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I sipped my matcha.

Then I walked past a frozen lake in Mont Royal and felt a different kind of quiet. Thick, white, unmoving. No ripples. No ducks. It felt like winter had pressed pause on the ecosystem.

This semester, I learned how wrong that assumption was. For a group project this winter semester (shoutout BIOL 342!), I investigated what happens under frozen lakes. Oxygen levels. Microbial activity. Greenhouse gases. Not exactly cinematic.

But beneath that frozen surface, the lake is far from still. Ice and snow block much of the light from reaching the water, which slows under‑ice photosynthesis and the production of new oxygen. At the same time, the legacy of summer from algae blooms, plant growth, and all the organic material that piled up in warmer months continues to break down. That decomposition uses up oxygen, especially in shallow, nutrient‑rich ponds that are already primed by runoff and eutrophication.

When oxygen drops, the chemistry shifts. In low‑oxygen and anoxic water, microbes turn to other pathways, and what was once part of summer’s productivity is converted into dissolved CO₂ and methane that build up under the ice. Many urban ponds spend most of the winter in these low‑oxygen states, quietly becoming reservoirs of greenhouse gases. As ice melts and breaks up in spring, the accumulated CO₂ and CH₄ are released to the atmosphere. Climate change, by altering ice duration, thickness, and snow cover, is expected to intensify these under‑ice dynamics, changing how much gas is stored and when it escapes.

I finished my matcha as I watched the frozen lake hold its breath, a sheet of ice stretched over everything that had already been set in motion. The lake doesn’t pause, and neither do the consequences of what we do. Just like those quiet leftovers of warm months keep working under the ice, our choices don’t disappear when the moment feels over; they carry forward in ways we can’t always see. The things we buy, the habits we keep, the futures we vote for with our money and attention. It’s easy to see frozen water as a clean slate, something to skate on and photograph, but under the surface, past decisions are still shaping the future climate. Maybe the point isn’t to feel guilty, but to get curious enough to change small things now, from what we buy, how we waste, to what we support, so that the stories our lakes are telling in winter aren’t warnings we chose to ignore.

Caribou are tough. Over tens of thousands of years, they made the north their home, claiming land from retreating ice sheets while similar animals stayed put. They conserve resources, living on lichen throughout the harsh Canadian winter. Once digested, they can reuse their own urea, a chemical byproduct of metabolism, to extract the most nutrition possible from the protein-deficient plant. Females only give birth to one calf every year to ensure the survival of their young and themselves.

Today, caribou, otherwise known as reindeer, face extinction. Despite a decades-long conservation effort by Indigenous peoples, scientific researchers, biologists and politicians, only one of the dozen ecologically distinct populations, the little white Peary caribou in the Arctic islands, has recently been upgraded from endangered to threatened status. Protecting Boreal Caribou habitat in Quebec could positively impact 90 percent of the bird and mammal species native to the boreal forest and protect soil carbon storage hotspots.

One of these herds, the caribou in Gaspésie National Park, has declined to around 30 individuals as of 2024. According to scientist Martin-Hugues St-Laurent, who studies their decline, this herd could disappear before the middle of this century. Forestry, roads and recreational activities have fragmented their habitat and increased their vulnerability to predators like wolves. They are the last vestige of the caribou populations which once roamed the Gaspes Peninsula, the maritime provinces and New England. St-Laurent, who grew up visiting the national park, explains the herd is threatened by logging outside protected areas. The clear-cutting and construction of roads have increased coyote habitats, helping predators enter the park easily.

It’s a similar story in Val-d’Or, Charlevoix and Pipmuacan. Populations are endangered by increased predation caused by industrial land use and road construction. Forestry, mining and oil and gas development all deplete mature and old-growth forests, the caribou’s natural habitat. Land disruption also creates younger trees, which attract other prey, like moose and deer, and thus draw more predators to caribou habitat. To reverse the caribou’s alarming decline, the Quebec government has developed recovery plans. Areas in the Gaspésie region have been designated protected zones to limit human activity, while restoration projects maintain old-growth forests and support caribou food sources. Targeted predator culling aims to reduce predation. Populations are monitored with GPS collars and aerial surveys to inform next steps. Indigenous communities continue to lobby for change and raise awareness about the importance of conservation.

Regardless of these conservation efforts, recovery is slow. Worse, the federal government has postponed the creation of a comprehensive recovery strategy since 2016. Meanwhile, the rate of habitat disturbance for the Charlevoix herd is 90 percent, far above the 35 percent rate which is critical for maintaining a healthy population. Is there hope? Conservation efforts have prevented an even more rapid decline and provide crucial support, but caribou survival ultimately depends on political will. This is an old conflict pitting forestry industries against conservationists. Public awareness and continued government pressure could overcome the industry’s lobbying for habitat destruction. In the end, there will be no victory until everyone realizes the importance of caribou in Quebec’s ecosystem, and the value in saving them

Until next time,