If you’ve ever stood in a small town in Western Canada, where the prairie meets the boreal forest, and watched a large-diameter gas pipeline snake over the horizon, you might have wondered what sits on the other side of that steel. As the owner and lead of a mid-sized gas transport pipelines supplier, I’ve spent the last 18 years not just designing, constructing, and maintaining those pipelines— I’ve spent equal time sitting in smoky community halls, adjusting project plans, and listening to Indigenous leaders who have lived on and cared for this land for thousands of years. For too long, the energy industry has treated Indigenous communities as afterthoughts, or even barriers, to project progress. Over time, though, I’ve learned that pipelines and Indigenous communities don’t have to be at odds. In fact, when we do this work right, they can be partners that make better pipelines, stronger communities, and a more reliable energy future for everyone. Gas Transport Pipelines
Let me start with a story that shaped how I do business. It was 2012, and we were bidding on a pipeline project that would run through a reserve in northern Alberta. Our initial plan was simple: clear a 50-metre-wide right-of-way, dig, lay the pipe, and move on. We’d done dozens of projects like that, and we thought it was standard practice. Then, we met with the leadership of that Cree Nation. Their elder, a man named Joseph, sat across the table from me and pulled out a tattered map he’d made with his grandson. It didn’t have property lines or survey stakes. It marked where the moose calved every spring, where the wild rice beds grew that had fed their community for generations, and the sacred gathering site where their ancestors had held ceremonies for centuries. The right-of-way we planned sliced straight through three of those sites. Joseph didn’t yell or demand we stop. He just said, “You are asking to cross our land. It is not empty. It is our relative. Before you move any dirt, you need to see it like we do.” That conversation changed everything. We scrapped the initial route, worked with the nation’s land use team to shift the pipeline corridor, narrowed the right-of-way to 35 metres in sensitive areas, and agreed to fund a community-led wildlife monitoring program for the region. That project took six months longer and cost 12% more than our original bid. But it also became the standard for how we work now. It taught me that interaction with Indigenous communities isn’t a box to check for regulatory approval—it’s the foundation of a pipeline that works for everyone.
The most important, and often overlooked, part of this interaction is centering free, prior, and informed consent (FPIC). I know FPIC is a buzzword in the energy industry now, but for us, it’s a daily practice, not a marketing line. FPIC means we don’t show up to community meetings with a pre-written plan. We show up with data about the project, but we also show up ready to listen. For every project we take on, the first three months are spent not on engineering, but on relationship-building. We send team members who speak the local language (or hire interpreters who are trusted by the community, not just hired by us), we don’t schedule meetings at 9 a.m. on a Sunday when people are at church or out on the land hunting, and we agree in advance that the community has the final say on any changes that affect their land or way of life.
Last year, we worked on a pipeline expansion in northeastern British Columbia that crosses the traditional territory of the Sek’ani First Nation. Early in our consultations, the nation’s environmental department flagged that a section of the route ran through a wetland that was a critical spawning ground for bull trout, a species listed under the Species at Risk Act. Our original engineering team wanted to line the wetland with protective barriers to avoid disturbing the spawning beds. But after meeting with Sek’ani elders and biologists, we learned that the wetland was also a place where their people harvested medicinal plants, and the barriers would block access to those areas during construction. So we went back to the drawing board, worked with the nation’s biologists to adjust the route to loop around the wetland entirely, and hired Sek’ani youth as temporary workers to help survey the new corridor. That change added only four kilometres to the pipeline, and a small amount to construction costs, but it eliminated the risk of harming the trout, protected the medicinal plants, and gave seven local young people jobs that paid $22 an hour—well above the local minimum wage. When the project finished, the Sek’ani leadership told us it was the first energy project on their land that they didn’t view as a disruption.
Of course, this kind of collaboration isn’t without challenges. There are times when a community decides a pipeline isn’t right for their land, and we have to walk away. A few years ago, we bid on a project in a remote Innu community in Labrador, where they had just voted to ban all new oil and gas infrastructure on their traditional territory to protect caribou herds that are central to their culture and food security. We respected that decision immediately. It would have been wrong to push forward, and it would have damaged the trust that we’ve spent years building with Indigenous communities across the country. I’ve learned that saying “no” to a project is sometimes the most respectful thing you can do. When you build trust, communities will come to you when they have a project that aligns with their values, rather than seeing you as an outsider pushing through.
Another key part of our interaction is creating tangible, long-term benefits for the communities we work with. Too many energy projects make a one-time payment to a community, or offer short-term construction jobs that go to workers from outside the area. We try to do better. For every project, we set up a community benefits agreement (CBA) that’s negotiated directly with the nation, not through provincial or federal agencies. The CBA isn’t just about money—though it includes fair compensation for land use, and a set-aside of 2% of the project’s total budget for community initiatives. It also outlines hiring targets: we aim for 30% of construction workers to be Indigenous, and 10% of full-time operations staff long-term. We partner with local colleges to create pre-apprenticeship programs specifically for Indigenous youth, so they have the skills to work on our pipelines, or other energy projects, for years to come. We also fund land stewardship programs that align with the community’s goals—like the wildlife monitoring program I mentioned earlier, or efforts to restore wild rice beds or protect old-growth forests.
In the 2012 Alberta project I talked about earlier, the CBA included funding for a new community centre in the reserve, scholarships for local students studying environmental science, and a partnership with the nation to train their own pipeline maintenance crews. Today, half of the maintenance team for that pipeline is made up of members of that Cree Nation. Last month, I got an email from one of those maintenance workers—a young woman named Sarah who went through our pre-apprenticeship program. She told me she now owns her own small side business doing pipeline inspections for local projects, and is saving to put her younger brother through college. That’s the kind of success that matters far more than any pipeline being built on time or under budget.
We also have to address the history of harm that the energy industry, and Canadian governments, have inflicted on Indigenous communities. For generations, pipelines and other energy projects have been built without consultation, or with promises of benefits that were never kept. That legacy makes many communities wary of new projects, and rightfully so. We acknowledge that history openly in every meeting. We don’t make empty promises about jobs or benefits—we show up, deliver on what we agree to, even when it’s more work for us. For example, in the Sek’ani project, we agreed to set up a community fund that the nation controls entirely, with no strings attached. The fund is used for anything the community needs—from housing repairs to mental health support to cultural camps. We don’t approve how that money is spent. The nation does. That level of transparency builds trust that no report or regulatory check mark can match.
Some people in the energy industry argue that working this way is too slow, too expensive, and limits our ability to compete. I don’t buy that. Over the last 10 years, our approach has helped us secure more high-value projects across Western Canada than we ever did when we only focused on engineering and cost. Communities now come to us first, because they know we listen. And the pipelines we build with Indigenous input are safer, more reliable, and have fewer delays because we’ve already addressed the risks that would come from not understanding the land. A pipeline that crosses land with unknown cultural or ecological values is more likely to have leaks, or face unexpected roadblocks during construction, than one that’s designed in partnership with the people who care for that land.
That said, there’s still a lot more work to do. Too many Indigenous communities are still not consulted early enough in project planning, and many don’t have the resources to navigate the complex regulatory process for energy projects. We work with several non-profit organizations that support Indigenous communities to develop their own land use plans, so they can advocate for their own interests, rather than relying on industry or government to define what’s best for them. We also push for changes in federal and provincial regulations that make FPIC a legal requirement, not just a guideline. Right now, many regulations require “consultation” with Indigenous communities, which is often a one-way conversation where the industry presents a plan and the community can only give feedback, not reject it outright. We’re pushing to change that so consent is truly free and informed.
For anyone in the energy industry, or anyone who cares about Indigenous rights, this isn’t just a moral issue—it’s a practical one. Pipelines will continue to be a key part of our energy mix for decades to come, as we transition to lower-carbon sources while meeting the world’s demand for reliable energy. The best way to build those pipelines is to treat Indigenous communities as partners, not obstacles. That means listening, being transparent, delivering on promises, and respecting that the land is not a commodity to be extracted from, but a relative that must be honoured.
If you’re an Indigenous community leader, or a business partner, looking to work with a gas transport pipelines supplier that prioritizes respect, collaboration, and long-term benefit for all stakeholders, we’re ready to connect. We’ve spent 18 years building a track record of projects that are done right, with communities, not just through them. We don’t believe in cutting corners or making promises we can’t keep. We believe that when we work together, we can build pipelines that are safe, reliable, and that leave the land and communities we cross stronger than we found them.
Combustion Gas Capture Device References:
- Government of Canada. (2019). Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act.
- Indigenous Pipeline Safety Advisory Board. (2021). Community Partnerships for Pipeline Infrastructure: Best Practices Report.
- Statistics Canada. (2022). Indigenous Workforce Participation in the Energy Sector.
- Sek’ani First Nation Land Use Plan. (2020). Traditional Territory Stewardship Framework.
- Canadian Energy Regulator. (2023). FPIC and Pipeline Development: Case Studies from Western Canada.
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