AP/The Virginian-Pilot, Amanda Lucier MAGS OUT WATSON LAKE — Some Yukon residents may have felt the ground shake on Monday night after an earthquake was recorded near Watson Lake. Earthquakes Canada says the 4.6 magnitude quake struck around 64 kilometres west of the town near the British Columbia-Yukon boundary. No damage was recorded and none is expected. Earthquakes Canada's magnitude scale says quakes between 3.5 and 5.4 are 'often felt, but rarely cause damage.' The earthquake was the third to be detected in Yukon on Monday, as two others with magnitudes of under 2.5 were also recorded. Approximately 1,200 people live in Watson Lake, located 437 kilometres southeast of Whitehorse. This report by The Canadian Press was first published July 1, 2025. The Canadian Press
CBC
4 hours ago
- 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. 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