Michael Ross Junior’s hands have worked on cattle stations, construction sites and deep-sea fishing ships. But when he tries to spark a flame using a fire stick, even his palms blister and tear.“My old man could do it,” he says with a broad smile. “We would sit there, give it all we had, made a bit of smoke, hot, but no flame. It’s a bit harder than it looks.”His ancestors used dried wood to light and spread fire for hunting, mosquito repellent, spear-making and keeping the land healthy.Nowadays, Ross Junior uses choppers, incendiary balls and satellites to burn the land.He is one of many traditional owners combining old knowledge with new technology to create carbon credits through controlled winter burns that lower the risk of higher-emitting summer wildfires.These projects now sprawl across 18 million hectares, abating 1.2 million tonnes of carbon and generating $59 million a year and growing, according to Indigenous Carbon Industry Network (ICIN) estimates.Ross Junior says it’s about more than money.“It’s trying to bring the younger generation back onto Country,” he says, standing on Alka Bawar Country in Far North Queensland.“To practise what they’ve been taught and handed down through the generations from the elders about how to manage fire, what fire does for us.”Indigenous-run fire projects are regarded in the industry as producing among the highest-integrity carbon credits, with buyers paying a premium of more than 15 per cent.That has attracted large carbon companies to northern Australia offering to act as brokers between the communities who generate the credits and the market clamouring for them.But traditional owners, lawyers and industry insiders have alleged that these brokers take an unfair cut of profits by signing traditional owners into bad deals on vague terms.Ross Junior says this happened at Kalpowar Station in 2016, when his Aboriginal corporation signed with Natural Carbon to get the project started.“We were just getting the crumbs of what was handed down to us,” Ross Junior says. “We were getting ripped off big time.”Ross Junior, and another traditional owner, claim their credits were being sold for $30, but only $8 was passed on. The company denies the claim and this investigation could not verify sale prices.I knew nothing of carbon when they got into that deal a few years ago, Ross Junior said. “I said if were going to start a new thing, we need to squash the deal, get out of that deal, start something fresh.This investigation has found the experience at Kalpowar Station is not isolated.Confidential contracts covering several projects, obtained through sources not related to the Kalpowar project, included terms which, lawyers claim, lumped traditional owners with risk, overcharged for services, and created lack of transparency over sale prices.Lawyers who have participated in negotiations around the country claim misinformation is rife – they say under-resourced communities are offered cars or small amounts of money to sign contracts that span decades.“It’s predatory behaviour,” says Cape York Land Council lawyer Troy Roberts, who has worked with traditional owners to renegotiate bad deals.A breakdown in negotiations now threatens to undermine the wider industry, as companies that struggle to gain traditional-owner consent could have projects revoked. The sector is scrambling, Kimberley Land Council chief executive Tyronne Garstone says.Ross Junior says the Kalpowar project is now doing well. Last financial year the project generated 23,900 carbon credits, which on current prices, is valued around $1.19 million.The team is now looking for new corporate partners to make sure they keep most of the cash. Ross Junior’s brother, Brendan, urges others to be cautious.“There are sharks out there in the open water,” says Brendan Ross. “Everyone’s out there to make a buck, make a dollar.”paragraphtitle: Crossing the CapeThe Mulligan Highway weaves through rocky mountains and large grass flats, passing towns of weatherboard houses and dusty trucks.Plunging further into Cape York, the dirt reddens, and a low, thick haze settles in the air from nearby fires.Blooming yellow wattles mean it’s burning season. “If you look around, you see the yellow, that’s your indicator, you’re ready to go, the grass is ready to burn,” Brendan says.Laura is the last town before the phone reception cuts out. More than two-thirds of the population is Indigenous and job opportunities are scarce.Photos of bull riders, half-dressed women and white people drinking beer hang on the local pub’s walls.The publican is familiar with the carbon industry making inroads in the area. “They make a fair bit of money doing that, don’t they?”Climate change has made out-of-control summer fires more frequent and destructive.Cape York is now home to dozens of carbon projects using the savanna fire-burning method to reduce the severity of these wildfires through winter burns, funded by governments or companies struggling to meet climate targets.Traditional owners burn fire scars into the land in a mosaic pattern that creates a defence against summer’s wall of flames – techniques passed down over 60,000 years.Satellites track burnt areas from year to year, and each tonne of avoided emissions can be sold for a carbon credit.Compared to what scientists sometimes regard as questionable carbon projects, such as paying farmers to keep trees that were never going to be razed, these projects have reliable data and routinely fetch high prices.Trading data obtained by this investigation shows Indigenous savanna-burning credits have sold for $50 per credit over the past year, compared to the average for all Australian-generated credits of $35.That carbon money is transforming remote communities – purchasing private health insurance for entire towns, building bicultural schools, or buying up pubs and hotels.The high price tag has also lured bad actors and incentivised poor behaviour, according to documents, regulatory filings and interviews with dozens of sources.paragraphtitle: ‘Murky water’Cape York’s carbon industry already has a chequered history.The late Phillip Toyne pioneered the commercialisation of fire projects, co-founding a company called Natural Carbon in 2014, with shareholders including the world’s largest carbon trader South Pole and Australian company Climate Friendly.Toyne was a high-profile environmentalist, leading the Australian Conservation Foundation and serving as the federal Environment Department’s deputy secretary in the 1990s.Many in the environmental and land rights movements regarded him as a hero, whose achievements included helping broker the handover of Uluru to traditional owners in 1985.But he had another side, lesser known to the public.“Never get between Phillip Toyne and a dollar,” said one elder who saw his dealings up close. “It’s not like he’s a bad person, but he saw an opportunity.”In the years before he died in 2015, Toyne travelled the Cape signing deals with traditional owners to jointly manage the projects.He bypassed the Cape York Land Council to approach traditional owner groups directly, such as the Kalpowar team, to sign deals. Regarded by some as a “gentleman”, Toyne got into clashes with others.“I had a big argument with Phillip about how much they were charging,” said the elder, who declined to be named because they were discussing confidential contracts. “I said, ‘That’s outrageous’.”In these partnerships, traditional owners are responsible for burning the country while carbon companies offer a range of services, including registering the project, selling the credits and managing audits.Confidential contracts obtained by this investigation show these deals can span decades, and include clauses that land council and some industry lawyers say create unfair revenue splits, limited price transparency, and huge risks for traditional owners.One contract between Natural Carbon and traditional owners shows the company took 25 per cent of revenue over 10 years for work that was either completed at the beginning of the project, or took only a few days each year to complete.The contract listed “excluded services” as on-the-ground activities, including designing, developing and carrying out the burns, obtaining permits and other “fire management activities” and associated risks.“They were getting up to $250,000 per year to do $10,000 worth of work,” said Cape York Land Council lawyer Troy Roberts, who did not provide the contract, but helped renegotiate another deal with Natural Carbon last year.“These entities approach individuals, get them to sign agreements that aren’t fair.”https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/modules/imagebar-gallery/index.html?resizable=true&v=427&configUrl=https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/hub/configs/imagebar-gallery/33607.json&v=0.53424845103817; size: largeA spokesperson for Natural Carbon said the company invested in upfront costs, took on risks in setting up projects, provided its services even in years when no credits were generated and strongly defended its approach to traditional-owner engagement.A spokesperson for Climate Friendly, responsible for selling the credits, said the sale price difference described by Kalpowar was “inconsistent with market fundamentals” and strongly denied any inappropriate engagement with traditional owners.Around the same time, another company, Country Carbon, was setting up similar projects with non-Indigenous graziers conducting burns on native title land, without ever talking to the traditional owners.Country Carbon chief executive Nicholas Cameron says traditional owners started asking questions when they noticed utes being upgraded, money coming in, and requested payment.“Clearly I didn’t want to do that.”Cameron says rules around traditional-owner consent weren’t clear at the time, and he didn’t think it was required by law.He took the matter to court, lost, and was later slapped with an enforceable undertaking by the Clean Energy Regulator.Under this, he failed the fit-and-proper-person test, was forced to undergo independent supervision, additional training and audits.Cameron has not been accused of striking predatory deals with traditional owners, or of intending to rip anyone off, rather failing to gain consent for carbon projects on native title lands, which is required by law.“I ended up negotiating good deals with the elders,” he says. “I’m proud of my work there.”Today, Corporate Carbon is the latest company to get on the wrong side of the Cape York Land Council – bypassing its leadership and approaching traditional owner groups directly.This isn’t illegal, but raises concerns about a power imbalance, and has prompted a behind-the-scenes battle between private companies and land councils over who is best placed to advise traditional owners.The Indigenous Carbon Industry Network’s submission to 2023’s independent Chubb review of Australian carbon credit units stressed the need for “free or low-cost, independent advice … that is devoid of vested commercial interest”.https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/2024/carbon-credits/stage/assets/ai2html/carbon-flowchart.html?resizable=true; size: largeBalkanu Cape York Development Corporation Terry Piper says traditional owners shouldn’t “go out alone” by negotiating with carbon companies directly, as these deals set a precedent.“There’s a watershed moment coming for Cape York, where the mob there have the opportunity to right the past wrongs of being overlooked,” Piper says.Corporate Carbon, part-owned by petrol giant Shell, has been accused by the Cape York Land Council of engaging in “sneaky” and “cut-throat” behaviour by discouraging traditional owners from seeking advice from the land council.“They try to push things through very quickly, by saying, ‘Our funding is going to run out. Hurry up, hurry up, you need to make a decision now,’” land council lawyer Troy Roberts says. “They try to rush the process.”A Corporate Carbon spokesperson “strongly refutes” this and said the company was committed to the United Nations’ free prior-informed consent protocols, which state that “consent is given voluntarily and without coercion, intimidation or manipulation”.Olkola Aboriginal Corporation chief executive Debbie Ross runs one of the largest fire projects in the area. She is defensive of carbon companies, saying traditional owners should make them compete for work.Debbie Ross acknowledges there has been poor behaviour in the past, with revenue splits “you couldn’t live on” and carbon companies giving expensive cars to under-resourced communities to get deals signed.“That was so bad,” she said. “The groups didn’t understand that [Toyota] HiLux was coming out of their [carbon credits] … You dont get anything for nothing. If you are, there’s something wrong. It’s too good to be true.”Debbie Ross insists the industry has come a long way, and claims the Cape York Land Council is “out to benefit themselves” and is now more cut-throat than carbon companies.She says greater education and independent advice is crucial for negotiating contracts, which she says should last no more than three years.“I honestly think you can sum up the carbon industry – it’s those who know, and those who don’t. And then there’s this murky water between.”paragraphtitle: ‘Special place’From Laura, it’s a 90-minute drive on an unpaved road to the fire project run by Ross Junior and his family.Black cockatoos with fire-red tails and hawks fly overhead on the way to the Normanby River, where cars must engage 4WD and plunge into crocodile-infested water to cross.Emerging on the other side is Kalpowar Station – owned by the Alka Bawar Land Trust, which manages the land for 12 clans.“This is a special place,” Brendan says, as he stands on the rocky banks under the dry winter’s sun. “I spent my childhood here, fishing, camping, hearing the stories of my grandmother.”Their grandmother was born on the beach 85 kilometres east from the Normanby River crossing.As a child, she was separated from her family and sent to Lockhart Mission, a dormitory run by Christians with a poor record of looking after children. She was banned from speaking her language and forced to learn English.Upon release, she returned to her Country, this time as a maid, cooking and cleaning for the new, white owners of the renamed Kalpowar Station.Her daughter married Michael Ross, who would become a force to be reckoned with.Michael Ross Junior says his father wasn’t home much – he was busy meeting graziers, politicians, people with power, to fight for better land rights for his people.In between brokering deals in the halls of power, Ross and his sons worked as contract musterers for the graziers at Kalpowar Station.“They weren’t hard to work for if you did right by them,” Ross Junior says. “But it’s hard working for someone on your own land.”Ross Junior says his father taught him everything he knows about cattle, the land, and fire. Now he’s got an opportunity to put these lessons into practice.The Queensland government handed back the land to traditional owners in 2005.There’s a rusty sign near the entrance that declares it’s Aboriginal freehold land, the strongest form of native title protection that prevents it from being sold.paragraphtitle: ‘Sugar hit’Getting the land back wasn’t the end of the struggle; rather the beginning of a new one.ICIN says the majority of carbon projects exist on land where native title exists, but Indigenous people run only 7 per cent of them.This means that in most cases, unlike the Kalpowar project, carbon projects are run by non-Indigenous people on land with native title rights and agreement between all parties must be reached before the project can go ahead.The carbon companies are often responsible for brokering these deals, where confidential agreements cover decisions on revenue splits and job opportunities.Projects can be “conditionally registered” before any agreement is finalised, which allows proponents to start preparing and promoting the project.https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/modules/graphic-embed/?resizable=true&v=601&configUrl=https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/hub/configs/graphic-embed/33371.json&v=0.9563821971032018; size: largeLawyers who have participated in these deals say carbon companies are conflicted and traditional owners often do not realise their negotiating power can amount to a veto, much stronger than dealings with mining companies over land use agreements.“Some of these contracts last 100 years,” said one lawyer who could not be named due to legal privilege. “Traditional owners need to know they have a strong hand in this. They don’t have to accept what the company serves up.”Today, 819 out of 1936 carbon projects are conditionally registered, or 42 per cent of the entire industry. Projects face permanent revocation if written agreements cannot be signed within five years.Kimberley Land Council chief executive Tyronne Garstone said a breakdown in negotiations with traditional owners was a national problem that now threatens to undermine the wider industry, as a “huge volume” of credits may never reach the market.“Carbon developers see us as someone they have to merely get around,” he says. “It’s come back to bite them on the bum.”Garstone said he had witnessed high-pressure sales tactics and “ruthless” behaviour by carbon companies seeking traditional-owner consent where small amounts of money are offered to “struggling” communities.“They’re in a position where they see it as a sugar hit,” he says.The Chubb review last year recommended changing the law to ban conditional registration, after finding it risked undermining traditional owner rights and interests.The government accepted the recommendation, but the law is yet to be changed.Garstone says 28 new projects have been conditionally registered since the review and is calling on the regulator to take a tougher stance.“The governments aren’t cutting them off, they’re creating a bigger logjam of projects, with less integrity in the process, and more insecurity in the sector.”Western Australia has many registered projects, with consultants in this space claiming they are being overwhelmed with calls from carbon companies wanting help to finalise deals.GreenCollar currently has 46 conditionally registered projects nationally, 32 of which have required traditional-owner consent, and 10 are still under negotiation. A company spokesperson says all negotiations are extensive and thorough, and deals can take between two and five years.“You won’t find a more committed group of people to doing it the right way. You just won’t.”The spokesperson acknowledged this negotiation can be “complex, messy and sometimes traumatic but said no one deal is the same and independent advice was routinely offered.“Weve been working with 30-plus communities around the country at any one point in time. Its extraordinarily complicated, extraordinarily sensitive and can take a long time.”Multiple sources pointed to GreenCollar’s project at Country Downs, a rural property north of Broome, as an example of a project that should never have been conditionally registered.The property stretches across three native title bodies, who each have different views on whether the project should proceed.“GreenCollar didn’t engage with native title holders before registering the project,” said one source familiar with the negotiations.“It’s a non-viable project, padding out GreenCollar’s portfolio, making them look more attractive on paper to their investors. It’s false hope for the pastoralists.”GreenCollar could not comment on individual projects.Garstone is worried the carbon industry will now lobby the federal government to water down the negotiating power of traditional owners. “This issue is creating too much of a headache, let’s remove it.”Instead, he wants to promote “100 per cent Indigenous-owned carbon projects”.paragraphtitle: Burning for cashWith cattle grazing in his blood, Ross Junior spent the first few years catching wild bulls to sell – tough work for uncertain returns.Plans to ramp up tourism slowed when a group of visitors unravelled a bark grave and left their ancestors remains to be eaten by pigs.“I growl at white and black visitors who do the wrong thing,” Ross Junior says. “This is my mother’s land. It’s my job to protect it.”Tourism and mustering are still on the agenda, but it is carbon that brings in the most revenue.The team gathers in the shade under a tree just after 9am to plan the day ahead. When the morning dew lifts, the grass stiffens and the dry heat of the winter sun starts to bite.Ross Junior has been awake since 4.30am, ferrying three of his nine children to school in Cooktown, a 280-kilometre round-trip done three times a week.Wearing a green pressed shirt, jeans, Akubra and black glasses, he holds an ice-cold, extra large Red Bull as he calmly rolls out the orders for the day.Kieren Henderson, the Ross’ cousin also on the team, says he’s noticed red kangaroos and grass birds returning to the area in the years since the burns started.He says the science and business involved can sound complicated, but the aim is simple: “It’s nice white smoke going up into the air, instead of the dark, black smoke.”Kieren has been leading the charge to find new corporate partners for the project. He recently attended the Carbon Market Institute conference in Cairns where he was overwhelmed by people shoving flyers in his face.“Oh, shit, carbon is really big business,” he says. “It’s a big deal down in the city.”When the meeting wraps up, the utes disperse. From one back seat, the car jolts from side to side as Tristan, a young traditional owner who works at Kalpowar, quietly flicks matches out the window.When the match falls, a plume of smoke appears before the flames catch and creep across the land. A little over an hour later, the area has been transformed. Purple smoke lingers and the soil is bare and chocolate brown while the tree canopies are intact.The day ends with barramundi fishing on the Marrett River. Kieren says he’s noticed more fish in the river too, and explains why Indigenous knowledge is crucial for land regeneration.“It all comes full circle, the fire, the plants, the animals. If you don’t have right way fire, we, Aboriginal people, cannot survive out here. Country will tell you: this needs fire, this doesn’t, when you know how to read it.”The fire crackles in the distance, the cockatoos cry out, as night falls and the stars light up the sky.paragraphtitle: Stepping upThe next day starts at the same time, with a planning meeting under a different tree.Another cousin, Ethan Henderson, is going up in the chopper for the first time to launch incendiary balls from above. “It’s good to learn,” he says. Im not nervous.The 32-year-old has “L-O-V-E” and “H-A-T-E” tattooed across each of his fingers, and stars inked into his arms using a home kit. A scar down his arm reminds him of past mistakes.He sees the fire work as being an opportunity to set an example for his children, by learning about his culture from his uncles.“The language is gone now,” he says. “That shouldn’t happen with fire. We need something for the next generation. My kids will learn this.”With Ethan in the chopper, ground crews use electric motorbikes and quads to patch up gaps in the “fire scars” missed from above.Small fires are lit along the windy, rough road on the two-hour journey to a massive wetlands, filled with lily pads, dragonflies, white stalks and metre-high brolgas strolling in the shallows – Jack Lakes.This was the scene of a horrific wildfire last year, which ripped through the neighbouring national parks and threatened to destroy the hard-work burning in the winter.The carbon project is split into two jobs – early burning before July 31, and firefighting in the summer. The credits are generated only when wildfires are successfully reduced.An out-of-control blaze can plunge the project into debt when no credits are generated and revenue is cut off.Native title lawyers say carbon companies have a record for providing unrealistic forecasts for how many carbon credits a project will generate.This can encourage traditional owners and other landholders to change their business models, or invest in gear or staff, only to be left struggling to pay bills when no credits are generated.By 1pm, its hot, and Kieren and Tristan find shade in the mangroves to eat lunch. Here, Kieren shares a story he doesn’t like to repeat often.This is Muundhiwarra Country, where his ancestors lived for centuries before they were removed by the Native Mounted Police – his own great uncle was forced to shackle his relatives to be interned on Palm Island.“He didn’t have a choice,” Kieren says.https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/modules/multimedia-gallery/index.html?resizable=true&v=370&configUrl=https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/hub/configs/multimedia-gallery/33298.json&v=0.52278299165802; size: largeThese stories are from a not-so-distant past, but the future is more hopeful. Strong land rights and carbon money are opening the possibilities for real self-determination.The cash isn’t coming from government grants, but a recognition of the value in the old ways of protecting the land.“We have the opportunity now, we have our land back,” he said. “People need to start listening to the traditional owners of the land because we know how to manage Country.”paragraphtitle: ‘Be at the table’At a conference attended by this investigation earlier in the year hosted by ICIN, hundreds of people gathered in Darwin to share lessons and experiences about fire projects.The windows fogged against the sticky, harsh summer heat as conversations swirled from heavy duty drone technology, to birds spreading fire with sticks. Raptors are known to spread fire this way, to flush out prey.“That bird makes more trouble for us,” said one woman ranger from central Arnhem Land. “They are very smart, this bird.”Among the attendees were Indigenous ranger groups, carbon companies, government officials, investors, and even the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. “This will be big,” said a white pastoralist in an Akubra on the sidelines.ICIN chair and Jaru-Kija woman Cissy Gore-Birch addressed the crowd about the bigger picture and encouraged traditional owners to get involved.“The land was taken away from us when this country was colonised, and we’ve seen what happens. The disaster that’s come and what each and every one of you here today have to manage,” she said.“We have an opportunity to return back to Country… This has given us an opportunity to be at the table. This has given us an opportunity to make a difference. To be able to manage our Country collectively, to be able to be a part of bringing our families, communities, to practices, and to make a difference.”But Gore-Birch also had a warning.“I know this journey hasn’t been easy for everyone.”“There’s a lot of sharks out there who want to come in and say they’re your friends. Say they want to do this because they want to help you,” she said. “Be very careful. Be informed when you make those decisions.”For Ross Junior, it’s a lesson his project could have used earlier, but they’re now focused on what comes next.“Don’t worry what happened in the past, this is the future. The truth is, we have to keep pushing forward. If we’re going to live in the past, we’re not going to go nowhere. It’s here, and we’re going that way, forward.”This project was supported by a Michael Gordon fellowship, through the Melbourne Press Club. https://www.theage.com.au/interactive/modules/tip-jar/?resizable=true&v=331&config=https://tipstar-backend.herokuapp.com/get-tip-jar/2156https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/modules/about-the-data/?resizable=true&v=741&configUrl=https://thearticlestack.com/interactive/hub/configs/about-the-data/34063.json&v=0.004642402541569224