Canada Put Billions of Gallons of Water in the Forest… 10 Years Later, Everyone Was Shocked | HO!!!!

Ten years ago, a quiet valley in northern British Columbia was home to moose, bears, and the winding Peace River—a place where forests stretched for miles and the only sound was the river’s gentle rush. Today, that same valley is a reservoir, holding back billions of gallons of water behind a wall of concrete known as the Site C Dam. The story of how it got here is one of bold promises, ignored warnings, and a final, shocking reckoning that left Canadians asking: How did we let this happen?

The Dream of Clean Energy

It started like so many mega-projects do: with a promise. In the early 2000s, British Columbia’s government quietly floated the idea of a new dam on the Peace River. They called it Site C—a name as bland as the project was ambitious. The pitch was simple: clean, renewable hydroelectricity for generations, a way to fight climate change and power a growing province. The numbers dazzled. Eight percent more power for BC. A $16 billion investment in the future. Canada would show the world it could lead on climate—not just with words, but with action.

But there was a catch. No one seemed to need the power. Internal reports showed demand had plateaued. Wind and solar were getting cheaper every year. Even the province’s own energy experts said the dam didn’t make sense. Yet, the project moved forward, buried in budget documents, framed as “energy security.” It was, some said, a solution in search of a problem.

The Land Before the Water

Before the first tree was felled, the Peace River Valley was a living tapestry of history and ecology. For thousands of years, First Nations had hunted, fished, and buried their dead along its banks. Farmers tended fields passed down through generations. Old-growth forests sheltered rare species. It was, as one elder put it, “a place where the river spoke.”

But when the government gave the green light, everything changed. Forests vanished. The roar of chainsaws echoed through the valley. By 2016, construction crews carved out massive trenches, rerouting the river itself. Billions of gallons of water were held back, waiting for the dam’s completion—a loaded gun pointed at the heart of the valley.

The Point of No Return

They called it clean energy. But if you stood near the construction site, “clean” was the last word that came to mind. Diesel machines thundered through the mud. Helicopters buzzed overhead. Ecosystems untouched for millennia were flattened in weeks. The idea of renewable energy was being built with very non-renewable tools.

Yet, the biggest cost wasn’t measured in dollars or carbon. It was measured in what was lost. Indigenous hunting grounds, burial sites, and centuries-old trees disappeared under rising water. The government called it “temporary disruption.” Locals called it what it felt like: erasure.

Warnings Ignored

As the water rose, so did concerns. Engineers warned that the shale bedrock under the dam was unstable, prone to shifting and leaks. Environmentalists pointed to the risk of methyl mercury—a toxic compound released when forests are flooded—contaminating fish and moving up the food chain. Indigenous leaders filed lawsuit after lawsuit, demanding their voices be heard. But the answer from officials was always the same: It’s green. It’s clean. It’s worth it.

Behind the scenes, the story was messier. Leaked memos suggested the dam wasn’t really for BC residents at all. Some whispered the power was destined for future industrial projects—liquefied natural gas terminals, crypto mining, even export deals. Clean energy, perhaps, but to fuel industries that were anything but clean.

The River Disappears

Then, one morning, the Peace River was gone. Not dry, but swallowed—diverted through tunnels beneath the earth. The government called it a milestone. Locals called it a funeral. The river that had carved valleys, fed generations, and shaped cultures now moved through concrete tubes. Dry riverbeds, dead fish, and abandoned nests marked the loss. “The river used to speak,” one elder said. “Now it’s silent.”

As the reservoir crept outward, trees weren’t just cut—they were drowned. Ghost forests rose from the water, trunks poking up like grave markers. Scientists warned of mercury rising in the food chain. Some communities stopped fishing altogether. Every meter higher was a meter deeper into the past—land, culture, and memory erased.

Enter Mark Carney

Into this maelstrom stepped Mark Carney, former Governor of the Bank of Canada and a global face of “sustainable finance.” When whispers began about his quiet involvement in Site C, people paid attention. Carney’s reputation as a climate-conscious leader gave the project a new sheen of legitimacy.

By the time he re-entered Canadian policy circles around 2020, Site C was deep in budget overruns and facing geological nightmares. Yet, financial backing only grew stronger. Carney’s influence was more symbolic than direct—but it sent a message: Canada would finish what it started, no matter the cost.

The Cracks Beneath the Surface

But cracks—literal and metaphorical—had already formed. In 2021, BC Hydro admitted to geological instability beneath the structure. Engineers scrambled to redesign the dam’s foundation mid-construction, driving costs up by billions. Confidence eroded, not just in the dam, but in the entire premise. Public trust, already battered by years of secrecy and ballooning budgets, collapsed further. Freedom of Information requests revealed redacted reports, blacked-out diagrams, and a sense that the truth was being managed, not told.

The Dam Is Done—But At What Cost?

In the summer of 2024, the government quietly cut a ribbon. No fanfare, no celebration—just a press release. Site C was operational. Billions of gallons of water now sat pressed against concrete, the turbines humming. The province called it a success.

But no one clapped.

Behind the scenes, BC Hydro was hit with a $740,000 fine for violating environmental protection laws in the final stages—failing to control sediment in sensitive fish habitats. It was the kind of oversight critics had warned about all along: the slow erosion of accountability in the name of progress.

For the People Who Lost Everything

For the West Moberly First Nations and local farmers, the dam’s completion felt like defeat, not closure. Sacred sites now lay beneath still water, unreachable. The valley’s biodiversity—once among the richest in Canada—had been gutted. Birdsong faded. Fish populations declined. Landslides increased. Some families who stayed now lived with constant anxiety, watching for signs the dam’s unstable foundation might one day give way.

And the most shocking truth? The power wasn’t really needed after all. A 2024 audit revealed what critics had said from the start: residential and commercial demand remained flat. Advances in solar, battery storage, and decentralized grids had outpaced old projections. Site C’s electricity now either fed into surplus or was sold at a discount to large industrial users. Critics called it a glorified subsidy. Supporters still called it “strategic.”

A Warning, Not a Triumph

More than $16 billion was spent—more than any other infrastructure project in BC’s history. More than schools, hospitals, wildfire response, or clean water systems combined over the same period. Indigenous leaders were never properly consulted on the final design. The most painful truth: it can’t be undone. You can’t drain the water. You can’t regrow the forest. You can’t rebuild the culture that was lost.

Site C wasn’t supposed to happen. Yet it did. Now, it stands not just as a dam, but as a warning to other nations: when ambition overrides accountability, everyone pays the price. Across the world, “green” mega-projects are being rushed through under the same banners, without proper consultation or oversight.

So the next time someone tells you about a clean and green project, ask what that really means. Because once the water is in, it’s not coming back out.