The splendor of the glaciers. The melting of the glaciers. Breathtaking views of wildlife. Diminishing numbers of wildlife. This is the back-and-forth journey readers take through Michael Lanza’s 2012 book, Before They’re Gone: A Family’s Year-Long Quest to Explore America’s Most Endangered National Parks.
Before I discuss the book, can we take a minute to note the contradiction inherent in using fossil fuel-powered travel to see elements of nature that are being destroyed—at least in part—by the burning of fossil fuels? I think about this every time I receive a Sierra Club magazine and read articles that feel like they must be merely lip service when followed by pages and pages of advertisements for far-flung travel expeditions. And yet, and yet… is it not human to want to explore? These contradictions at the forefront of my mind as I read Before They’re Gone, and I’ll discuss them more later.
Lanza, an outdoors writer and photographer, takes his family on a year-long series of adventures through 10 national parks: Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Glacier Bay, Mount Rainier, Olympic, Glacier, Rocky Mountain, Joshua Tree, Yellowstone, and the Everglades. He weaves together tales of his children’s antics and interests on the trails with research about the effects of climate change at each park they visit.
Although this book is not new (it was published in 2013), and some of its data are now outdated, it’s a worthwhile read because, in the midst of Lanza’s national park descriptions, which will be of interest to any park junkie or nature lover, there lies an invitation for personal reflection. For me, it was one of the book’s stylistic elements that spurred some of the reflection.
On my first read, the segues between personal anecdote and scientific data occasionally seemed forced, and these felt like hiccups that detracted from the flow of Lanza’s narrative.
As he describes his family’s trip to Mount Rainier National Park, for example, Lanza offers little transition between his view of Rainier and its climate-changed future:
“I gaze up at Rainier’s tattered and torn cape of glaciers, too immense for our eyes to accurately interpret its scale; and it seems at once impossible, amazing, and frightening that we are capable of affecting the climate in a way that alters the topography of this mountain.
What seems most certain for Mount Rainier National Park’s future is greater uncertainty: bigger storms; roads, trails, and bridges washed out randomly; campsites occasionally erased from the landscape.”
Similarly, his description of his family’s view of glaciers at Glacier National Park is overridden by downsides.
“Nate and Alex glance up, then go back to their snack bars and to acting out their stuffed animals talking to each other. Even Penny has little to say. I look out at the glaciers again. The truth is, the view is beautiful, but the glaciers not so impressive. Melting has fragmented them into numerous lobes and fingers. It looks like milk rained on the mountains, leaving scattered white puddles.
In recent years, the Blackfoot has shrunk faster than computer models predicted it would.”
As I go back to the book again, I feel differently. If the downsides seem ever-present, maybe they are meant to be. Sure, there remain some stilted sections that feel awkward to me, but I notice the disconnect between narrative and research much less than I used to.
My theory is that when I first read the book, climate change and environmental issues were less on my mind. Now, I find they are ever-present—in the news, in my lived experience, as follow-up thoughts to so many others that seem at first unrelated. For example, I sat at a school district zoning meeting recently wondering at the futility of making any long-term plans or community changes without climate change being part of the discussion. I think most of the other attendees would have thought I was out of my mind, but really, we’re considering busing students past schools they could walk to? We want more transportation pollution?
So, what originally seemed to be uncommon connections between ideas have become much more common for me. Now, when I look back at the book, I see dark poetry tying together the family’s wilderness encounters with the stark reality of that wilderness’s present and future, such as when Lanza recounts a moment in Glacier Bay National Park:
“A harbor seal pokes its slicked head above water not fifty feet away, investigating us with dark eyes. I hear Alex faintly catch her breath as she and the seal exchange stares for an instant, before it disappears with a bloop.
Then a sharp concussion, like a large-caliber gunshot, rips the quiet open.
About six miles away, but visible to us at the other end of the inlet because it’s so massive, the mile-wide, twelve-mile-long Johns Hopkins Glacier has spontaneously cleaved off another immense piece of itself with a booming detonation.”
I can only conclude that what I notice in the style may say as much about me and my noticing as it does about the writing itself.
One additional note on the point of reflection. Sometimes it seems like the changing climate, as reported in the news, or as discussed in society, is just a passing event. We observe it as though we are not participants. We casually mention it as though it is a momentary distraction—or something very far away. Writers report on it, but often there is limited societal or political response of any real use.
In that vein, it would be easy to be overly critical of the author’s methods of sharing beauty with his children. Lanza writes in the prologue, as he explains why his family takes the trip sooner rather than later, “Now carbon dioxide was messing with my plans. It seemed I needed to get busy.” For him, “getting busy” means getting his family on the road or in the air to witness beauty he knows is at risk. His travel contributes to the release of greenhouse gases that effectively help diminish the very wonders he wishes could be preserved for his children’s children.
But then I have to take a step back. How many of us wouldn’t want the chance to show our children all that remains wonderful in this world? It is no easy task to navigate the extremes that would have us, on the one hand, cease to live and explore, and on the other, simply declare the cause lost and live as we wish, consequences be damned.
I suppose I simply want Lanza to acknowledge in the text that he understands the contradictory nature of the book’s message and what he had to do in order to write it. The most I see of this is toward the end, where he includes a few lines about personal behaviors:
“Humans possess great adaptability. But applying that ability begins with acknowledging the truth. Failing to be honest with ourselves is tantamount to lying to our children.
In one generation, we changed attitudes in America toward smoking cigarettes, driving while intoxicated, and wearing seatbelts—in part because we recognized that changing our behaviors was a demonstration of love and caring for our children. Driving less, reducing energy consumption at home and work, and demanding that our leaders support converting from fossil fuels to clean energy—these are a powerful expression of concern for our kids.”
Sometimes it seems I can only make personal changes and, yes, continue to hope. Of course, both the former and the latter can feel useless, as there are so many larger powers at play – corporations, political interests, and very wealthy citizens who are able to influence policy initiatives that may fly in the face of any environmental best interest. So, while hope doesn’t override reality, I understand Lanza’s desire to want an outcome that, although maybe not ideal, is at least okay.