These posts were written by students in the winter 2026 HIST 2301 Introduction to Environmental History class. They were invited to think historically about a place that had special significance for them, to consider how their experiences of these special places were entangled in wider networks and concerns, and to attempt to express these things in prose that would bring public audiences “in” to their place. The results were poignant, thoughtful reflections on what home means to the heart in a world of changing environmental conditions.
Circles Under a Warming Sky
Alexander Ham
There’s a place behind my old house in Riverview that shaped how I understand winter, family, the environment, and myself. It’s just a backyard, nothing remarkable to anyone else, but to me it was the centre of the season. Winter mattered because it transformed the yard in a way no other season did. The grass disappeared, the air sharpened, and the
whole world felt quieter. Every year, my dad and I turned that uneven patch of grass into a small ice rink. It wasn’t perfect or professional, but it was ours, and we worked for it. When I think about how the environment shapes our lives, or what winter might look like for the kids who come after us, I always end up back there on that homemade ice, breathing in the cold.
Author and his dad on their backyard rink. Image source: Brent Ham.
It wasn’t just a rink. It was something my dad and I built with our own hands, night after night, in the kind of cold that stings your cheeks and makes the hose steam like a kettle. It wasn’t something we visited or paid for. It was something we made. As soon as the temperature dropped, my dad would
head outside after supper, in the morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night with a shovel and hose. We put up the boards, laid the liner, and leveled the ground. We would stand there watching the steam rise into the frigid air. The whole process felt steady and familiar. It made winter feel like something we shaped together.
When the rink finally froze, the backyard changed. Kids would show up after school, and we’d skate until it got dark. Some nights it was loud. Other nights, the whole yard felt suspended in a glowing stillness, just me and the crisp air: quiet but vivid, as my blades carved slow, deliberate circles under the porch light. Either way, it felt like a place I belonged and found myself. That connection is still strong, even now that I’m older and living away from home.
Backyard rink under construction. Image source: Brent Ham.
The rink holds a lot of history for me, even though it was just a small patch of ice. It’s where I learned to skate, where I learned to fall and get back up, and where I learned how much work goes into something that looks so simple. But the rink also holds a history of winter itself. When I was younger, the cold arrived early and stayed. The ice froze thick and stayed smooth for weeks. But as I got older, the winters started to shift. The freeze-thaw cycles became more common. We’d get a perfect night, then a warm spell that turned the rink into a shallow slushy pond. My dad would stand at the window, checking the forecast like he was trying to change what we have all done. Some years the rink barely formed at all. I didn’t understand it then, but now I can see what I was experiencing was climate change and the effects of us poisoning our world in a small, personal way. The rink became a record of those changes, a place where the weather wrote its story, year after year.
I think about the future of backyard rinks more than I expected to. I’m not only thinking about the one behind my old house, but all the little rinks that used to glow under porch lights in neighbourhoods like mine. I hope they don’t disappear completely. I hope there will still be winters cold enough for kids to skate on their backyards and ponds to feel that same excitement I felt stepping onto fresh ice. I hope the cold snaps still come, even if they’re shorter or less predictable. But I’m afraid too. I worry backyard rinks will become something we only talk about in memories instead of a tradition. Climate change feels huge when you read about its global effects, but it feels even bigger when it takes away something small that mattered to you. Losing the rink would feel like losing a piece of winter, my childhood, and a piece of what made our place feel like home.
I can’t control the weather, but I can pay attention to it. The rink allowed me to notice the weather, not just the temperature, but the texture of the air, the weight of the sky, the way cold settles into the ground. Studying environmental history has taught me that every place is interconnected and matters. It shows how environmental change affects everyday life. For me, protecting the rink means caring about the climate in a truthful way, not just as an idea, but as something that shapes the places we love. I try to stay informed, make choices that reduce my impact, and support efforts that protect our environments. It might seem small, but small actions add up. I also think telling stories like these matters. When people hear about climate change through personal experiences, it becomes easier to understand why it’s important. Preparing for the future, for me, means noticing what’s changing and speaking about it, keeping winter alive for the next kid who steps onto their own patch of backyard ice.
The backyard rink is a small place, but it holds a lot of meaning for me. It shows how traditions can depend on the environment, and how environmental change affects our everyday lives.
Wangerooge, Germany
Scarlett Dovey
Wangerooge, Germany is where my dad was from– and that is all that I knew about it for most of my early life. It is one of the Frisian Islands, Lower Saxony, west of the peninsula that bleeds into the Danish border. When asked about what living there was like, my dad laughed and said “wet,” and indeed the island has very high precipitation, rarely ever being dry, even in the summer months. My dad is quite old, and left Europe when he was young, so he doesn’t have many specific stories, but as a little kid he enjoyed going to the beaches with his mother. He loved Haupstrand Wangerooge in the north, which remains a tourist hotspot to this day. The local community consists almost entirely of small towns, which he described as being quaint, welcoming, and tight-knit.
Haupstrand Wangerooge Beach, one of my father’s favourite childhood beaches. Photo Source: Martin Elsen
Unfortunately, I’ve never been to Germany myself. I’d heard stories from other Canadians, and seen it on TV, but Wangerooge itself gets lost in the narrative. Although it is a popular tourist destination, owing to its status as an island, that does not negate the fact that Wangerooge is tiny, and relatively unimportant in the grander scheme of German culture or politics. But I believe that it is that mystery that drew me to learn more about the region.
Still, my dad never cared much for cultural preservation, so Wangerooge always seemed a little too far away to understand. This bothered me more than it should have; I remember being jealous of other children of immigrants, who spoke second languages and left school to attend special celebrations in the prettiest dresses I’d ever seen. To a little girl, those pretty dresses were the sum of what culture was, and I really wanted to experience it for myself. This yearning was intensified by the fact that I wasn’t “from” Canada, as no non-Indigenous person is. I’d always been interested in different cultures, and I wanted something to call my own.
All this is to say that the connection I developed with Wangerooge came through my own efforts. My dad couldn’t understand why I cared so much. Still, I’m sure he was flattered, because he fed my interest when he could. Whenever I asked for stories he’d indulge me, and tell me about the farming community my grandparents lived in. But no matter what I did or what I learned, that little island never became home for me, and we still haven’t visited. It’s taken a lot of thought over the weeks to try and figure out why I’ve been so captivated by this place so as to want to write a blog post about it. Admittedly, I think that it’s at least in part due to an exoticization of Europe. I also think that the joy I got from learning more about my heritage left a big mark on me, and I’m inspired by that sense of wonder even now.
Research done by weather forecasting company Meteoblue has shown temperatures in the Wangerooge region increasing since 1979, and although there have been minor dips in recorded air temperatures throughout the years, the island is still believed to be at least 1.2 degrees (Celsius) warmer than pre-industrial levels. This increase has put the island at increased risk of extreme weather events and rising sea levels, the consequences of which I’ve seen first-hand in my home province. It’s devastating to watch natural landmarks, coastlines, and even homes be lost due to flooding and other such events, and one of my biggest fears for Wangerooge is that similar disasters will unfold there, as well.
My hope for the island is that its leaders will further understand how important environmental protection is, and work with the state of Lower Saxony as well as Germany to integrate further with the region’s nature. Because farming is so important to the economy, one way to protect the environment would be for legislators to limit the use of pesticides, especially sprays, or the production of methane via livestock. The local government could also put more strain on tourists to avoid everyday polluting while enjoying Wangerooge’s beaches, such as introducing fines for littering or trampling the dune grass, both of which disrupt nearby ecosystems. Finally, civilians can get involved by withholding ranked votes for politicians who support environmental endangerment, participating in events like beach clean-ups, and limiting driving wherever possible, either in favour of walking, or Germany’s active public transportation system.
While writing, I remembered how fun it is to deep-dive into a heritage place, and while it is still very far away, I still feel connected. At the end of the day, Wangerooge is a beautiful little corner of Germany, and from the way my dad speaks of it, it treated him well during his time there. I hope to see it gain more international attention, both by tourists as well as environmental activists. Above all, I hope that I get to see it for myself someday. Have I ever lived there myself? No. But I am a history student. And isn’t obsessing over places we’ve never been to our job?
Angelview Park
Alexandra Jeffrey
Angelview Park is easy to miss. If you were driving past, you might not even realize it was a park. It isn’t exactly eye catching.
Angelview Park. Image source: https://www.fredericton.ca/recreation-culture/parks-trails/angelview-park
It’s a long stretch of flat grass with a single picnic table under a gazebo, bordered by a line of trees. Beyond those trees, the Saint John River flows steadily past. A gravel trail runs alongside the park, and from my house it takes only a few seconds to reach it. The trail makes the park feel less like a separate location and more like an extension of home. I can step onto the gravel path and be at the park in seconds. Because it’s so close, it became a massive part of my childhood.
Somewhere in the trees along the river, a rope swing once resided. It was simple, just a thick rope with a large knot tied at the bottom, allowing you to swing out over the slope that descended toward the riverbank. As much as I adored the swing though, it didn’t last. Some older kids damaged it badly enough that it had to be taken down. I remember feeling disappointed, but not surprised. The park was shared space, and shared spaces are altered by others.
Even without the swing, I kept going back. The field itself was enough. It was where I learned to fly a kite for the first time, where I played catch on summer evenings, and at one point, it became the testing ground for a homemade trebuchet. The open field made it possible to experiment without worrying about hitting anything important. In an area where new houses and apartment buildings are constantly being constructed to accommodate a growing population, that kind of open space felt rare and precious.
There is a path through the trees down to the river that has always held a special place in my heart. From the open field, the river is almost entirely hidden, barely visible through small gaps in foliage. To really see it, you have to follow a narrow trail downward behind the treeline. This path is unlike the gravel walking trail that dozens of people use daily. There is no gravel to guide you, just a trail of stamped-down plants where people push through the greenery to reach the water.
I don’t know how Angelview Park got its name, but I like to think it comes from that view. When you step out from the foliage, the river opens up, reflecting the sky in soft greys. Sunlight gleams across the surface, and the opposite bank stretches out in a long stretch of green, similar to that of Angelview Park. The sounds of the road fade into the background, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and quiet splashes of water. It’s angelic.
As I have grown older, the park has barely changed. The grass is still kept short by the city. The picnic table and gazebo are still there. The gravel trail still runs past it. But now the field feels smaller than I remember, and the distance to the river seems shorter.
I am grateful for its continuity. I am grateful the rest of the park did not follow the fate of the rope swing, ruined by kids who did not know how to take care of a community space.
So, what do I do to protect it? Nothing extraordinary. Mostly, I use it. Using a place is a form of care. When people walk a trail, sit at a picnic table, or play in a field, they reinforce that the space matters. While that may not directly protect it from harm, I hope others see my appreciation for the space and do their best to be kind to it too.
Small parks depend on maintenance. Without care, grass becomes overgrown, trails become overrun with greenery, and the space slowly loses its charm. Because Angelview Park is so simple, it would not take much for it to feel forgotten. It holds so many memories for me that seeing it neglected would be devastating. The park needs people to survive. So, I suppose spending an afternoon there is the least I can do to help.
It may be only a stretch of grass beside a gravel trail and a river, but it is the place I have grown up alongside, and that history makes it significant.
The Forgotten Fires
Annabel Webber
I am the South Mountain of Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia. My height is not very staggering, but substantial; my land bears earth and homes for the people. The homes are barren and uninsured, trusting me with their safety. Built upon my land generations ago, families pack into houses, and when the old drywall cracks, so does the lighting. It’s August 12th, 2025. My dry and windy anatomy is unprepared. The fire began untamed and untouched. The people water my grass and prepare the homes they’ve trusted me with. The fire burns unruly and unforgiving. The land sits untouched, with no help from newcomers, only the people who built lives here and grew families, fighting for the land and their homes, which lie on it. I witnessed the pleas as the people were ripped from their homes, with the only protection left being one thing: the land. I fight to put it out, but the wind is blowing the fire across lakes, once enjoyed by family and friends, now full of thick ash. With the people gone, so are my protectors. The land and the people share a symbiotic relationship, but now there is an orange void where the homes I once protected have turned to ash. My fire still burns deep in the underbrush, but my people help to save what it once was. The relationship between my people is broken by those who don’t know us.
West Dalhousie on August 13, 2025. Photo Credits: Annabel Webber
I am Annabel Webber, a child of the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia. In this place, which I hold dear to my heart, I see the land I love, spending all my life looking up at the mountains that grew smaller the larger I got. On August 12th, 2025, I drove into a blaze to the center of my adolescence, the place where my friends and I developed a tender love for each other, the late nights we stayed up, the bingo we would play at the town hall, and the small but beautiful Gibson Lake. West Dalhousie is known for its generational poverty and drug addiction, but this has never changed it for me. My heart is with the land and the people, not the circumstances and failings of society. Nova Scotia failed this beautiful place because it wasn’t given the respect it deserved. I watch the mountain turn black, and my people pray to God to protect the land. Rain comes, but it’s not enough.
A 17-year-old holds a line alone while the world burns around him. He’s protecting old forest growth hundreds of years old that may never get the chance to grow again due to the unnatural warmth our earth is emitting. The government sits in offices and sells Nova Scotia water bombers. The air quality is low; we can’t go outside. Our farm town dies from drought and smoke, and the sales do too. The air is thick with brown smoke, the smoke of the places we love, that means the most to us, leaving this earth. The numbers seem small, but when you’re there, it’s the biggest thing that has ever happened. Watching my friends leave and having bags prepared for evacuation, then finally needing to leave the place and people I love in the wreckage of the blaze to arrive in Sackville.
Now I’m only living through the pictures and news stories, seeing the perspective of those who weren’t there, and it will never compare to the atrocity experienced. No people were lost, but their lives and homes were, and families were living in tents due to a lack of housing, and our fire hall became a place of refuge. We see the ruins and the loss experienced, the trauma caused, and very few funds given to those forced to evacuate. It was not enough to go around. Rebuilding will come from the community, not from the government; the funds will come from other low-income people, and the lives of those who dealt with the forgotten fires will never be forgotten. I will continue to advocate for those who come from less and their rights to the land, no matter their socioeconomic status. The lack of preparation and funds led to those affected by the fire not having the ability to live off the money provided and created a tragic loss not just of homes but also of important old-growth forests.
The fires in the Annapolis Valley burned for over a month before they were declared under control. After a particularly dry summer, when our fire finally broke out, the priority of the water bombers went to Bedford in Halifax, Nova Scotia, due to a larger population size. The fire raged for 5 days before water bombers were brought in from the Northwest Territories. The fire burned an estimated 8,468 hectares and 20 houses to the ground. This is the testimony from my community and me on what occurred during the West Dalhousie fires.
A view of West Dalhousie from Valley View Provincial Park August 28, 2025. Photo Credit: Sullivan Webber
Sources
Willick, Frances. “107 Homes Evacuated as Long Lake Fire Continues to Burn in Annapolis County | CBC News.” CBCnews, CBC/Radio Canada, 15 Aug. 2025, www.cbc.ca/news/canada/nova-scotia/annapolis-county-fires-aug-15-1.7609738.
MacDonald, Micheal. Wildfire Forces Evacuations in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley – Rocky Mountain News, 14 Aug. 2026, www.rmoutlook.com/environment-news/wildfire-forces-evacuations-in-nova-scotias-annapolis-valley-11077598.
“More Evacuees of Long Lake Wildfires Can Return Home; Fire Status Changed to Held.” Municipality of the County of Annapolis – West Dalhousie Wildfires: Updates, annapoliscounty.ca/government/news-media-releases/2200-west-dalhousie-wildfires-update.
Patil, Anjuli. “20 Homes Destroyed in Annapolis County Wildfire | CBC News.” CBCnews, CBC/Radio Canada, 28 Aug. 2025, www.cbc.ca/news/canada/nova-scotia/20-homes-destroyed-in-annapolis-county-wildfire-1.7620035.
A Special Thank-You To:
Chache Fox, Ked Corkum, Feilding Crowtz, and The Medicraft Family.
Rockyview County, Alberta
Emma Beck
When I remember my place, I am 15, and I am alone. I was alone a lot, and to take up my time I walked. I found myself circling back to my street at the borders of my town. A town built on a highway’s ditch isolated by surrounding farm fields and not much else. On the western edges of my town there are no more homes, they stop in a perfect line. Man’s infrastructure absent beyond the town. What extended out was bare land, no trees or buildings in the distance, no roads, just land meeting the edges of the town. I am not attached to my home or the town I grew up in. I am attached to the view on the western edges, a block from my mother’s house. My internal compass brought me here, and it will bring me here time again, but it will have to be in memory.
I am on a hill, a manmade hill left behind after the earth was ripped up to build homes. The wild grass and weeds have migrated to the top and erosion has begun softening its rocky edges. My soft body sits on the edge, my jeans cool on the bare earth, my heels resting on the rock and my hands are palm down on the jagged ground where I support my weight. In front of me is the calm terrain, flat and smooth, the land extends to the horizon and sweeps down into the Rocky Mountains. It is the home of vacationing geese, a nursery for a doe and her fawn, or the sunny canola of June. It is the prairies.
When I stare out to the flat lands, they run west towards the Shining Mountains, as the Stoney Nakoda know them. The Rockies, where the earth rises to the clouds and beauty fills the skyline. Sought out jewels of Alberta. But the low prairies do not speak to the clouds, they bend to the wind, nurture the fawns and feed the hungry. I let myself relax into the earth, my hair blows with the wind and I too sink into the Rockies view. Right now, I am the many souls living on the prairies, and the many guarded by the mountains.
Mountains stretching across the western horizon, Rocky View County, Alberta, December 2023. Photo by Emma Beck.
My place is no longer. Just as my mother’s house was built on the prairies edge, other homes have been built on the view of my place, and many are still coming. The hill has lost height with the years. No longer can you see the prairies meet the Rocky Mountains. No longer will the geese raise their families there, instead they hide, hostile and confused in the brush of people’s lawns. No longer will the fawn follow it’s mother in the wild grass, and no longer will the field shine with blooming canola. Places are temporal, and mine resides in memory. I have visited my place more times in my head than in the physical realm. My place doesn’t exist anymore, but given the opportunity I wouldn’t revisit this hilltop. It was an escape, and escapes are good, but they also remind you of what you’re avoiding.
In memory I can sit on my hill, and feel the cool breeze, and be wearing my old brown jacket, feel its coarse shell and tattered seams on my fingertips, as I tuck my hands into the warmth of my sleeve. The weight of my boot heels rests on the hill with my ankles slanted to each side. I feel the nip of the wind on my cheeks, and the cool dusk setting in. I gaze to the mountains, so large and colourful, it is convincing someone painted them on the skyline. Soon evening arrives, and the dark shadows my view, the cold sets in and I wander back home, not knowing it’s my last visit. My home is on Treaty 7 land: the traditional Homelands of the Niitsitapi (Blackfoot Confederacy), the Tsuut’ina Nation, the Stoney Nakoda, and the Otipemisiwak Métis. I am not the only nor the first to gaze at these mountains. I am not the first to call the prairies home. My hope for my place is for others walking alone to find comfort in the prairies and company from the Rocky Mountains.
Aerial view of mountains stretching across the western horizon, Rocky View County, Alberta, March 2022. Photo by Jagger Russell.
Home is Where the Sun Sets: Northampton, New Brunswick
James Calum Dunbar
I often find myself atop a family field along the Saint John River Valley, waving goodbye to a pinkening sun, ready for a deserved rest after a long day of work. Slowly, the pink haze of the sky turns black as the sun lays itself to rest in the hills, giving way to the stars in the sky.
Before this field was my playground, it was the territory of the Wolastoqiyik and Wabanaki Confederacy. Centuries ago, it was small part of a greater hardwood forest, used by the Wolostoqiyik as they navigated the river for food and trade. They would have noticed most prominently boulders dotting the river’s edge and what is now referred to as Appalachian Hardwood Forest. These are now confined to memories, erased by colonialism that devoured the healthy forest of the Wolastoqiyik, erasing the ecological balance the region once thrived on. All of this was done to support the profits of the colonial softwood industry.
Eventually, this land was settled by a British family by the name of the Tower family. Later, a man named Francis Wallace purchased the land in hopes of creating a family homestead. That man was my great-great-great grandfather. Unfortunately, he did not realize the soil composition could only support grass and trees. In a way, this changed my family and set us on more entrepreneurial or creative avenues than farming, although initially it burdened us with decades of poverty.
It was not until the mass spraying of herbicides, including Agent Orange, in the 1950’s that the field took its current form. My grandfather, realizing the need for clear space, enlisted the help of his two children, nephews, and brothers to save on costs, making spraying a form of family bonding. Hand spraying chemicals was integrated into chores lists and added to the weekly family gathering itinerary as a way to “grow closer together” (yes this is a true story humorously recounted by my uncle). This “bonding” destroyed the native hardwood for the more profitable softwood and hay that dominates the land to this day. However, it came at a price. In the following decades skin cancer spread like a web across the family tree. Farming would both give and take.
Family aside, this field was crucial to personal development. It was here that I learnt to drive and that wild turkeys were indeed wild and unapproachable. Although the field itself has remained unchanged throughout the last twenty years, broader changes came. Houses now border its treelines, and the town of Woodstock is more prominent than ever, as its town limits grew eastward. Additionally, the lights of the Houlton Airport veil the once vivid constellations, dulling the awe-inspiring glow of the cosmos.
Western New Brunswick is known for its hunting, particularly deer and moose. The field and its surrounding woods are one of the few places in my area where hunting for game is prohibited, marked by signs my grandfather placed. He was someone who found little joy in killing for game after growing up hunting out of economic necessity. This provides a haven for deer in the fall and an abundance of animals. The only thing hunted are coyotes harassing the neighbourhood cattle. Visitors and family gain a unique perspective of nature by being able to see and interact with foxes, deer, moose, gophers, or even the odd bear. It is an anchoring experience that has become increasingly rare. Such experiences serve as a reminder that this wildlife is ever present on the places we live, making them neighbours. You can also see first-hand how you fit into a broader ecosystem where their actions, affect your actions. For example, I tend to avoid certain corners of the field that bears are known to frolic in. Being a good neighbour to the local wildlife pays dividends in the joy interacting with it on a daily basis.
For now, the field remains relatively unchanged since the 1950’s which leaves conflicting impressions. On one hand, the nostalgia it provides and the financial security the woodlot brings is a bit of an emotional blanket. Contrarily, I think of the environmental destruction and the loss of wildlife endured for an unprofitable attempt at farming. I cannot help but feel what I see as comfort, my ancestors would see as failure. Now, all I can do is continue the cycle of thirty-year intervals of softwood harvesting my grandfather started. Although as our climate changes it is clear individual action must be taken for the sake of my community environment. Shifting from woodlot to forest is a step that may have to be taken to ensure the sustainability of the environment at a personal loss. These thoughts run my mind as I wave goodbye to the tired sun. I realize every hello has its goodbye. I sit and watch time run before my eyes; life is too short for inaction, especially as I sit in my prime. Nevertheless, one day when the sun sets one final time, I know my actions must be kind, as behind everyone’s sunset is someone else’s sunrise.
A winter’s sunset from the highest point of the property. Image Source: Calum Dunbar (2023).