Taking the Road Ahead

Too often we let the road take us somewhere instead of taking it where we want to go, but a new project from Conservation Northwest goes the other way.

Looking to take the next step in the journey that began with the successful plan to put wildlife passages on Interstate 90 at Snoqualmie Pass, Conservation Northwest has proposed another wildlife underpass. This one, located on Highway 97 in remote Okanogan County, has a twist with the potential to spread throughout Washington state and allow us to go in important new directions.

In response to the more than 350 mule deer killed by automobiles on Highway 97 every year, Conservation Northwest has brokered a deal with the Washington State Department of Transportation (WSDOT) to construct one wildlife underpass on the road. If the environmental organization can raise $125,000 through its Okanogan Wildlife Crossing Campaign by the end of 2018, WSDOT will build the underpass, hopefully sparking the state legislature to provide funding for additional crossings in the future. I donated to the campaign yesterday. To learn more about the project and see how you can contribute to the campaign, click here.

Beyond Conservation Northwest's single underpass or the intent to expand that project in the coming years, the efforts to connect habitat through wildlife crossings represent a greater undertaking. They set a course toward enacting a vision of how people can best interact with the environment. As the video below demonstrates, Conservation Northwest realizes that vision through tangible results (like those already seen at Snoqualmie Pass) that reshape and improve our entire state. It's a great lesson in how to take a proactive approach while navigating our social and environmental challenges.



Projects like the Highway 97 wildlife crossing are more than just ways of getting from one point to another; they are opportunities to take the road into the future to the place we really want to be.

Reframing a Bad Break

When the frames on my 22-year-old sunglasses shattered, it almost broke my heart, but my search for new glasses turned up an option with a social conscience and an environmental focus.

My old sunglasses meant a lot to me. I graduated four times while I had them, and they accompanied me to Europe twice. I even blogged about them last year. Most importantly, their longevity helped me limit my consumerism. All told, they became a part of me; so when I dropped them accidentally in March and looked down to see them in pieces, I experienced a moment of shock. I just couldn't believe it. Then, after the surprise wore off, I was sad that I'd never wear them again.

Faced with the task of buying new sunglasses for the first time in two decades, I determined to make the purchase as environmentally friendly as possible. Something made from recycled and recyclable materials was preferable. I did an Internet search, and Treehugger.com gave me a list of companies that made the kind of glasses I wanted.

The environmental focus of my search paid off with a pair of glasses made by Proof Eyewear from sustainably sourced wood and recycled aluminum. They are 100 percent recyclable, and the company will take them back for recycling if the time comes that I can't wear them anymore. On top of that, the company also donates a portion of its profits to charity. It all made for a very satisfying purchase; and I look forward to a long partnership and lots of great experiences with my new optical companions. To learn more about Proof Eyewear and check out their products, click here.

Although it hurt when my old sunglasses broke, choosing a sustainable replacement for them made me feel a little better.

My Change, Our Change, Climate Change

From making a change to affecting change, I've spent a lot of early 2018 focused on change, a point of emphasis that will surely continue through at least the rest of the year; but really, these changes have been a long time coming and are part of a much larger change.

During the last five years, I taught and conducted research at the University of South Dakota. I enjoyed the job and met so many great people in the process. On the downside though, it took me away from my beloved Pacific Northwest. Over time, I felt a growing need to return to my home region, and I also experienced the urge to have greater and more direct involvement in efforts to affect change and bring about needed action on environmental issues like global warming. Eventually, I reached the conclusion that I needed to make a change happen in my life if I really wanted to act on those desires, so I submitted my resignation at USD in January.

The winds of change need a little push.

When I announced my resignation, I had no other job waiting for me. That uncertainty scared me a little, but I knew I had made the right decision. Then, in early March, a coalition of environmental groups in Washington state announced an initiative to regulate carbon emissions, and I knew just as clearly that I wanted to participate in the campaign for the initiative. It was my chance to help affect the changes we need to make in our society if we are going to address global warming effectively, and because of the changes I'd made in my professional life, I could commit wholeheartedly to the campaign. The Nature Conservancy played a key role in putting together the initiative, officially listed as Initiative 1631, so I reached out to them. Happily and proudly, I can now announce that I will be writing copy for the Yes on 1631 campaign.

It's no secret that global warming and the changes it's bringing to the planet have been on my mind for a while. I wrote my dissertation on newspaper coverage of the issue; this blog contains numerous posts dedicated to it, particularly to the alarming changes I've seen in the Pacific Northwest in recent years; and for the last ten years, I have either walked to work or taken the bus. In short, global warming has changed my life, ingraining itself in my emotions, decision-making, and actions. Now, I am excited that I have an opportunity to help bring about social change on the issue.

Times don't change themselves; people have to make those changes happen on individual, societal, and planetary levels.

Numbering the Days of Carbon

Wind turbines producing renewable
energy at Vantage, Washington.

The number to watch for this year in Washington state is I-1631.

As I blogged about in March, a coalition of environmental groups, including The Nature Conservancy, has submitted an initiative to regulate carbon emissions in the state. That initiative now has an official number: Initiative 1631.

I-1631 would regulate carbon emissions by imposing a pollution fee on industries that emit carbon dioxide. It represents an important first step toward limiting the emissions that cause global warming.

Volunteers have already fanned out across the state to gather the signatures needed to put I-1631 on the ballot in November. I signed at the Glacial Heritage Preserve on this year's Prairie Appreciation Day. So be on the lookout for signs of I-1631 and people collecting signatures for it, and please consider adding your signature to the list.

Let's make sure carbon's days are numbered.

Locating Co-Presence: It's in the Journal

Anyone looking for co-presence with the environment can find it in the academic journal Environmental Communication.

After several years of work, "Locating Co-presence in Media Messages about Global Warming," the research paper I wrote with Dr. Michael Salvador, has finally received publication in Environmental Communication.

I last blogged about this paper when the journal accepted it in early 2016. In the meantime, the article appeared in the online version of the journal. However, this publication in Volume 12 Issue 3 of the hard-copy version makes the acceptance feel more real.

As I celebrate the publication, I would like to thank Dr. Salvador for all his work and help on this project. Hopefully, our paper can make a contribution to the ways we analyze and produce environmental communication. The objective always was to improve the relationship people have with the environment. If you would like to access the article, click here.

We can find co-presence with our environment in how we talk and the actions we take, and now, we can find it in Environmental Communication.

It's in the Air

An unmistakable sense of change builds in the air of Washington state as its residents take on carbon emissions.

The snowpack vanishes from the
Tatoosh Range in the heat of 2015.

Ordinarily, a setback will blow a movement off course or, at least, stall it, but we aren't living in ordinary times. Almost as soon as Washington state legislators reported their failure to deliver a carbon-tax law last week, environmental groups, with the wind at their backs, announced a new initiative for a similar carbon tax. Already fully detailed and sponsored by a coalition that includes The Nature Conservancy, Climate Solutions, Washington Conservation Voters, and the Washington Environmental Council, the ballot initiative will now seek the signatures necessary to place it on the ballot in November.

The speed of the response to the legislative disappointment suggests the strength of Washingtonians' commitment to addressing global warming. Polling in this report from Sightline Institute supports this conclusion, showing that a supermajority of state residents back the regulation of carbon pollution.

Setbacks like this year's attempt to push for legislative action and the defeat of Initiative 732 in 2016 appear to have bolstered the resolve for carbon regulation and fine-tuned efforts to make it happen. This latest initiative balances the needs for clean energy, ecosystem protection, and aid for humans adjusting to changes related to climate and the economy. For more information about the initiative, click here.

In Washington state, something's in the air and in the people too, and it promises to change the current system that spews carbon into our atmosphere.

Redrawing Our Relationship With Spiders

For many people, the feelings they have about spiders form a tangled web of repulsion, fear, and hate, but animator Joshua Slice has set out to shape a new perspective on these eight-legged wonders.

Using a jumping spider as his model, Slice created Lucas the spider, an animated Internet sensation. The adorable Lucas, voiced by Slices's five-year-old nephew, challenges arachnophobia by striking an engaging tone, which is exactly what the animator intended. To see Lucas and learn more about Slice's approach to creating him, watch the video below:



Lucas represents a smart blend of strategies from animation and environmental communication. First, Slice animated the spider so that it closely resembles a real jumping spider. It also moves like a real spider. The differences between art and life appear subtly. Although he has four large eyes like his counterpart in nature (real jumping spiders have a total of eight eyes but four large ones), Lucas possesses a more doe-eyed look. This gives him a less intimidating presence as does his young voice.

The changes Slice makes from real jumping spiders anthropomorphize Lucas only slightly, allowing people to connect with this eight-legged ambassador without making him so cartoonish that people can't associate him with actual spiders. As environmental communication scholar Julia Corbett argues, although anthropomorphizing contains drawbacks, when used strategically and minimally, it can help people better relate to animals and our environment. Early audience reactions suggest that Slice achieved that balance in an effective way.

With animation like Lucas, perhaps we'll untangled ourselves from our phobia of spiders and start to weave a better relationship with them.

A Picture of Regret

The picture that's worth a thousand words assumes a heavier price when not taken.

For the last two and a half years, a picture I did not take in August 2015 has bothered me. The regret stems not from some beautiful missed sunset or mountain scene but rather from the awful image of dead seabirds washed up on the coast of Washington state. In the past, I have blogged about the disturbing experiences I had with global warming during the summer of 2015, and I have even mentioned that I saw the seabird carcasses, but this will be my first post dedicated specifically to those birds.

I saw the dead birds at Roosevelt Beach, their bodies half-buried in the sand and mixed with ocean debris at the high-water mark. The effects of the summer's unusual weather had already disoriented and disconcerted me. The heat, drought, and fires presented me with a Pacific Northwest I hardly recognized but for which I grieved deeply. Going to the beach seemed like a good way to escape the oppressive conditions, and although the ocean breeze made things cooler, seeing the dead birds added to my alarm. At the time, I didn't know what kind of birds they were, and I didn't realize the connection between the heat and their deaths. As it turned out, they were common murres, and the warming of the Pacific Ocean depleted their food sources, starving them into a mass die-off up and down North America's west coast.

A common murre swims in the surf off
Roosevelt Beach in August 2015.

A thought of taking a picture to capture the sad image crossed my mind, but I hesitated and ultimately decided not to snap it. I can't pinpoint the exact reason I didn't take it, but I remember feeling sad and confused about the sight before me. The birds' unceremonious demise made me question whether I wanted to or even should keep a photographic memory of it. I felt powerless and ashamed too. So I walked past without giving them the recognition they warranted. All I ended up with was a shot of a live common murre swimming in the surf just beyond the dead bodies of its kin. It's a haunting image in its own way--dark, lacking detail, and showing the bird looking into a vast ocean of uncertainty.

Regardless of why I didn't photograph the carcasses, I know I wish I had taken that picture of them. I should have recorded the moment. Because of what those birds went through, they deserved having their fate documented in the hopes that it would inspire people to prevent more die-offs from happening in the future. Additionally, the photo would have added another piece to the larger picture of what global warming, fueled by human activity, does to this planet.

The picture of those dead murres never made it to my camera, but the memory of seeing them on the beach has stayed with me in vivid regret and led me to write these words in an attempt to make up for the omission. I suspect it isn't enough.

The Best of Us

The best of who we are emerges through our collective efforts to achieve shared dreams.

At Snoqualmie Pass on Interstate 90 in Washington state's Cascade Mountains, we can see the great things that happen when people come together in a public decision-making process and exercise their combined power to solve problems. Fittingly, that collaboration has produced work that both symbolizes and realizes the potential of connection.

Seeking to solve multiple problems, including avalanche danger, car collisions with wildlife, and ecosystem disruption, a far-reaching coalition of environmental groups, government agencies, lawmakers, and engaged citizens, planned out an extraordinary project. Through a series of road-widening strategies and plans for wildlife overpasses and underpasses, the coalition set in motion an intelligent and inspiring approach to transportation and habitat connectivity. The long and impressive work to bring that vision to life continues, but the fruits of the labor have already started appearing, and they are nothing short of awesome. To learn more about the entire project, check out Cascade Crossroads, the new documentary by Conservation Northwest:



Fragile as it is, confidence in ourselves and our public institutions deserves the best chance to flourish. When it is allowed to, it yields amazing results.

Projects like the I-90 wildlife overpasses and underpasses demonstrate the great things within our collective capacity when we offer our individual strengths to the work of a common dream.

A Mythical Event

With the right combination of anticipation, waiting, and surprise, some life events channel a magic so powerful that they become instantly and forever mythic.

Last weekend my favorite bird, the cedar waxwing, made one such event happen. It was something I had always hoped to see but wasn't looking for at the time.

My affinity for cedar waxwings goes well beyond my general liking of birds. We click. Social but free-spirited, subtle but with a unique style, peculiar but charismatic, these birds make their own rules and plumb a special joie de vivre. Anyone who pays attention can see them do amazing things.

Two cedar waxwings share a berry.

I've had plenty of opportunities to witness their behavior, and many of those occasions turned into cherished memories. I remember the day I first identified them as they fluttered through some Indian plum bushes in search of fruit; I remember sitting on the bank watching them hawk insects over a creek; I remember their whistles and trills by heart to the point that I instinctively respond to them with a smile and a look to see where the birds are. Usually, they're gobbling down fruits or berries, lounging cheerily together in a tree with their crests carelessly falling back over their heads, or flying off in effervescent earfuls to look for more berries.

For all my various encounters with them, before last Saturday, I had never seen them execute one of their most quintessential behaviors. Cedar waxwings will sit in groups or pairs and pass food, including berries, insects, and flower petals back and forth with their beaks until one of them decides to eat it. Sometimes, they do it as part of a mating ritual, and other times, they appear to do it just for fun. Whatever the reason, it helps define their nature as unique, social, and joyous birds.

Eager to see this sharing of food and long disappointed, I began to think I might not have the chance. It turned into something like the sasquatch (well, more like the auroras actually--some storied thing I knew existed but had never been in the right place at the right time to view in person). After a while, the reality of not seeing it pushed the hope of seeing it to the background. Then, last Saturday, I saw two waxwings in a bush along a walking path. As I started taking pictures, they leaned toward each other. Although blocked from the point of exchange, I knew exactly what I had just seen through the camera lens. The surprise and happiness of at last witnessing the pass of a berry from one bird to another locked the moment into my memory hard and in a way more clear than the picture I ended up taking. All the waiting and dashed hopes came together for an epic scene time can never take from me.

The stories of waxwings sharing berries are myths for me no longer, but my own experience with it sure seems mythical.