On a brittle February day, years ago, I traveled north to visit friends in Alberta. The trip was meant to be simple: catching up, sharing meals, laughing. It became something more when our lovely hosts decided to tour us around Fort McMurray like we were tourists on vacation... in February!
We stopped at the Syncrude Wood Bison Viewpoint. Standing on the edge of the oilsands, looking out where these immense creatures thrive in a place most people associate only with industry, I felt a rush of childhood memories. The bison were not just animals on the land; they were symbols of resilience, history, and the ongoing struggle to balance resource development with traditional use.
The Syncrude herd is remarkable. Established decades ago, it has grown into a thriving population of plains bison, grazing on reclaimed and managed lands near Fort McMurray. Syncrude and Suncor, two of the largest energy companies in Canada, have made a bold attempt to integrate wildlife into landscapes shaped by industry. It is a project that has succeeded, and standing there in the cold February air, I could see why it has become a tourist attraction (probably with less eyelash icicles in the summer). Families come to marvel at the animals, photographers capture their silhouettes against the snow, and visitors like me leave with a deeper appreciation for what it means to try something new in the face of immense challenges.
For me, the bison are personal. As a young teen, I had neighbors who kept bison on their land when the cattle prices crashed. At thirteen, I was asked to paint one of my first commissions: a portrait of the neighbour' s bison herd, powerful and stoic. That painting was more than just a job; it was the beginning of my journey as an artist. I remember the smell of my oil paint, and the nervous excitement of being trusted with such a task. Even then, I sensed that bison were not ordinary creatures. They were majestic beings tied to the land.
The bison embody memory. They remind us of a time when millions roamed the plains, shaping ecosystems and sustaining communities. They also remind us of the near‑extinction brought by overhunting and expansion, a wound that still echoes in our collective history. The world has changed, and we have evolved to rely on products and a way of life that not everyone realizes requires responsible resource development.
You can read more about Syncrude and Suncor’s bison initiative here. It is an example of organizations trying something new, succeeding in unexpected ways, and showing that creativity can emerge even in industrial contexts. As an artist, I find this deeply compelling. Art is often about capturing contradictions. The bison herd is a living contradiction: wild animals thriving in a place shaped by human extraction.
The world has changed, yes. We cannot return to a time before industry, before global supply chains, before the products that shape our daily lives. But we can evolve more responsibly. We can acknowledge the costs, honor the traditions, and seek creative ways to integrate the old with the new. The Syncrude bison herd is not a solution to every problem, but it is a symbol of possibility.
Leaving the view point that day, I felt both humbled and inspired. The bison had reminded me of my own journey, from a thirteen‑year‑old with a paintbrush to an energy employee of over 30 years, back to an artist seeking to capture the complexities of our time. They reminded me of the importance of memory, of history, and of resilience. And they had shown me that even in the most unlikely places: on the edge of the oilsands, in the freezer we call February, majestic creatures can thrive, carrying meaning and hope into the future.
The original of "Red Dog of the North" can be found on permanent display at the Edmonton International Airport.
