Advice to help recharge your momentum and resilience makes these books must-reads for anyone who feels helpless or hopeless about climate chaos.
Does climate change have you feeling unsettled or anxious? You’re not alone — a recent survey found that 63% of adults in the United States reported feeling worried or “very worried” about climate change.
That result doesn’t surprise us: The number of climate-related disasters each year keeps growing, the projections of future risk keep getting worse, and our current government keeps doing everything in its power to prop up fossil fuels and dismantle climate protections.
But while this eco-anxiety can, at its worst, make us feel overwhelmed or unable to make a difference, another study found that people experiencing climate distress are more likely to participate in collective climate action to help turn things around.
That’s a common message in five important new books about climate anxiety: The best way to fight it is to do something about it.
The official descriptions for these books appear below. The link for each title goes to the publishers’ sites, but you should also be able to find these books from your local booksellers or libraries.
Climate anxiety is real. This practical, accessible guide addresses it on personal, relational, and structural levels: Summer after summer is hotter than the last, homes are flooding, burning, blowing away. We live with the loss, pain, and grief of what’s happened, and anxiety for what might happen next, as the systems we live are increasingly strained.
Seeking a way to reach out and connect, Schapira set up a “Peanuts”-style “The Doctor Is In” booth at to talk about climate change with people in her community. Ten years and over 1,200 conversations later, Schapira channels all she’s learned into an accessible, understandable guide for processing climate anxiety and connecting with others to carry out real change in your life and your community.
The climate crisis and its resulting eco-anxiety is the biggest challenge of our time. The anxiety that comes with worrying about how environmental harm will impact each of us, and our children’s lives can be overwhelming. This book will guide you to understand the impacts of the climate crisis on mental health. There’s a 21-Day Kickstarter Plan on specific sustainable actions you can take and track your progress to help you measure mental health benefits. Plus, engaging stories of eco-heroes and positive change. Learn techniques for listening to and discussing with loved ones their climate worries, and how environmental and conservation organizations that align with your Service Superpower and interests might inspire your family, friends, and community to work toward a regenerative, sustainable world
Eco-anxiety. Climate guilt. Pre-traumatic stress disorder. Solastalgia. The study of environmental emotions and related mental health impacts is a rapidly growing field, but most researchers overlook a closely related concern: reproductive anxiety. Climate Anxiety and the Kid Question is the first comprehensive study of how environmental emotions influence whether, when, and why people today decide to become parents — or not.
Sasser argues that we can and should continue to create the families we desire, but that doing so equitably will require deep commitments to social, reproductive, and climate justice, presenting original research, in-depth interviews and national survey results that analyze the role of race in environmental emotions and the reproductive plans young people are making as a result. Climate emotions and climate justice are inseparable, and culturally appropriate mental and emotional health services are a necessary component to ensure climate justice for vulnerable communities.
Sedgmore integrates presence, climate activism, and the alleviation of climate anxiety in an innovative and unique synthesis and new term: Presence Activism. By offering a profound solution with new perspectives, this book is steeped in a presence that moves activism beyond metaphors of war, enemies, and destruction, as well as the illusion of separation, into the visceral knowing of presence and interconnection, thereby making presence an important part of the way forward for current and future activism.
Faced with record-breaking temperatures, worsening wildfires, more severe storms, and other devastating effects of climate change, feelings of anxiety and despair are normal. In Generation Dread, Britt Wray reminds us that our distress is, at its heart, a sign of our connection to and love for the world. The first step toward becoming a steward of the planet is connecting with our climate emotions — seeing them as a sign of our humanity and empathy and learning how to live with them. Wray, a scientist and expert on the psychological impacts of the climate crisis, brilliantly weaves together research, insight from climate-aware therapists, and personal experience, to illuminate how we can connect with others, find purpose, and thrive in a warming, climate-unsettled world.
Let us know what you think. Send your ideas, success stories, and other book recommendations to [email protected].
For hundreds of additional environmental books — including several on staying calm in challenging times — visit the Revelator Reads archives.
One of the least explored regions on Earth is also part of the largest intact forest ecosystem in the Pacific.
The Place:
Stretching northward from Papua New Guinea’s Central Range is a globally significant wilderness area located along the riverine systems that mark the intersection of the Central Range and the Star Highlands. Here the Lagaip and OK Om Rivers combine to form the Headwaters of the Strickland, the major tributary of the Fly River. It’s home to biodiversity that rivals that of the Amazon, is one of the least explored regions on Earth, and is part of the largest intact forest ecosystem in the Pacific.
Why it matters:
The Headwaters of the Strickland is part of the limestone district that runs through the center of the island of New Guinea. This is the largest tract of karst topography in Papuasia.
In 1993 an international team conducted a national Conservation Needs Assessment for Papua New Guinea. They declared that this region is:
A “major terrestrial unknown.”
A national conservation priority.
Vital to the health of the Gulf of Papua.
The Headwaters remains virtually unexplored. In 2008-09 a Rapid Biological Assessment —conducted by Conservation International in conjunction with the Papua New Guinea Department of Environment and Conservation and the Papua New Guinea Institute of Biological Research — garnered international attention when it found 50 species new to science. Since this was the first systematic scientific exploration of this region, there are undoubtedly more discoveries to be made and even more positive publicity to be generated for Papua New Guinea.
The health of these forests is vital not only to the Indigenous Hewa people but also to the continued viability of New Guinea’s coastal ecosystems and reefs — unique marine ecosystems that rely on the pristine waters delivered from these uplands.
The threat:
The greatest threat is the often-discussed development of a road system that would connect the Headwaters to highlands. Currently the Headwaters is roadless and has no navigable rivers. However, because these forests are extensive and their mineral potential is great, there are persistent rumors of plans to build a road to connect this region to the highlands. Any easy connection to the highlands will likely lead to deforestation, mineral exploration, and a surge in migrants that will overwhelm local landowners and destroy these globally significant forests.
Who’s protecting it now:
The current stewards of the Headwaters of the Strickland River are among Papua New Guinea’s most remote societies: the Hewa. Since 2005 the Hewa have worked to formally protect their lands through the Forest Stewards Initiative. The Forest Stewards use traditional knowledge to develop conservation plans for their land.
Thomas with the Hewa. Photo courtesy of the author.
I have assisted the Hewa with the documentation of their traditional environmental knowledge and building an organization of local landowners capable of protecting their legacy of biodiversity stewardship for future generations. Together we have worked to demonstrate the effectiveness of tradition as a conservation tool and gazette their lands. We are now working through the political process to formally establish the conservation status of the Headwaters and find a sustainable funding mechanism to secure their future.
My place in this place:
I have spent most of my adult life exploring this ground on foot. Most of the time my head is down, watching my step and walking as fast as I can to keep my guide in sight through an endless series of switchbacks, tree roots, and river crossings. You spend hours wet and muddy trying to get to the next camp before sundown. It once took me 13 hours to cover 11 miles.
When I first arrived in 1988, nobody used money. I paid my informants in matches and salt. Every family had a bone knife. I had to carry in all my supplies and trade goods, so each field trip looked like the line of porters you used to see in Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan movies.
Headwaters Pori. Photo courtesy of the author.
During my fieldwork the Hewa have taught me to live in the bush and to identify the birds. They have unraveled the web of pollination and seed dispersal that connects these forests. Over the years these people have patiently explained to me the intricacies of their lives.
Most importantly the Hewa have taught me all the lessons essential to affecting social change — lessons that you can’t learn in school. Through them, and their desire to achieve a consensus, I have gained the patience to listen. I have learned that I need everybody to understand what we are trying to achieve through a protected area before we can move forward. I have learned the patience to sit through endless meetings. I now understand that in a society with no formal leadership positions, it’s important that everyone has the opportunity to voice an opinion, to air a grievance — to feel like they matter. I have learned that ideas and abilities can win the day — if you have the persistence to see things through.
This landscape has shaped my life. The children of the families that first took me in back in 1988 are now my partners in a globally significant conservation project. Not bad for a kid from a mill town in Ohio.
What this place needs:
The Headwaters of the Strickland River need formal recognition as a Conservation Area by the government of Papua New Guinea and a consistent source of funding for to give the landowners a sustainable source of income. These forests are undoubtedly globally important for carbon sequestration, biodiversity, and watershed protection. By establishing the Headwaters of the Strickland Conservation Area, PNG will not only bring international recognition to the Headwaters but also underscore their commitment to conserving their cultural and natural heritage.
Lessons from the fight:
We believe that there are several lessons to be learned here. First, traditional environmental knowledge is a viable tool for conservation. The key is understanding human activity as a source of disturbance that at proper scale can actually enhance biodiversity, but when unchecked is incompatible with a biodiverse landscape. Since traditional environmental knowledge is accumulated over generations, it is, in a sense, the product of a 1,000-year study by generations of Indigenous naturalists. It contains the responses of various organisms to change and disturbance. Our work is leading to increasingly sophisticated interpretations of how native peoples’ awareness of their environment is encoded, processed, and utilized. With biodiversity disappearing fast, there’s not enough time or funding to bring western scientists to the rescue. Traditional environmental knowledge can fill this gap.
Wanakipa. Photo courtesy of the author.
Secondly, the current conservation and funding mechanisms are woefully inadequate for conserving biodiversity in Papua New Guinea and, I suspect, the developing world in general. The political forces are aligned for development. Regardless of the will of the landowners, the political obstacles to conservation can be daunting. Landowners in remote regions like the Headwaters lack the funds, time, education, and stamina to lobby politicians. If they’re lucky enough to move the political process, they must find the funding to attend meetings; partners who can translate and produce documents in another language; and reliable partners within the levels of government necessary for a conservation project. If they’re lucky enough to survive running this gauntlet, they will then be asked to do it all again when they pursue funding. When and if they can find a source of funding, landowners will be asked to meet assessment and monitoring requirements that only make sense in the developed world.
Landscapes like the Headwaters are “unexplored” for a reason — they lack the roads and infrastructure that make travel easy. While they won’t admit it, the funding agency representatives that I’ve met with think I’m exaggerating the difficulties of working in the Headwaters. They’ve never seen a landscape so steep and wracked by earthquakes that no one has dared to attempt to put a road through it. They cannot image a hike where it takes 11 hours to travel 13 miles.
Do you live in or near a threatened habitat or community, or have you worked to study or protect endangered wildlife? You’re invited to share your stories in our ongoing features, Protect This Place and Save This Species.
As the Trump administration strips away environmental protections, collaboration is more than just a tool — it’s a form of resistance.
It’s difficult to work in the environmental realm in 2025. In his first term, President Donald Trump rolled back more than 100 environmental laws. Now, in his second, he’s slashing funding for climate programs, firing government scientists, and weakening agencies like the Environmental Protection Agency and National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.
With climate change accelerating and protections vanishing, it’s easy to feel disheartened. You can have all the passion in the world to protect and preserve nature, yet those in power seem indifferent. And when they’re the ones calling the shots, it feels more and more like a losing battle to enter a field that’s disappearing before our eyes.
So what can one scientist, activist, or tree hugger do? Fighting back starts with speaking out — making the case for why our work matters.
But just as important as raising our voices is how we come together. Progress doesn’t happen in isolation; it’s fueled by collaboration.
In times of crisis, our greatest strength lies in collective action. Scientific collaboration is one of the most powerful tools we have, not just for achieving results but for maintaining a sense of purpose and momentum in the face of adversity. We can’t afford to lose what connects and empowers us.
I’ve witnessed that collaborative power firsthand through an initiative that embodies its spirit both in name and mission.
The Pacific Northwest Cooperative Ecosystem Studies Unit is a collaborative partnership dedicated to research, technical assistance, and education that enhances our understanding and management of natural and cultural resources. Established in 2000, it brings together 12 federal agencies, 19 academic institutions, four nonprofits, one nongovernmental organization, and one state agency.
It’s also a part of the larger National CESU Network: 17 regional units, each representing a biogeographic region of the United States.
Together, these units strengthen the scientific foundation for managing federal lands by providing resource managers with high-quality research, technical expertise, and educational support. Through these partnerships CESU projects drive innovative research that deepen our knowledge and improve stewardship of the natural and cultural landscapes we rely on.
As the science communication specialist for the Pacific Northwest Cooperative Ecosystem Studies Unit — I know, it’s a long title — I interview our partners to help translate their work into public-facing “project highlights” that showcase their critical research aimed at protecting and preserving our natural world. Through my interviews and writing, I get a glimpse into their world — and it’s clear their contributions have profound implications for conservation.
One recurring theme stands out: Collaboration across bureaucratic boundaries leads to the most successful outcomes.
Take the East Cascades Native Plant Hub, for example. Established by the National Park Service and Oregon State University-Cascades, this initiative brings together federal agencies, tribal communities, academic institutions, and private landowners — including the Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Forest Service, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs. Their shared mission? Addressing critical shortages in native plant materials to support fire mitigation, invasive species control, and habitat restoration across the western United States.
It couldn’t have succeeded without the combined expertise of these diverse groups. Each contributes something essential, proving that large-scale conservation efforts don’t happen overnight — they require long-term investment, cooperation, and shared knowledge. It’s a model for how we should be tackling all our environmental challenges.
That’s why I’m so passionate about the CESU network — it’s right there in the name: Cooperative Ecosystem Studies. Sharing knowledge and expertise is the foundation of scientific progress.
For example, a project highlight I’m currently writing looks at the collaboration between University of Oregon researchers and the Park Service to study the cultural landscape of Carlsbad Caverns. When the Service suggested bringing in a cave microbiologist, the university team initially hadn’t considered the role of microscopic life in preservation. But once involved, the microbiologist’s insights proved invaluable.
One key moment came when the team faced the removal of a deteriorating historic wooden staircase, which had become a habitat for microorganisms. Without precautions, disturbing the structure could have disrupted the cave’s delicate ecosystem. The microbiologist proposed enshrouding the staircase before removal to contain dust and prevent unintended harm. After the successful removal, the team proposed using projected images to illustrate its former presence, allowing visitors to appreciate its historical significance.
This collaboration — blending scientific expertise with cultural preservation — safeguarded both the cave’s ecological integrity and historical significance. The result: A holistic approach that balances conservation and preservation, ensuring the long-term protection of our national parks.
Too often, scientific research operates in isolation, with pressure to keep discoveries proprietary. But real progress doesn’t come from competition; it comes from collaboration. Protecting our planet requires us to work together, not apart. In today’s world, where environmental threats are mounting, we can’t afford to do otherwise.
The Willamette Valley Prairie Pollinator Studies exemplify this principle. A collaboration between the Institute of Applied Ecology and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, this project aims to restore pollinator communities in Oregon’s disappearing prairies.
It began with the Willamette daisy (Erigeron decumbens), a federally endangered plant struggling to survive. The Army Corps, which manages land supporting the daisy, sought to improve its habitat management and understand its key pollinators. Their research uncovered an astonishing diversity of insect life — more than 100 species visiting the daisy alone. While bees were the most effective pollinators, other insects such as flies, beetles, and butterflies also played crucial roles.
This project reinforced a powerful lesson: Ecosystems are intricate, interconnected systems. Just as plants rely on a diverse web of pollinators, conservation efforts depend on a network of researchers, agencies, and communities.
The natural world thrives on collaboration — our approach to science and environmental protection should do the same.
Since 2001 the PNW CESU has launched 1,280 projects, each one advancing conservation through collaboration. The CESU National Network defines its work as providing research, technical assistance, and education to federal land management, environmental, and research agencies and their partners.
But the impact of these projects extends far beyond their official scope — they restore ecosystems, protect culturally significant lands, and deepen our understanding of the world around us.
And in a time when science itself is under threat, making that impact visible is more important than ever.
Nature itself thrives on collaboration. Just as plants depend on a network of pollinators, we depend on each other to protect the natural world.
As environmental protections are being stripped away, collaboration is more than just a tool — it’s a form of resistance.
The work of conservation isn’t solitary. It’s a collective effort, and our influence grows exponentially when we work together. Let’s take our cues from the Willamette Valley pollinators: Connect, collaborate, and ensure that the ecosystems we rely on don’t just survive but flourish.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Cooperative Ecosystem Studies Unit, the University of Washington, or any federal agencies.
The Bali myna once faced extinction from the illegal wildlife trade. An unusual approach may have helped save them.
Birdsong floats between the pavilions and shrines within the high walls of a traditional family compound in Bali. I’m here to meet the leader of a local conservation program, along with the birds his group has been breeding for the past six years.
As I walk through the compound, I pass caged birds hanging from rafters. Birds make common pets in Bongkasa Pertiwi, a village in the middle of the Indonesian island. I’ve been in Bali just over a week, and I’ve already seen countless cages hanging next to drying laundry in these compounds.
Across Indonesia the tradition of keeping songbirds goes back for centuries. Today one-third of households on Java, the most populous island in the archipelago, keep birds such as white-rumped shamas and magpie-robins. They’re status symbols and often treated as beloved members of the family, frequently entered as contestants in popular singing competitions. The whole practice is a point of cultural pride.
But the trade — worth billions of U.S. dollars — has ballooned unsustainably high. Many of the birds are caught from the wild, driving down tropical forest populations and fueling what researchers dub the Asian Songbird Crisis, with dozens of creatures facing increased risk of extinction.
That’s what makes the chirps I’m hearing in Bongkasa Pertiwi special. They come from more than 50 Bali myna (Leucopsar rothschildi), the official mascot of Bali and a critically endangered species.
I walk to the nearest cage and peer in. Two snow-white birds tilt their heads back at me.
Photo: Paige Cromley
They make a regal pair. Streaks of bare blue skin sharply define each eye. Most of their feathers are stark white: white chest, white wings, white plumes flaring proudly down their necks. The only other color is a splash of black on the tips of their tails and wings, like brushes dipped in ink.
The Bali myna, also known as the Bali starling or the jalak Bali (ᬚᬮᬓ᭄ᬩᬮᬶ), is a beautiful bird — so beautiful, in fact, that covetous humans nearly drove them to extinction. In the 1970s collector demand for the birds surged. For decades poachers could make more than a year’s local salary for nabbing a pair and selling them on the black market. The population plummeted.
Twenty years ago experts estimated that fewer than 10 Bali mynas remained in the wild. The bird was well on track to share the mournful fate of the Bali tiger, a subspecies of big cat that once prowled the island and inspired its folklore before being hunted to extinction in the 1950s.
But then, against all odds, the storyline appears to have shifted. Although nothing is certain, today scientists on Bali talk about the myna with cautious hope.
A Community Effort
One of the Bali myna’s strongholds is West Bali National Park, part of their historic range, where hundreds of the birds now fly.
“Research suggests the population is viable and will continue to increase,” says Tom Squires, an ecologist who spent years studying the bird for his doctoral thesis at Manchester Metropolitan University. Squires was the lead author of a paper published last year that found steady improvements in the mynas’ population over the past decade.
Outside the park dozens of Bali mynas have been released in various independent efforts to expand their range, including here in Bongkasa Pertiwi, about 60 miles to the southeast.
As we shake hands and sit down in the compound, Agung Rai Astawa is quiet, almost distant, but his voice grows earnest and firm when he starts to talk about the local effort he leads, run out of a volunteer’s family home. The wiry 50-year-old works in stonemasonry, an ancient craft that adorns the walled compounds and temples of the island. He’s also one of about 20 community members taking care of native birds, including more than 50 Bali mynas and 50 black-winged mynas (Acridotheres melanopterus), another critically endangered species.
The program has been running since 2018, when an Indonesian bottled-water company launched the initiative. The company donated six birds bought from legal breeders and a handful of cages to start it.
The villagers amended their awig-awig — collective agreements that serve as local customary law — to forbid poaching of the birds.
“The community is required to preserve the balance of nature,” Astawa says. If someone is caught hunting the birds, “his photo is put up in the village office to embarrass him.”
Breeding Bali mynas remains a fairly regulated endeavor, given the endangered and symbolic status of the species.
“We can’t be careless,” Astawa tells me. They need approval to release any captive birds, each of which gets a birth certificate from the government. Breeders also face fines if a bird dies from lack of care.
Ideally the village benefits with the flock. Tourists can pay $3.50 to see the beautiful white birds. Visitors already stop by the town for river rafting and an Instagram-famous swing, where they snap pictures dangling their legs above a tropical forest.
What’s happening on this family compound in the uplands is just one of myriad conservation efforts in Bali pairing nature protection with economic benefits for local communities. So far the approach seems to be working.
“I’ve come to wonder why I didn’t do this sooner,” says Astawa. “Now things are finally getting better.”
Bongkasa Pertiwi lies outside the bird’s native range, but the dozens being raised and released here help insure the overall population.
“I still think the national park is the center of efforts,” Squires later tells me, since that’s where the birds flew historically. But he highlighted the value of these separate programs. “We’ve always hoped to increase the range, so all the eggs aren’t in one basket.”
People Were the Problem; People Are the Solution
“I was born in Bali, I grew up in Bali, and I want to die in Bali.”
Bayu Wirayudha loves his home, both its wildlife and its people. The middle-aged leader of Friends of Nature, People and Forests, a nonprofit founded in 1997, was wearing his long black hair pulled back in a bun. He smiled often and widely, with spirited words to match, while describing his community-inclusive approach to conservation.
“Working with animals alone will not save the species,” he says.
In 2006 his organization approached villages scattered across three islands southeast of Bali, an administrative district named Nusa Penida after the largest island of the archipelago. The nonprofit wanted to create a bird sanctuary there to protect all sorts of native species. But in a country like Indonesia with such a deeply embedded caged bird culture — a popular Javanese saying equates manhood with possession of a bird, along with a house, wife, horse, and traditional dagger — they knew they needed community support before releasing any.
So Friends of Nature began an awareness campaign. They approached leaders in each village, asked temple committees to share information about the initiative, and even presented at weddings with permission from the couples.
In general, Wirayudha says, they based their case on the importance of protecting nature, often evoking older generations’ memories of the songbird music that soundtracked their childhoods.
But equally important in their persuasion was an economic promise.
Tourism accounts for over half of Bali’s gross domestic product. In general the global industry is rife with contradictions and questions over whom it benefits. While foreigners might perceive a flawless eco-paradise in Bali, with hotels promising sustainability and connection to the earth, the industry still strains the island’s ancient irrigation system and litters the landscape with plastic.
However, according to Wirayudha, the allure of tourism can encourage conservation, leading to benefits for both residents and the environment if done responsibly.
“When we protect the Bali myna, more and more tourists come,” he says. The additional stream of income provides an incentive to stop poaching.
In addition to promoting the island as a destination, the organization gives scholarships to students and hosts a variety of workshops helping farmers. Wirayudha’s general philosophy with Friends of Nature is to address the needs of humans along with animals, to the benefit of both.
“We bring opportunity,” he says. “And so, people are happy.”
Back in 2006 every one of the roughly three dozen villages across Nusa Penida added varying degrees of protection for birds to their awig-awig. Some protect only critically endangered species, others all — but each village prohibits the poaching of Bali mynas.
Today songbirds fly free; tourists come to take photos. The sanctuary has been so successful that villages on Bali’s main island have approached Friends of Nature about starting similar programs.
“Our biggest ambition is to get this bird off the critically endangered list,” says Wirayudha. “That one day it will be common.”
Loans Pay Off
A hundred miles to the northwest, West Bali National Park has seen an equally successful turnaround in recent years. These are the Bali myna’s native skies, home to the longest and largest conservation effort for the species.
In the 1980s, when the park established the first captive-breeding and release program for the species, rampant poaching consistently thwarted efforts to raise population levels. In 1999 thieves even robbed the facility at gunpoint and stole 39 birds.
The strategy wasn’t working.
Then, in 2006, the park started loaning birds to Balinese breeders.
Across the island the trade was once again made legal. Breeders could raise and sell Bali mynas, with a stipulation: They had to give 10% of the birds they raised to West Bali National Park for release. This involves monthly population reports, which are regularly verified in person by government staff.
It can be a controversial tactic. After the Indonesian government removed the critically endangered Javan pied starling (rare in the wild, but easy to find on the market) from its list of protected species in 2018, allowing its sale, some ecologists protested. The Indonesian Institute of Sciences issued a letter recommending a reversal.
While legalizing the trade of a critically endangered species may seem counterintuitive, it has reportedly drastically shriveled the black market for the Bali myna. At one point poachers could bag up to $2,000 or more for a pair. Now, sources tell me, the sale would make just a few hundred. That’s still a hefty amount, a sizable portion of local monthly salaries, but the drop makes a difference. Additionally, interested buyers can easily purchase from legitimate breeders, driving down demand for illicit sources.
“When you have a legal bird,” Wirayudha says, “why would you buy the illegal one?”
Granted, some collectors still choose the latter. The breeding loan program alone didn’t save the species, according to Squires, who highlighted the importance of other conservation efforts like captive breeding programs. But it has certainly made poaching far less alluring, while still allowing bird sellers an important source of income. The forests sound with more Bali myna chirps each year.
Most recently the park has begun shifting nest boxes, set up for recently released birds, from an isolated habitat to the surrounding, human-dominated landscape. The birds evolved to live in the savannah, and recent research suggests they fare better on farmland than dense woods.
Of course, this cohabitation takes the cooperation of residents. It takes trust that no one will kidnap and sell the released snow-white birds, even if they’re perched temptingly in the backyard.
Yet Wirayudha believes the wellbeing of birds and humans has never been totally separate, and neither has their habitat. And Squires reports that the two are getting along well, so far, in their shared swaths of land.
“Previously, the goal was to keep the birds away from people, as the primary threat,” he says. “But these are the best habitats for them, and the population is growing quickly.”
It Takes an Ecosystem
“In Indonesia, we think of the tiger when we think of conservation,” says biologist Ali Imron. The last confirmed Bali tiger was shot in 1937; the Javan tiger followed it into extinction in the 1970s.
Imron is originally from Sumatra, the largest island in Indonesia. There Sumatran tigers still prowl the dense tropical rainforests, although they’re critically endangered from poaching, conflict with farmers, and deforestation. Around 600 remain in the wild, roughly the same as the number of Bali mynas.
Imron has spent years working with pangolins, gibbons, and water snakes. Now he works for Begawan Foundation, a philanthropic organization started by a British couple that runs a Bali myna breeding program. He noted the importance of protecting all of nature, not just mynas or tigers but whole ecosystems, including the people within them.
“Conservation you cannot do by yourself,” he said. “You have to work together with local people.”
In an era when more than 10,000 species are assessed as critically endangered, the Bali myna and the people protecting them — whether by researching them, raising them, or simply not poaching them — offer an important lesson. Saving a species takes bottom-up community work; in other words, it takes a village.
While the story of these beautiful white birds still hangs fairly in the balance, according to Squires, “we are carefully hopeful.”
Earth Day coordinator Denis Hayes grew up in Camas, Washington, surrounded by natural beauty and unchecked pollution.
Every day drivers head north on Route 205 out of Portland, Oregon, cross the mighty Columbia River and the state line, and arrive in Washington.
Many of them will immediately head east, where on a clear day they’ll soon see snow-capped Mt. Hood looming over Highway 14. Also known as the Lewis & Clark Highway, this busy road will take them toward the suburban cities of Camas and Washougal.
But as they arrive in Camas and cross a narrow bridge, something else will loom over the scenic view: an enormous paper mill on the river’s edge.
That paper mill, which at one point processed hundreds of tons a day, has been a defining element of Camas for more than a century. The town grew up around it. Residents walked down the hill to work there and sent their kids up the hill to go to school, where the local basketball team is still called the Papermakers (complete with a mascot, the Mean Machine, that looks like an anthropomorphic paper press).
A portion of the mill in downtown Camas. Photo: John R. Platt/The Revelator
Today the mill, now owned by Koch Industries, is a shadow of its former self. Relatively few people still work there. Much of the 660-acre property lies fallow.
And although few realize it, the paper mill’s legacy also exists on the national stage.
In many ways it inspired the first Earth Day.
Famed environmental advocate Denis Hayes coordinated the first national Earth Day in 1970. He later founded the Earth Day Network and became a leader in solar power and energy policy.
But before that he grew up in Camas, which at the time had an occasionally noxious reputation.
“If you talked to someone in Portland and mentioned Camas, universally the response was, ‘Oh yeah, that’s where the stink comes from,’ ” Hayes, now 80, recalled during a recent Zoom presentation to an in-person audience at the Camas Public Library. “The whole region was known for the stink of this uncontrolled paper mill.”
The stink came from “vast quantities of uncontrolled sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide” emitted by the mill. Those pollutants came back down in the form of acid rain — and as Hayes noted, it rains quite a bit in the Pacific Northwest.
Hayes speaking to Camas residents over Zoom. Photo: John R. Platt/The Revelator
The effect was immediately visible in town, where the roofs of cars corroded under the acidic onslaught.
“People began to ask, well, if it’s doing that to my car, what’s it doing to me,” Hayes said. “The answer, with regards to the automobiles, was that instead of reducing the pollution, they put a shower at the end of the parking lot” to rinse cars before they drove home.
Wildlife was affected, too. “Every now and then you’d go down to the Columbia River slough and find scores of dead fish, in some cases hundreds of dead fish, just floating there,” Hayes said.
Camas had its good sides, of course. “What I did have growing up was the ability to walk through some of the most magnificent forests on Earth and to ride my bicycle down through the Columbia River Gorge and the spectacular scenery,” Hayes recalled.
But even there the paper mill took a toll.
“You’d go out in the forest and go hiking in the summer, in these astonishingly beautiful Douglas fir forests, and then two years later you go back there and it is almost clearcut. There was this catastrophic approach to clearing out natural resources.”
The beauty and the destruction “came together and sort of made me think, not too profoundly, that it must be possible to make paper without destroying the planet,” he said.
Camas was just one of Hayes’ influences, and Hayes was one of many people behind the first Earth Day and the environmental successes that followed.
But what followed remains significant.
“The context then was one where we were pretty highly motivated to try to get some kinds of regulations someplace,” Hayes recalled. “This is not a personal accomplishment. There were a huge number of things that were involved in this, including the presidential aspirations of a senator named Ed Muskie.”
Posters about Hayes and the first Earth Day at Camas Public Library. Photo: John R. Platt/The Revelator
After the first Earth Day, the organizers — who had formed a nonprofit called Environmental Action — launched what they called “the Dirty Dozen” campaign targeting congressional representatives with bad records on environmental issues. “We tried to take out several of the worst members of Congress, and we successfully defeated seven of 12 incumbents,” Hayes said. “It is really, really hard to beat an incumbent member of Congress. And we managed to take out seven of 12. And it was clear that we were the margin of a victory in each of those cases.”
Among the defeated politicians was Rep. George Fallon. “At that time Fallon was the chairman of the House Public Works Committee. If you wanted to have a federal building, you wanted to have a prison, a courthouse, a dam, any kind of public work in your district anywhere across the country, you had to have the permission of the guy who chaired that committee. When we took out George Fallon, clearly with an environmental campaign, that absolutely transformed the House of Representatives.”
One month after that election, Muskie helped introduce what would become the Clean Air Act. “And the Clean Air Act passed the Senate on a voice vote and passed the House of Representatives 434 to 1. There was one member of both Houses of the American Congress that voted against the Clean Air Act. Something that would have been inconceivable in 1969 became unstoppable in 1970,” Hayes said.
“Those are the kinds of magic moments that can happen in a democracy where everything, just like a school of fish is going in this direction and suddenly it goes in a different direction,” he continued. “It was my thrill to have been part of a handful of those occasions.”
A new generation of Camas residents — in fact, multiple generations — has taken the lesson of the first Earth Day to heart.
Several residents recently came together to form the Camas Earth Day Society, which organized Hayes’ talk at the local library and is working toward a sustainable future in their home town. They’ve worked with local students, many of whom asked Hayes questions during the event. The organization has also held an art show, organized a native pollinator display, and raised awareness of clean air and water issues in Camas.
They have ambitious dreams that boil down to a simple truth, both in Camas and around the world: Everyone can make a difference.
Fifty-five years after the first Earth Day, the future of environmental protection has darkened once again. The Trump administration has enabled corporate polluters, slashed climate programs and budgets, and seeks to slash and burn practically all environmental regulations.
But the crowd that gathered earlier this month at the Camas library — people young and old — came together despite those threats, ready to talk about solar power, protecting native plants, improving water quality, reducing pollution, and mobilizing for the future.
More than one T-shirt that night read “Earth Day Is Every Day” — a sign that the seeds of that first day continue to sprout.
Really, they do — they just don’t think you want to talk about it. So stop being afraid of pushback, break the “climate silence,” and start a conversation.
This story is part of The 89 Percent Project, an initiative of the global journalism collaboration Covering Climate Now.
In these divided times, it seems everyone is ready to start an argument at the drop of a hat, especially on topics that have been made so politically polarizing, like climate change.
But is that true? Are conversations about climate change really doomed before they even start?
As it turns out, they’re not — we just think they are, so we avoid having these conversations in the first place.
Here’s the reality: According to multiple surveys and scientific studies, between 80-89% of people want the world’s governments to take stronger action against climate change. At the same time, the people who want action don’t realize they’re in the majority because not enough people are talking about it — especially in the media.
One new study, published April 17 in PLOS Climate, found that this lack of media coverage contributes to a negative feedback loop that perpetuates “climate silence.”
And it isn’t just the media: The study found that “perceived social norms” — specifically, the incorrect perception that other members of society may discount climate science — are the major factor influencing whether or not we have climate conversations.
The conclusions are clear: People don’t hear enough people talking about climate change, so they don’t talk about it themselves. And that inability or unwillingness to discuss such an overwhelming issue slows or stops climate progress on both individual and societal levels.
But we can escape this feedback loop. The paper suggested several ways to break through this climate silence: describing why climate change worries you or puts you or something you care about at risk; communicating the reality that most people are concerned about climate change; sharing news articles; and even including climate messages in public entertainment.
I reached out to lead author Margaret Orr from George Mason University to discuss “climate silence,” its real-world implications, the media’s role, and what we all can do about it. Our phone and email conversations follow.
Why did you conduct this study? Had you observed this silence in action, or attempts to break through it, and was it something you wanted to quantify? (I also see you’ve studied misinformation; is that related?)
This study originated as a project for an Interpersonal Communication class at George Mason University. We knew from previous research, commentary from climate scientists and activists, and our own experiences that very few people discuss climate change despite it being credited as one of the most important climate actions. Because of our interest in using research to help drive concrete climate action, we wanted to investigate ways that climate conversations could be encouraged amongst the public.
In short, we wanted to identify barriers to climate conversation in order to work on breaking them down. This research wasn’t directly driven by my interest in misinformation but it’s tangentially related in that some of these conversations could be important for building trust and debunking misinformation.
What are the costs of this silence? Lack of political or societal action? Allowing misinformation to spread? Or does it hurt on a more individual level, by dulling the belief that we can make a difference?
All of the above! We talk about spiral of silence theory in the paper, which is a self-reinforcing cycle. If no one talks about climate change, people become less likely to talk about it because it is perceived as a taboo topic. The less people talk about climate change, the less it is thought of as a problem, which in turn leads to less action because people don’t care or don’t know what to do about the problem.
Has conducting this study affected how you communicate about climate change in any way?
It’s made me more aware of how important it is for me to talk about climate change, especially as someone who has an atmospheric science degree and some expertise in climate science itself. As my hero, Rachel Carson, once said: “Knowing what I do, there would be no peace for me if I kept silent.”
The study has also helped me to focus on discussing the topics that we found to be correlated to more climate conversations. I highlight the scientific consensus, the fact that a majority of Americans support climate actions, and ways that people’s individual lifestyles could be at risk due to climate change.
What responsibility do you feel that our community leaders should be talking about this? Another study published this month found that 90% of Christian religious leaders believe humans are driving climate change, but they don’t talk about it from the pulpit.
I think it can be tough when you expect pushback, and that’s part of the root of our studies — that people expect pushback when they talk about climate change.
If there is interest, instead of saying “I’m going to stand up here and bring this to my congregation,” it can be something more like planting seeds and letting it grow almost from the grassroots, things like that.
Other local community leaders could do very similar things. Plant those seeds in the community and then bring it up to the mayor of a town or something. Instead of coming in with a hammer and saying climate change, let it come from the grass roots.
You mentioned people being afraid that they’re to get some pushback if they bring up climate change, and obviously we’re anticipating this kind of political discord, this distance in our conversations. Do we start with things like, “Hey, I saved energy by doing this thing,” or something simple like that that kind of breaks through the barrier?
Yeah, something simple and personal. Connecting it to that personal, shared value is quite effective.
The social media landscape has changed so much in recent years, especially when it comes to news links, which many platforms actively suppress. Do you still see it as an effective way to break through the silence barrier?
Social media can be helpful for interpersonal discussion, but those discussions can often become exhausting, and you feel like you’re getting nowhere.
My answer here comes a little bit more from my misinformation research than this study itself — when using social media, think of the “lurkers.” We hear from people with opinions that lean heavily towards one side or the other of an issue, but we don’t hear from people with less strong opinions or who are more undecided on a matter. They might be reading a comment section and your effort to spread truth about climate change is likely to reach them without you ever knowing it. Social media in today’s world might be better used as a platform for personal stories and experiences rather than sharing news links.
You mention entertainment as an effective communication tool. Have you noticed any particularly effective efforts lately?
The first thing coming to mind here is the TV show “Top Chef.” I can’t cite a specific season or episode, because I like to use old seasons as background while I work and they can sometimes blur together, but there have been a few instances where chefs on the show mentioned how climate change is affecting the availability of ingredients that a given region is known for — seafood, for example. Little “sprinkles” of climate change like this always impress me because it helps connect to things that the audience cares about.
It seems to me that a lot of the stuff I read that isn’t specifically about the environment is still making some mention of climate or the environment, and that feels like a good way to enter into these conversations with people.
There’s kind of an element of catching people almost off guard, like they’re not coming in thinking about climate change, but then, now we are thinking about it. I think that’s a unique opportunity to open that dialogue and have it come through something that people care about.
One of the things that I love to do — and I think this I originally heard this from Katharine Hayhoe — is to connect with people on what they value. If someone is interested in food and cooking, that’s something they value, so we can connect on that as opposed to just kind of coming in talking about climate change more broadly. You can start with that common ground.
Now, from the flip side, is there a way to make this more active? Are there ways we can engage people a little bit more directly in conversations about climate? Something like, “Hey, have you ever seen these plants pop up this early in the season,” or something like that? Can we push these conversations a little bit?
Definitely. I’ve seen that come up in conversations that I have — you know, the crocuses are up in February, things like that, those shared experiences and personal experiences.
How do you hope people will respond to this paper or act based on what you’ve presented?
I think we’re hoping that people who are in these communication positions — whether it’s journalists, broadcast meteorologists, community leaders — would then be able to take the topics that we found, spur a conversation, and be able to think about how they can communicate using those topics.
What other advice might you offer to the media in the context of The 89 Percent Project?
I would say that it’s important for journalists to connect to local stories and communities. “A lot of Americans want climate action” is great; “A lot of people in your state/city/community want climate action” is even better.
Focusing on action is also helpful. Highlight examples of action that’s already working and is easy to adopt. Local composting efforts, easy ways to save energy, local solar panel incentive programs come to mind. Increased climate coverage was also found in our study to increase conversation, so just by publishing climate stories, the project will help break silences.
We also found that norms, or people’s perceptions of what their peers do or think, are very important in spurring conversation — so highlighting these majorities will also be super helpful!
Focusing on brightly plumaged and “familiar” birds can leave important conservation questions unanswered — and even put less attractive species at risk.
Every morning, at this time of year, a red-winged blackbird greets me as I walk down the street. He’s become a familiar sight and sound, and I watch for the flash of black and red that tells me he’s landed on a branch above my head and is about to speak up.
But how many less flashy birds do I miss while looking for those blackbirds? Chances are, quite a few — just like the scientific community, according to new research published in the journal Proceedings of the Royal Society B.
The study, by a team of researchers from the University of Toledo and Ohio University, examined 55 years’ worth of scientific papers on North American birds and found they show a dramatic bias toward more noticeable species — those who are more aesthetically pleasing or “flashy,” have wider breeding ranges, and whose ranges overlap with nearby universities.
And yes, that includes red-winged blackbirds. Of the more than 27,000 published papers analyzed for this study, red-winged blackbirds were the second-most researched species, with an astonishing 499 publications. That’s second only to the bright blue-and-white tree swallow, the subject of 597 papers (perhaps because their adaptability to backyard nest boxes makes them so easy to study).
That leaves many species — the “drab” ones, as the study puts it, and the ones with smaller ranges — understudied, if studied at all. A rather plain but sweet-looking species called the Philadelphia vireo wasn’t studied a single time during this 55-year period, according to the analysis.
This bias can create a negative feedback loop, the paper warns, where the most-studied species keep getting studied and the “drab” species fade into the background, forgotten by both science and the public. The “lack of research on visually unremarkable and unfamiliar birds may ultimately result in their ‘societal extinction,’” researchers warn.
I reached out to lead author Silas Fischer, a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Toledo, to learn more about this bias, how it affects conservation, and what other researchers can do to help correct it.
The following has been edited slightly for style and brevity.
Is a possible interpretation of this paper, “In praise of boring birds?”
I suppose part of our findings could be interpreted that way, although I wouldn’t use the word “boring” to describe those species! What some of these drably plumaged species lack in color and plumage contrast, they make up for in personality.
What was the origin story for this paper? I noticed that many of your previous papers cover the gray vireo, which your new study quantifies as a “drab,” understudied bird.
I think the impetus of the paper comes from multiple observations and experiences I’ve had over the years, both as a young scientist and someone who observes birds recreationally. One part of it originated from the experiences I’ve had studying a species — the gray vireo — that most people have never heard of. Even many ornithologists and birders tend to forget about it.
A lot of my research has been on dryland birds in New Mexico, many of which have drab gray or brown plumage. They also tend to occur away from roads and people, so they’re easily overlooked — out of sight, out of mind.
I’m not implying causation here, but I’ve had papers rejected on the premise of not being interesting or novel enough — even if there is next-to-nothing known about some of these species in a Western science context. Then a few months later, the same journal publishes a paper on a similar topic but on a different, flashier species for which there is already a lot of research, conservation concerns and efforts, and sometimes even dedicated species-specific working groups.
It’s interesting to see millions of dollars spent on some species, while at the same time we lack even a basic understanding of other species’ biology. And that’s coming from someone who studies birds, which are really well studied overall compared to some other taxonomic groups.
Part of the impetus also comes from my experiences birding around others. For example, I was birding at the Magee Marsh boardwalk in Northwest Ohio, which during songbird migration is a popular birding spot. I regularly overhear other birders marveling over the flashy warblers in breeding plumage, while overlooking other comparatively less-flashy birds like vireos and sparrows. Some folks ask about whether I or a friend were “seeing anything good,” dismissing our responses if we didn’t say, for example, blackburnian warbler or golden-winged warbler.
Don’t get me wrong, I love warblers too! But I also want to observe and know other species.
Did you have any challenges conducting the study?
Mostly it was just time consuming, especially doing the manual publication filtering. That and being so excited to share our research with the world but having to wait years during the peer-review and publication process. But that’s not unique to our paper by any means.
When the results came in, were there any surprises?
We were not overly surprised that visual appeal, familiarity, and accessibility were significant predictors of the variation in publication numbers among species. But we were surprised that those three metrics combined to explain nearly half of that variation.
We were also surprised that eponymously named bird species — those whose common names refer to a human name — were studied less often than other birds in the dataset.
I think our work highlights why and how biologists can bring their human biases to all aspects of biology, which should be of concern for biologists, regardless of their study taxa, moving forward.
Could you give an example of a “flashy” species that’s potentially been overstudied or a “drab” bird that your research suggests is understudied because of this bias?
I can’t say that any one certain species was or was not studied because of these specific biases — I can’t imply causation for or against studying specific species, just that there is a trend toward focusing on visually appealing, familiar, and accessible species in our dataset — but I can tell you some of the most and least studied species. Some well-studied species were tree swallows, red-winged blackbirds, American redstarts, and white-throated sparrows. Some of the relatively understudied species were Philadelphia vireos, crissal thrashers, black-chinned sparrows, and olive warblers.
What’s the conservation cost of this bias?
Good question. One of the premises of conservation biology is that all species have value. But it’s clear that value is not equally distributed among bird species, nor among other organisms across the tree of life.
The value we attribute to species has direct implications for how much time and money we allocate to each species and can even impact a species’ designated conservation status. In conservation we rarely have all the knowledge we need to make important decisions in the face of biodiversity loss. But by selectively studying only a subset of bird species, and neglecting others, we widen the knowledge gap between them.
For the understudied birds, we often lack basic information on their ecology. And we lack fundamental data that help us understand whether a species is declining, much less what is driving those declines. Many of the conservation status designation decisions — for example, whether a species is endangered — rely on the information available. But if that information does not exist, then what? We can’t really assess a species’ threat status or implement meaningful conservation actions in those cases.
Has conducting this study and identifying this bias affected your own work in any way?
It’s hard to say at this point because this was largely a side project that I’ve been working on as I write my dissertation! But I will say I’m motivated to keep studying the dull, drab, distant birds.
How can other researchers correct this bias in their own work?
The first step is awareness. When you’re in the phase of research where you get to choose your next study topic — if it’s not already dictated by, for example, funding availability — think about whether you’re leaning towards a species because of how exciting it is visually, how familiar it might be, or how accessible it is to you.
Sure, logistics play a big part in how feasible some projects are. But I’d be willing to bet that for most folks there are a suite of species in an area that are feasible to study, and it’s important to make sure we aren’t making those decisions based on our implicit biases.
But it’s also important to point out that many funding agencies, such as state wildlife agencies, identify species of conservation concern or priority species. Then some or all of the funding available for research is earmarked for those specific species in the call for proposals. In these cases, researchers might be left with no choice but to study the priority species if they want funding, which they need to further their careers.
The bottom line is that it’s not all the fault of researchers. It’s a complex feedback cycle, which bias might influence species’ value at each link in the chain and their connections. There’s probably not one sole link in the chain that’s driving the skew in research — it’s the whole interconnected system of public attention and interest, media representation, policies, conservation practitioners’ priorities and species status designations, funding availability, etc. that feed into one another.
It’s complicated. But simple awareness, followed by conscious action, can make a difference.
Does looking at peer-reviewed science leave anything out? Citizen-science bird counts, eBird, and iNaturalist might contain more data on these “drab” species.
We didn’t analyze whether these metrics explain attention to species among citizen science efforts, so I can’t make any definitive statements about that. However, there have been some studies assessing potential bias in citizen science efforts, for example among birds and butterflies. And anecdotally, as I mentioned, I have witnessed again and again birdwatchers disregarding some birds in favor of flashier ones. I can say that there are some species whose characteristics make them less conducive to surveying through efforts like the Breeding Bird Survey.
The preprint of this paper has been out since 2023. Any response from the community to that or the new publication?
The preprint generated quite a bit of buzz on social media! I think it had nearly 60,000 views on Twitter. A lot of folks said they were not surprised about our results.
You’re also an accomplished artist. Is there any bleed-over between this science and your art?
A lot of my art I’ve made in conjunction with my scientific research. I see the two as going hand in hand — they’re both part of my research practice. I’ve been slowly building a body of work based on my research on gray vireos and some of my experiences, and this work surely bleeds into that, whether conscious on my part or not. I’m excited to see how it plays out in the future.
These new books cover challenges to our shared land, ranging from Indigenous appropriation to current corporate grabs.
In a perfect world, a book-review column focused on public lands would provide readers with exciting tips and insights about visiting national parks and monuments, wildlife refuges, and other breathtaking sites across the United States.
But it’s not a perfect world: Today America’s public lands face their greatest threats as the Trump administration expands the extractive economy, slashes agency workforces, seeks to shrink national monuments, and makes plans to sell off many of our natural assets — even as attendance at our national parks continues to soar to record levels.
That’s why several new and forthcoming books about public lands are essential reading: They put this new threat into historical context, reveal the complexities and contradictions in our public-lands policies, offer insight into their current and future protections, and remind us of their beauty and ecological importance.
Some of them also teach us how to get maximum enjoyment out of a visit to a national park.
Here are a dozen-plus new books about public lands, published in 2024 and 2025, along with their official descriptions. The links go to the publishers’ sites, but you should also be able to request these books through your local booksellers or public libraries.
We’ve also provided a list of several must-have, critical, and fundamental books about public lands for your environmental library and book collections — a list especially for new and young environmentalists and those new to environmentalism who seek core information as a foundation for their advocacy and understanding in today’s world.
Before we get to the traditionally published books, we thought it was important to mention one of the primary texts being used right now to attack public lands:
We include this one on the list to reveal the strategies of those trying to monetize and minimize America’s public lands. There’s a lot to digest and understand in this roadmap for unworking the federal government; for the primary section affecting national parks, monuments, and forests, skip to Chapter 16 on the Department of the Interior by self-styled “Sagebrush Rebel” William Perry Pendley.
Environmental historian Adam Sowards synthesizes public-lands history from the beginning of the republic to recent controversies. The U.S. federal government owns more than a quarter of the nation’s landscape, managed by four federal agencies. It intersects history with nature, politics, and economics and explores how the concept of “public” has been controversial from the start, from homesteader visions to free-enterprise ranchers to activists. Americans have a stake in these lands: They are, after all, ours.
Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in southern Utah has figured prominently in the long and ongoing struggle over the meaning and value of America’s public lands. In 1996 President Bill Clinton used the Antiquities Act to create the monument, with the goal of protecting scientific and historical resources. This book focuses on the perspectives of diverse groups affected by conflict over the monument. Brugger considers how conceptions of democracy have shaped and been shaped by the regional landscape and by these disputes. Through this ethnographic evidence, Brugger proposes a concept of democracy that encompasses disparate meanings and experiences, embraces conflict, and suggests a crucial role for public lands in transforming antagonism into agonism.
A comprehensive primer on state public lands and the political dynamics that underlie their management. For most Americans state lands are the most accessible type of public land; however, despite their ubiquity, they remain largely terra incognita. Offering a wide-angle overview, Davis focuses on how states prioritize competing claims related to conservation, resource development, tourism, recreation, and finances. Exploring differences and common patterns in state land management, he examines the privatization and commercialization of state parks and the tensions between recreation, revenue, and the preservation of biodiversity and natural landscapes. He also raises issues about equity, access, appropriate development, and ecological health. With current demands to transfer federal lands to the states, Davis concludes with an appraisal of whether states could handle this transfer and suggests ways to ensure adequate access in an era of increased need.
A galvanizing road trip across California’s immense public wilderness from a beloved adventurer. It all began with a camping trip. Outdoor enthusiast Josh Jackson had never heard of “BLM land” before a casual recommendation from a friend led him to a free campsite in the desert — and the revelation that over 15 million acres of land in California are owned collectively by the people. In The Enduring Wild, he takes us on a road trip spanning thousands of miles, crisscrossing the Golden State to seek out every parcel of public wilderness, from the Pacific shores of the King Range down to the Mojave Desert. Over mountains, across prairies, and through sagebrush, Jackson unravels the stories of these lands: The Indigenous peoples who have called them home to the extractives’ threats that imperil them today, and of the grassroots organizers and political champions who have rallied to their common defense to uphold the radical mandate to protect these natural treasures for generations to come.
For more than 150 years, the 23-million-acre Yellowstone region — now widely known as the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem — has played a prominent role in the United States’ nature conservation agenda. In this book Robert B. Keiter, an award-winning public land law and policy expert, traces the evolution and application of fundamental ecological conservation concepts tied to Yellowstone. Keiter’s book highlights both the conservation successes and controversies connected with this storied region. Extending across three states and twenty counties and embracing more than sixteen million acres of federal land as well as private and tribal lands, Yellowstone is a complex, jurisdictionally fragmented landscape. The quest for common ground among federal land managers, state officials, local communities, conservationists, ranchers, Indigenous tribes, and others is a vital, enduring task. (Available July 2025)
Relationships with land are fundamental components of Indigenous worldviews, politics, and identity. The disruption of land relations is a defining feature of colonialism; colonial governments and capitalist industries have violently dispossessed Indigenous lands, undermining Indigenous political authority through the production of racialized and gendered hierarchies of difference. The collection of voices in Land Back highlight the ways Indigenous peoples and anticolonial co-resistors understand land relations for political resurgence and freedom across the Americas, examining the relationships of language, Indigenous ontologies, and land reclamation; Indigenous ecology and restoration; the interconnectivity of environmental exploitation and racial, class, and gender exploitation; Indigenous diasporic movement; community urban planning; transnational organizing and relational anti-racist place-making; and the role of storytelling and children in movements for liberation.
While outdoor industry marketing promotes an image of “the wilderness” as an unpeopled haven, this book is an analysis of the relationship between the outdoor recreation industry, U.S. public lands, and Indigenous sovereignty and representation in recreational spaces. Combining social media analysis, digital ethnography, and historical research, Whitson offers nuanced insights into more than a century of the outdoor recreation industry’s marketing strategies, unraveling its complicity in settler colonialism. Complicating the narrative of outdoor recreation as a universal good, Whitson introduces the concept of “wildernessing” to describe the physical, legal, and rhetorical production of pristine, empty lands that undergirds the outdoor recreation industry, a process that further disenfranchises Indigenous people from whom these lands were stolen. Through the lens of environmental justice activism, Marketing the Wilderness reconsiders the ethics of the deeply fraught relationship between the outdoor recreation industry and Indigenous communities. Emphasizing the power of the corporate system and its treatment of land as a commodity under capitalism, he shows how these tensions shape the American idea of “wilderness” and what it means to fight for its preservation.
The history of national parks in the United States mirrors the fraught relations between the Department of the Interior and the nation’s Indigenous peoples. But amidst the challenges are examples of success. This collection of essays proposes a reorientation of relationships between tribal nations and national parks, placing Indigenous peoples as co-stewards through strategic collaboration. More than simple consultation, strategic collaboration, as the authors define it, involves the complex process by which participants come together to find ways to engage with one another across sometimes-conflicting interests. In case studies and interviews, the authors and editors of this volume — scholars as well as National Park Service staff and Tribal historic preservation officers — explore pathways for collaboration, emphasizing emotional commitment, mutual respect, and patience, rather than focusing on “land-back” solutions, in the cocreation of a socially sensible public-lands policy.
For millennia land has been a symbol of wealth and privilege. But the true power of land ownership is even greater than we might think. Political scientist Michael Albertus shows that who owns the land determines whether a society will be equal or unequal, whether it will develop or decline, and whether it will safeguard or sacrifice its environment. With an overview of modern global land reallocation history, Albertus shows how the shuffle continues today as governments vie for power and prosperity by choosing who should get land. Drawing on a career’s worth of original research and on-the-ground fieldwork, Albertus shows that choices about who owns the land have locked in poverty, sexism, racism, and climate crisis — and that what we do with the land today can change our collective fate. Global in scope, Land Power argues that saving civilization must begin with the earth under our feet.
Some 170,000 wood bison, North America’s largest land animals, once roamed northern regions, while at least 30 million plains bison trekked across the rest of the continent. Almost driven to extinction in the 1800s by decades of slaughter and hunting, this ecological and cultural keystone species supports biodiversity and strengthens the ecosystems around it. Bison: Community Builders and Grassland Caretakers celebrates the traditions and teachings of Indigenous Peoples and looks at how bison lovers of all backgrounds came together to save these iconic animals. Learn about the places where bison are regaining a hoof-hold and meet some of the young people who are welcoming bison back home.
A vivid portrait of the American prairie, which rivals the rainforest in its biological diversity and, with little notice, is disappearing even faster. The North American prairie is an ecological marvel, a lush carpet of grass that stretches to the horizon, and home to some of the nation’s most iconic creatures — bison, elk, wolves, pronghorn, prairie dogs, and bald eagles. Plants, microbes, and animals together made the grasslands one of the richest ecosystems on Earth and a massive carbon sink, but the constant expansion of agriculture threatens what remains. Exploring humanity’s relationship with this incredible land, this book offers a deep, compassionate analysis of the difficult decisions and opportunities facing agricultural and Indigenous communities. A vivid portrait of the heartland ecosystem that argues why the future of this region is essential far beyond the heartland.
Showcasing our country’s astonishing beauty, the Rand McNally Road Atlas & National Park Guide is packed with hundreds of photos, essential visitor information, and insightful travel tips for all 63 of America’s national parks. Includes a complete 2025 Rand McNally Road Atlas to make navigating a breeze, plus tourism websites and phone numbers for every U.S. state and Canadian province on map pages.
More Must-Read, Fundamental Public Lands Books for Every Environmentalist’s Collection
Literally hundreds of books about public land have crossed our desks since The Revelator started publishing eight years ago. Here’s a compendium of several must-have, critical, and fundamental books about public lands for your environmental library and book collections — a list especially relevant for new and young environmentalists who seek essential information to create a foundation for their advocacy and understanding in today’s often “anti-climate-change” world.
Briefly lays out the history and characteristics of public lands at the local, state, and federal levels while examining the numerous policy prescriptions for their privatization or, in the case of federal lands, transfer.
Quammen, historian and conservationist, documents the ongoing feud between the Bundy ranching family, the federal government, and the American public, examining the roots of the Bundys’ cowboy confrontations, and how history has shaped an often-dangerous mindset which today feeds the militia movement and threatens public lands, wild species, and American heritage.
One woman’s enlightening trek through the natural histories, cultural stories, and present perils of thirteen national monuments, from Maine to Hawaii.
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Bouley’s new project at Macossa-Tambara in Mozambique is part of an effort to double the African lion population by 2050.
Ecologist Paola Bouley recently spent a day with local women in central Mozambique as they whirled around in colorful skirts, dancing near ancient baobab trees as part of a community ritual. The next day she heard zebras, saw evidence that an elephant had passed by, and followed large lion pawprints down a forest path in central Mozambique.
Bouley with lion tracks. Photo courtesy Macossa.org
The day stirred up echoes of her childhood, when she first felt an innate draw to the natural world. As a 10-year-old in apartheid South Africa, she preferred climbing trees in her backyard, sitting on rock outcrops with her dogs observing the animals.
But the neighborhood around her was rapidly suburbanizing. The untouched landscape was soon paved over.
“I found refuge in nature,” she says. “So when the development happened, I had this feeling of loss.”
Today Bouley finds herself back in nature, helping lead a team of Mozambican and international conservationists and scientists rehabilitating the Macossa-Tambara region, an ecosystem the size of Yellowstone National Park. Centered around a river basin, the area supports lions, leopards, pangolins, a vast forest, and 40,000 people.
“When you’re in an area like Macossa-Tambara, you feel very whole,” says Bouley. “It’s the birthplace of humanity. We all have roots in a place like this.”
In many ways that’s a return to form. Macossa-Tambara sits to the west of Gorongosa Mountain and Gorongosa Park, where Bouley first earned international recognition for her efforts conserving lions and other endangered species.
But the journey between the two sites posed many challenges and nearly pushed her out of conservation altogether.
Gorongosa Park
Bouley found her way to Mozambique through a series of magnetic pulls.
After moving to the United States for college, Bouley studied engineering with a plan to become an astronaut, but she says she left classes feeling that she was being pushed into a soulless military-industrial complex.
A chance poetry class returned her to her interest in the natural world, and she switched majors to biology with a focus on marine conservation. In graduate school and afterward, she worked on a program that conserved a nearly extinct salmon population in the San Francisco Bay.
But missing her native continent — and grappling with persistent seasickness that made being on boats challenging — Bouley returned to Africa in 2010 to work on a large carnivore project in Zambia.
In 2011, when she was waiting to board a flight in a small airport for a holiday in Mozambique, an old park warden asked her if she was going to Gorongosa Park.
Bouley had never heard of it.
Gorongosa Park in Mozambique had once been seen as a crown jewel of Africa. Then its war of independence from Portugal and subsequent civil war — spanning the 1960s to 1990s — ravaged the ecosystem.
Gorongosa was an epicenter of resistance. During the war animals were caught in the crossfire, leaving the park barren.
But the worst part for the park came after the war, a period marked by further unrest that enabled a trophy hunting free-for-all as foreign and national wealthy hunters descended on the land to kill what they wanted, whether for ivory or food.
During this difficult transition period for the country, rural people in poverty and in desperate need of cash would set snares and steel door traps, mainly to kill animals and sell bushmeat to buyers in the city. The traps were meant for warthogs, waterbuck, and antelope, but lions frequently traversed the same trails.
By the time Bouley first heard of Gorongosa, the lion population there had fallen to just 30 big cats, many of whom bore permanent injuries from traps and snares. Common sightings included a lion without a paw or a three-legged lioness hopping around with her cubs because a snare or steel jaw trap had severed her limb. Some lions had gnawed off their own limbs to handle the pain.
But in 2007, after three years of negotiation, the Mozambican government inked a deal with an American tech entrepreneur named Greg Carr to fund the rehabilitation of Gorongosa, an effort called the Gorongosa Restoration Project. Gorongosa also received significant investments from other donors, including the governments and taxpayers of the United States, Norway, Ireland, Canada, and Portugal (according to an email from Carr, he and his contacts via outside fundraising fund the majority of the park’s efforts today). At the time many hoped the infusion of money would lead to jobs for the local community and renewed conservation of the wildlife.
Rehabilitating the Lions
In 2012 Bouley was still traveling back-and-forth between California and Africa. One of her former professors volunteered to connect her with Princeton ecologist Rob Pringle, who was on the board of Gorongosa. Pringle was working closely with Carr who, after pioneering voicemail technology and making many millions in tech, became a powerful name in conservation and human rights spaces (Harvard’s Carr Center for Human Rights is named after him).
That year, while still a graduate student, Bouley made her first trip to Gorongosa to meet Carr and the local team and embark on a large carnivore rehabilitation program as part of her doctorate to study the restoration of lions. Bouley remembers landing and being “whisked away” by Carr’s entourage, which included a filmmaking crew and biology and conservation legend E.O. Wilson.
By 2014 she’d begun an intended five-year fellowship program at the University of California Santa Cruz, splitting time between California and Gorongosa to focus on the lion population with an academic lens.
One day she heard about a mother lioness named Helena and her cub; a couple of months later, Helena was killed by a snare. Bouley realized then that there wasn’t much she could do in California to help, so she decided to forgo her fellowship and embark on lion recovery at Gorongosa full-time.
Helena and cub before her death. Photo courtesy Paola Bouley.
When it came to the lions, Carr recognized the potential for saving large carnivores. He put his weight behind the project and gave Bouley autonomy to implement her program.
Bouley transferred from the science department to the conservation department, which she says had completely collapsed. She found that wildlife rangers had no training and were being paid close to nothing.
Bouley took on a highly operational role, and their first conservation plan was to put satellite collars on the lion prides. Lions are surprisingly difficult to locate, especially with so few remaining in the 1,500-square-mile park, and the collars would allow Gorongosa to track where families moved — or if they stopped moving.
Snares remained a big threat to the cats at the time. Bushmeat sellers would place traps near watering holes and grazing areas where prey such as waterbucks and warthogs would dwell, but lions also seeking those prey often stumbled into the traps. They even trapped humans; Carr himself got snared one day while he was hiking.
The team needed a veterinarian to subdue the lions and put on the collars, so Carr called in a native Mozambican named Rui Branco to partner with Bouley. The lions slept by day, and at night the conservation team would use a dart gun to safely tranquilize the lions and collar them. If a collared lion’s signal went static for more than 24 hours, Bouley’s team would know whether the animal had been ensnared and could send a rescue team.
The collars worked: Branco and Bouley found themselves all-too-frequently called out to rescue snared lions and other animals. Bonded by the intimacy of treating and de-snaring maimed animals, they would go on to forge a close friendship that ultimately developed into a romantic partnership.
Branco, who saw the need to empower and manage local rangers, soon became the head of law enforcement in the park. He also felt that foreign hunting, conducted legally in certain areas, needed to be controlled to meet conservation goals.
Bouley, working alongside a team of Mozambican rangers and in partnership with Indigenous communities, launched a range of initiatives that included addressing elephant-human coexistence, first-response during the unprecedented devastation of historic Cyclone Idai, and providing support for communities during multiple severe drought and famine periods.
It paid off. They removed more than 20,000 snares and reduced lion deaths by 95%. Today, as a result of that work, the population in Gorongosa has grown to more than 200 lions.
They also eliminated the poaching of elephants over multiple years, established the nation’s first pangolin rescue and rehab center, and laid the foundations for and reintroduced populations of endangered painted wolves, leopards, and hyenas. During that time the number of large mammals in the park surged to more than 100,000 — up from fewer than 71,000 in 2014.
The efforts earned Bouley and Gorongosa international acclaim. But behind the scenes, long-brewing concerns had started to boil over.
Problems in Paradise
“Greg Carr did it,” announced CBS News anchor Scott Pelley.
In 2022 Pelley toured Gorongosa Park for 60 Minutes, a follow-up to a 2008 story about Gorongosa. The satellite collar program had been successful for years in monitoring lion families. But in the 13-minute report, Bouley and Branco were nowhere to be seen.
Bouley says they’d resigned the previous year after clashing with Carr over what she describes as his increasing centralization of power — and the organization not doing sufficient work to protect women.
According to Bouley and people with familiarity of the culture at Gorongosa over the years she was there, this was indicative of another problem: Carr maintained a team of highly paid white male foreigners as senior leaders, including two communications leads, the head of science, and the former head of finance. Locals like the Mozambican rangers were paid far less than expats, a problem that Bouley said she raised frequently with leadership.
Sources say some foreign leaders had a long leash. In 2021 an American employee — now no longer at Gorongosa — was found to be having a relationship with someone who reported to him. He was asked to leave the organization. According to an email written to Bouley by a Gorongosa employee, that employee “kept a journal” about his alleged “sex addiction,” divulging that he “has slept with many of his employees.” According to Bouley, multiple Mozambican women in mid-management positions under the supervision of this employee had suddenly resigned before he was let go.
Despite the former employee’s transgressions, tax records show that the Carr Foundation paid him a consulting fee of $136,000 in 2023 after his departure. Carr says the man’s knowledge of “carbon credits” was critical to a program that would net the park $30 million, so the payment was part of ensuring that intellectual property wouldn’t be lost.
In response to questions about Gorongosa’s sexual harassment policy, Greg Carr wrote over email: “It is a fact that we support women’s rights and we have a strong anti-harassment policy, and people are terminated immediately who violate it. There has been no exception to this.” He cites the fact that this employee is no longer with the organization is a prime example of their anti-harassment policy.
In 2021, faced with the options of reporting their concerns to Carr, human resources, or the Mozambican government or silencing themselves, Bouley and Branco decided to resign.
In an email to Branco on Sept. 3, 2021, Carr wrote about Bouley’s “anger,” writing “she is not the same person now that I met 10 years ago in Chikalango who was happy and enthusiastic about studying and protecting lions. I want that Paola back again. That Poala [sic] was my friend.”
Bouley in an email says, “I have since owned being ‘combative.’ I believe being combative and ‘not a team player’ in an org plagued with racism, abuse of women and Mozambican employees, and bullying is not only a good thing to be, but the right thing to be.”
Changes at Gorongosa
People familiar with the organization say that Carr formed a new oversight board in late 2023 and early 2024, placing Mozambicans and women prominently in leadership positions.
But Bouley remembers one time when Carr told her it was the “Machiavellian in me” that put Bouley at the top of an organizational chart to show a face of women in leadership. Bouley left the meeting disturbed by this tokenization of women.
Over email, Carr shared that “99% of our employees are Mozambican.” The current president of Gorongosa, Aurora Malene, who joined in 2021, and director of human resources Elisa Langa, who joined in 2020, are both Mozambican women. The current head of conservation and program director are Mozambican men. In Carr’s words, he spends most of his time on the “outside” fundraising, and that his giving is “unrestricted” — meaning that the money is in the hands of the leaders who are accountable to the board and the Mozambican government.
Carr shares that Malene is one of the most talented leaders he knows, and that the “Machiavellian” comment was meant ironically. “She’s the boss, and she’s amazing.” He admits that pay equity has been at the forefront of his mind after Bouley left, citing several examples of Mozambican women whose salaries have doubled or tripled since becoming employed with Gorongosa.
We spoke with several current Gorongosa employees. But almost a decade ago, during Bouley’s time there, getting people to go on the record about work at Gorongosa without explicit approval was more difficult. When journalist Stephanie Hanes embarked on a book called White Man’s Game, which showed the darker underbelly of conservation efforts at Gorongosa, several staff at Gorongosa signed ghostwritten letters to the publishers that Bouley now describes as “smearing” Hanes and her work.
Bouley sent Hanes two letters at the time that painted Gorongosa in a positive light. She tells me she “felt pressured” to sign the letters at the time to continue with her work, adding “those who refused to sign were quietly dismissed from his project.” Bouley has since apologized to Hanes for signing those letters.
Carr says in an email that Hanes last traveled to Gorongosa 18 years ago and that her reporting is not connected to practices today.
Under the new leadership, Carr and the female Mozambican leadership team say that the organization is building a hospital in Gorongosa with a hospital and women’s health center, as well as scaling an after-school program to steer at-risk girls away from child marriage. He says the organization is fully run by Mozambicans to whom he has deferred power, and that six out of seven of the people on the board are Mozambicans.
Bouley, remembering her own “Machiavellian” placement on the organizational chart, wonders if this is good marketing and a “facade,” and questions whether the changes have genuinely taken place for the purpose of prioritizing Mozambicans or women as leaders in the organization.
In a Zoom conversation, Gorongosa president Malene reiterated that “our policy is zero tolerance for women abuse but also for any kind of disrespect.” Supporting girls’ education and protecting girls is their north star, and they also reference their community ranger work to distribute food to people currently experiencing hunger.
A New Beginning: Macossa-Tambara
After leaving Gorongosa Bouley had what she calls “limiting beliefs” about what she could achieve next. She was unsure that she could build anything of value again in conservation, worried that her passion could be weaponized against her — and that there would never be anything like Gorongosa. She began working with the Malamba Coastal Collaborative, helping communities to strengthen governance of coastal and marine areas. One area of focus is the Inhambane Seascape, which according to Bouley is under severe threat from oil and gas prospecting and heavy sand mining extraction.
Then, in 2023, the Mozambique government identified a territory double the size of Gorongosa Park in need of restoration, in a region called Macossa-Tambara. There was a high level of poaching in Macossa, especially among the elephant communities and in communal grazing areas. But Macossa remained a critical habitat for pangolins, lions, elephants, and endemic species of zebra and buffalo.
Bouley and Branco, along with a coalition of local Mozambican and international conservationists and scientists, applied to manage the land. In 2024 they won a 15-year extendable agreement with the government to restore and protect a block of land called C13, an area of 1,900 square miles. They then forged an agreement with neighboring block C9, based on their belief that the environment needs to be collectively managed rather than in blocks (or coutadas), which were imposed on the people by colonial, imperial Portugal in the 1920s.
Since then the Macossa-Tambara project has received hundreds of thousands of dollars in grants, allowing the team to hire local staff on the ground and create a fully functional camp with tents, Wi-Fi, energy, and bathrooms. Their partners include the Lion Recovery Fund, the Wildlife Conservation Network, Women Together, and the Mozambique Wildlife Alliance.
Today an estimated 30-50 lions call the greater Macossa-Tambara landscape home. The team believes that with its vast and intact Miombo woodlands, riverine and savanna habitats, and a shared boundary with corridors connecting to national parks, the landscape has enormous potential to support a robust population of lion, prey, and other wildlife.
Despite the poaching pressure, Bouley says it’s not uncommon in Macossa-Tambara to bump into a lion on foot.
“You have to turn on all of your senses, walking through lions, elephants, snakes, and warthogs,” she says “We recently walked into a lioness with cubs, with zero room to run. She roared at us — it was overwhelming and goes right through your bones and into your blood, you think this might be the last moment of life.”
Bouley says lions can be very forgiving, contrary to what mainstream media has us believe. “We usually get many signs before we are ourselves in danger. But we have to tread carefully in some of these places.”
Two greater kudu at Macossa. Photo: Paola Bouley
Associação NATURA, the nonprofit receiving the grants for Macossa, is the only Mozambican-led NGO in Mozambique to ever win a tender for such a project. Bouley, Branco, and their team work directly with local communities on youth well-being and health services, fully supporting a vision where Mozambicans lead.
“There is a high-level of eco-literacy among Indigenous people,” says Bouley. “They know the land more than any of us.”
Malene of Gorongosa says in an email that local people in Macossa are starving, and that “it is no longer considered morally correct to focus only on wildlife.” Bouley shares that one of their most critical projects now is helping communities manage elephants who move through agricultural fields that are also elephant corridors. Because endangered species can move in and out of areas where communities eat crops, the animals can fall quickly out of favor with people whose entire year of food is in those fields.
The team is working on a proactive approach here rather than “old defensive modes,” says Bouley, so conflicts between people and elephants can be prevented before they arise. This includes landscape planning and zonation, to avoid development in the middle of elephant corridors, and deterrents like beehive and chili fences — tactics that Malene and Langa at Gorongosa share.
The Macossa team’s vision is to create a living space where native Mozambicans can authentically lead as environmental leaders, health experts, and peace-building educators. Bouley says that stands in stark contrast to some other conservation efforts. “Even if you’re trained and have degrees, you’re always under an expat or foreign organization that earns 4-10 times the amount that you earn,” she says. “You never have the space to be leading.”
There are moments where Bouley feels blown away by the beauty and immensity, but she also describes a fast-paced and demanding environment where they’re responding to needs of the team and engaging in community development with the approximately 40,000 Indigenous people in the region.
Bouley says Macossa has also provided a comforting space for her and helped to fill the void of what she’d lost.
“We had been so rooted in Gorongosa, I felt like I left part of myself there,” she says. “To be back in a landscape that felt so familiar, it felt like a homecoming.”
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