A new paper written by 20 wildlife biologists and ecologists and this month offers a simple, cost-effective solution to many of the problems plaguing the West: climate change, a loss of biodiversity, and even mega-fires. The authors suggest we replace livestock grazing across large swaths of federal public lands with protected habitat for two controversial and seemingly unrelated species—wolves and beavers.

Dubbed the Western Rewilding Network, the plan is remarkable in both its simplicity and the studied effectiveness of its proposed solution. Cows produce greenhouse gases and harm ecosystems. Grazing them on public lands doesn’t offer much economic benefit to anyone outside of a handful of ranchers. Wolves and beavers restore those ecosystems to health from top to bottom, altering the presence, behavior, and overall well-being of plants and animals—without much input from or cost to humans.��

The authors put the Rewilding Network proposal together in response to President Biden’s call to conserve 30 percent of American lands and waters by 2030. “This is the best possible science on how to do that,” says the study’s lead author, William J. Ripple, a professor of ecology at Oregon State University.

Reintroducing the two species, and protecting habitat for them across 11 major reserves (pictured, top) in Washington, Oregon, California, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico, would return streams to their natural courses, repair riparian habitats, and restore fish populations. It would also address overpopulation and overconcentration��of ungulates, like deer and elk, while making those species more resistant to disease, improving access to clean water, reducing the severity of wildfires, and helping to restore forests’ ability to capture atmospheric carbon.

What about the cows? The paper proposes removing them from only 29 percent of current grazing areas on public lands in the West. But there’s no need to worry about hamburger supply. The Rewilding Network authors cite a 2008 study that found that cattle grazing across all public lands only accounted for two percent of beef production nationally. The authors propose buying ranchers out of their grazing allotments with “an economically and socially just federal compensation program,” but don’t specify a price. Instead, they write, “the net economic benefits would be substantial given the social carbon cost of livestock grazing on federal lands.”

There’s just one problem: politics. The authors nod to this briefly: “Although our proposal may at first blush appear controversial or even quixotic,” they write, “we believe that ultra ambitious action is required.”

They cite the converging crisis of “extended drought and water scarcity, extreme heat waves, massive fires triggered at least partly by climate change, and biodiversity loss” as being indicative of a need for urgent adoption of the plan. They don’t, however, acknowledge the political reality that many Republican politicians don’t even agree that climate change is real and are actively trying to dismantle the Endangered Species Act.��

The Republican Party controls all branches of state government in Idaho, Utah, Arizona, Montana, and Wyoming—about half of the states in the Rewilding Network. The paper says that “successful rewilding will depend on the reversal of state policies that severely limit wolf and beaver abundances.” But this would require more than a simple policy change. Rather, it would depend on a fundamental shift in the right’s belief systems, dogma, and relationship with voters.��

The Republican politicians who run Idaho, Montana, and Utah have been conducting a war on wolves in recent decades. Montana’s governor received a warning from the state’s fish and wildlife department in 2021 after trapping a wolf without the required permits, and signed an order dramatically expanding wolf hunting right up to the border with Yellowstone National Park.��Idaho legislators signed a new law last year that is aimed at reducing the state’s wolf population by 90 percent. The law is riddled with lies. Across the West, Republican politicians have successfully turned wolves into a culture war issue in which the species and its defenders are cast as monsters trying to destroy the livelihoods of Republican voters. Beavers are less scary than wolves, but frequently run into conflict with homeowners.��

“We’re just scientists trying to put forward the best possible science,” Ripple tells me. He says he hopes that by advancing knowledge of realistic and cost-effective means for addressing the converging natural crisis in the West, he’s giving conservation organizations and policymakers the tools they need to achieve political consensus.��

I asked Ripple if the Rewilding Network could produce significant results, even if the plan is only implemented in a single, Democrat-leaning state like California or Colorado. It turns out, that’s exactly his hope. Citing the example of��legalized marijuana, Ripple contends that, even if only a single state implements the Rewilding Network plan, it will be��so successful that other states would feel significant pressure to do the same.��

“Ultimately, the climate disaster is going to make this a necessity everywhere,” he says.��

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I keep thinking it can’t get any harder to breathe, and somehow it still does.

This week on the West Coast feels like something out of a dystopian novel. Old-growth forests and entire towns are burned over. Mill City, Oregon, is ash, as is Malden, Washington, and the fires are still growing and moving. The winds are high, and the relative humidity is low. This morning it took way too long for the sun to come up at my home in Seattle.

I have lived somewhere close to the edge of an area ravaged by wildfire��for nearly��all of my adult life, and yet��the��violence and speed of such occurrences��still shock me every summer. It’s easy to misremember last year’s blazes, or, like so many point-source environmental disasters, to avoid thinking about it until it’s once again in your face. To ignore the threat until it ignites.

This��feels like a too obvious reckoning, the exact way we were told , flipping into disaster so fast.

If you are not under that currently stretches the length of the West Coast, the photos probably seem surreal, and the high-speed destruction might be hard to fathom. Maybe if you’re not directly impacted by the burns, it can seem like the late-summer��news out of California is always about fire,��and that this year isn’t much different. But it is.

The 2020��fire season is unprecedented, and it’s just getting started. California has already broken its record for the total number of acres burned��in the state, and according to the��, six of the twenty��largest wildfires in the state’s history have occurred since January 1.��Oregon governor Kate Brown recently said that this cycle of fire could cause the greatest loss of human life and property from wildfires ever seen in her state.

On Wednesday night, as the sky here in Seattle hung thick and gray-green with distant smoke, I sat balled up on the couch texting friends and family in Oregon, taking in the pictures they sent of��the eerie orange sky, trying to keep track as the fire nearest them��changed their evacuation plans from “get ready” to “go now.”

“Should they all just come here?” my boyfriend asked frantically at one point, looking around our tiny apartment as the evacuation zone engulfed his brother’s house in Clackamas County and headed toward his parents’ place.

Should they? What are our options when we’re trying to pivot in the middle of panic? And even if they should come—even if they wanted to—it’s unclear whether��they actually could. Sections of many��major highways in the Northwest��have��been closed by fire at some point in the past week. Evacuees are , and hotels are clogged and crammed despite the still present threat of COVID-19. This year has felt like a battle to make smartish decisions in the face of unclear, very bad consequences.��I am constantly wondering if the tightness in my chest is panic or rage or virus or smoke.

That red-dotted highway map of traffic jams��feels like a climate metaphor, too, like we’re in a narrowing funnel of choice and our pathways are closing down. Like every summer we have fewer options and the consequences keep getting worse.

If you love forests or rangy grasslands, if you’re the kind of person who wants to be outside, you have to love fire, too, or at least understand that it’s natural��and appreciate how it keeps a landscape healthy. But that doesn’t mean this current level of destruction is normal or tenable or, most important, fully unavoidable.��These past few years of rampant, ��are a clear example of how human choices—and the way America is particularly bad at the�� environmental problems require—have��pushed the natural functions of our��lands into disaster.

All of these��fires��come from a legacy of , failures of and a . It’s the rate in which��people are , thereby putting themselves in the line of risk��and having��to prevent��their property from��progressing through natural fire cycles. It’s a negligence of indigenous . It’s also stupid human decisions, like and flaming cigarette butts and , which ignite flames.

But more broadly, it’s the result of how fossil-fuel-driven climate change has led to fire conditions, and the way decades of passing the buck is now coming around.

��and our continuous use of fossil fuels, summer days in California��are more than a degree hotter than the historical average, Oregon is in the midst of its , and much of the rest of the West is and drought, too, drying out forests.

Like any kind of climate-related change, it’s too late to stop the train of warming that’s already moving forward. Things will likely get worse—or at least stay just as bad—and it will probably require��. But it really depends on what we decide to do now about curbing fossil-fuel use to lessen��even more warming.

Whatever we do, one thing is certain: our climate-change future is here.

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As we navigate the new travel normal, making decisions about where to go—or whether to go at all—during a pandemic requires flexibility and informed planning. By the time this issue reaches you, the COVID-19 news will likely have shifted again. We hope it’s for the better. As some Americans have decided to venture out, a road trip close to home is one of the safest and most popular options. That’s why we put together our favorite in-state itineraries in every region of the country, to make it easy for you to explore your own backyard—think uncrowded spaces, camping, and lots of fresh air. We also gathered expert advice and resources on how to plan effectively, stay up-to-date about changing conditions, and ensure your safety and that of the communities you travel through. Whether your state has reopened and you can go now, or you save these itineraries for more opportune times, you’ll be amazed at the adventures right outside your door.

The Northeast

Hit the Range: Branbury State Park to Burlington, Vermont

, at the foot of Vermont’s Green Mountains, has over 40 family-friendly campsites and lean-tos that are a quick walk from the beachfront of Lake Dunmore. After a day of hiking and swimming, head north on Route 116 along the western edge of the Greens. Follow the highway east into the mountains and to the idyllic town of Bristol for a maple soft-serve at the . Continue east through Lincoln along River/Lincoln Gap Road, then pull over where the Long Trail—the oldest through-hiking route in the U.S., and part of the Appalachian Trail—­intersects with the road. Hike it to the top of Mount Abe, one of the state’s five 4,000-foot peaks; the rocky summit pokes above the timberline and offers stunning 360-degree views that span from the Adirondacks in the west to New Hampshire’s White Mountains in the east. Spend the night at the Battell Shelter, a first-come, first-served lean-to maintained by the . Post-hike, drive to the quaint town of Warren, order the Number Six sandwich to go at the , and eat it on the banks of the Mad River. Your final stop? Vermont’s largest city, Burlington. Bike along the shore of Lake Champlain before popping in for a dry-ale-style cider at . 80 miles one-way—Luke Whelan

The Southwest

New Mexico, Three Ways

Santa Fe is the perfect place to base out of for road trips, with dramatically different landscapes in every direction. Here are a few of our favorites.��—Mary Turner

The High and Low Roads to Taos

The High Road (Highway 76 to 75 to 518) goes through scenic alpine villages, including the weaving town of Chimayo, where the�� is famous for its healing dirt. Be sure to pick up baked goods at in Peñasco on the way up. The Low Road home (Highway 68) hugs the Rio Grande. 150 miles round-trip

White Sands National Park

If you can’t make it to the Sahara, is your next best bet. Take a few hours to hike the surreal gypsum dunes that stretch on forever. The park’s camping sites are currently closed, so head to (from $7) at the base of the Organ Mountains, 40 miles southwest. 575 miles round-trip

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This is Georgia O’Keeffe country, an otherworldly landscape of stark red and white cliffs, and the lush Chama River Valley. The artist spent decades painting in the town of ��������ܾ�ú and at nearby , where you can hike the spectacular Chimney Rock Trail. 122 miles round-trip

Get Your Mineral Fix: Fish Lake Valley Hot Springs to Soldier Meadows Hot Springs, Nevada��

Four of the Silver State’s most scenic hot springs reside on remote public lands that offer free dispersed camping and skies brilliant with stars. (Pitch your tent at least 300 feet from any water source.) Start at��, 60 miles southwest of the town of Tonopah. The concrete tub is surrounded by marshlands, ponds big enough for paddleboarding, and 13,140-foot Boundary Peak, Nevada’s highest point, summited via a challenging five-mile hike. Three hours northeast, you’ll share with a resident herd of wild burros. Quench your thirst with a beer on ’s porch in nearby Kingston. Some 260 miles northwest, at the Black Rock Desert playa, head out with Gerlach local Philippe Steinmann for an e-bike tour of the area (from $36) that finishes at . Backtrack 40 miles to High Rock Canyon—a sanctuary for peregrine falcons and great horned owls—followed by a soak at nearby . An adjacent BLM cabin is first come, first served. For more creature comforts, detour to the ghost town of Vya and the (from $45). 534 miles one-way—Tasha Zemke

The West

Lose the Crowds:��Denver to Snowmass, Colorado

This part of south-central Colorado is rich in public lands, dramatic 14,000-foot peaks, and picturesque mountain towns. Set out from Denver and drive about 140 miles south to one of the state’s most unusual man-made landmarks: . Its namesake architect, Jim Bishop, started building the three-story stone fortress—with its winding staircases, wrought-iron causeways, and enormous dragon’s head—in 1969, and is still working on it. Stay the night ten minutes away at Lake Isabel, where you’ll find a quiet body of water, easy trails to explore, and designated Forest Service (from $20). Start day two off with a 100-mile scenic drive to the stunning Arkansas River Valley and the town of Buena Vista, the gateway to the Collegiate Peaks, including eight fourteeners. Day hikes abound, and you can decompress afterward at the . If you want to go big, get an early start on the 8.6-mile hike up 14,440-foot Mount Elbert— the highest point in the state—by securing a spot at (from $15). If water is more your element, book a trip on the Arkansas with (from $71). Next up? A two-hour drive to , a small ski town just north of Aspen with 3,342 acres of premium winter terrain that’s just as beautiful and adventure packed in fall. Hike, raft, fish, bag another fourteener, but beware: the technical, exposed route to Capitol Peak isn’t for the inexperienced. Be sure to catch the striped peaks of the Maroon Bells before ­taking I-70 back to the Front Range. 387 miles one-way—Maren Larsen

The Other��Side of��Oregon: John Day to Eagle Cap Wilderness��

Start your tour in the city of John Day, five hours east of Portland, where you can search for fossils at the nearby . Grab a fly rod and head southeast to the alpine lakes teeming with trout in the , then spend the night at its (from $8). Backtrack via Prairie City, then on to Bates, and turn north onto Highway 7, a scenic byway that meanders through the southern Blue Mountains. Finally, head north on I-84 before taking Highway 82 all the way to Joseph, a charming artist town at the base of the Wallowa Mountains. Pitch a tent at (from $20), the perfect base camp for forays into the nearby , where you’ll find 534 miles of trails for hiking and horseback riding. 292 miles one-way—Chris Keyes

The��Southeast

Circuit Train: Harpers Ferry to Pipestem Resort State Park, West Virginia

Pack up your bike, hiking boots, and swimsuit for this spin through the state’s rugged Appalachian Mountains. Start in historic , at the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, where hikes include the 4.5-mile , with its bird’s-eye view of the peak-cradled town. Then drive about an hour up Route 9 to Berkeley Springs; 16 miles east, a scenic offshoot of the 250-mile ��wanders up to Devil’s Nose, a large rock surrounded by splendid autumn plumage. From here, head about 110 miles southwest to , at the Canaan Valley’s northern tip, where a boardwalk descends to a front-row view of the falls and backwoods trails wind through towering hardwoods. Mountain biking has long reigned supreme in the valley, with popular rides like the technical, nine-mile and the 3.8-mile legendary Moon HooDoo Rocks Trail. Hiking, fishing, and cross-country-skiing options are abundant in the park as well. The tiny nearby towns of Davis and Thomas serve as hubs for outfitters and eateries, and both (from $18) and (from $27) have cabins and campsites. Then head south through , one of the nation’s most biologically diverse landscapes. You’ll pass by , famous for hardcore hiking and epic vistas. Check out the mountain-biking trails around Slatyfork, or explore farther south, where boardwalks hover above bogs that are similar to those found in the Arctic tundra. Campsites and cabins abound in the national forest, including along the Williams River (from $8). Wind up your trip about 95 miles south at , where the adventure smorgasbord includes hiking, mountain biking, trout fishing, kayaking, tubing, and rock climbing. 403 miles one-way—Barbara Noe Kennedy

Escape Bourbon Street:��Fontainebleau State Park to New Orleans, Louisiana

This three-day circuit offers everything from hiking to history. From the city, head 40 miles north along the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway to , on the northern edge of the lake, where you’ll find sandy beaches and miles of hiking trails. Take a free guided tour from the visitor center to learn about the park, a former sugar plantation, and its ignominious slavery-era past. A converted railroad track, part of the 31-mile trail that runs from downtown Covington to Slidell through five communities, offers cycling and ­hiking, and stops along historical sites and breweries. Spend the night at one of the park’s more than 140 campsites (from $18) and lakefront cabins (from $150). The next day, drive 50 minutes north to and hike the 5.7-mile loop trail, which offers prime birdwatching. In the afternoon, rent a kayak to paddle the namesake river, then stay at one of the park’s cabins ($150) or campgrounds (from $25). On day three, head back to New Orleans, and embark on the guided African Life in the French Quarter walking itinerary (from $17) with . 140 miles one-way—Dodie Arnold

The��Midwest

Explore the LP Route: Traverse City to Mackinac Island, Michigan��

Michigan’s Lower Peninsula makes it possible to pack the best of the Midwest—pristine coastline, good seafood, and charming beach towns—into a long weekend. From Traverse City, head 40 minutes west to hike ’ 3.5-mile Dunes Trail, which takes you over rolling sand hills to a beach on Lake Michigan. Afterward, pick up cherry lime soda at in nearby Glen Arbor, then detour to the town of Leland for a loaded sandwich from and enjoy it on wooden docks of its historic Fishtown. Next up, drive 75 miles east to rent a kayak at ��(from $28), then paddle the South Arm of Lake Charlevoix, followed by a meal of soft pretzels and beer at in the town of Bellaire. Set up camp at , just east of downtown (from $15). From there, it’s a 45-mile drive to the town of Petoskey, your departure point for a scenic bike ride down Highway 119 with stunning views of Lake Michigan. Another 35 miles north brings you to Mackinaw City. Board the ferry to and step back in time; there are no cars allowed, so horses, pedestrians, and bikes rule the streets. Bring your bike on the ferry and cruise around the island on 8.2-mile Lake Shore Drive, making pit stops at , , and one of the many fudge shops in town. There’s no camping on the island, but there are plenty of options back on the mainland, including cabin rentals and lakefront RV sites at (from $13). 220 miles one-way—Kelsey Lindsey

Local Intel: Minneapolis to Ely, Minnesota

From Minneapolis, it’s a little over two hours north to Duluth, home to Lake Superior, the world’s largest freshwater lake by surface area. Set up your base at (from $40), where you can fish on the Saint Louis River, rent canoes and ­kayaks from the camp’s hosts, and access a network of mountain-bike trails right across the street. Swing by ��for alfresco cocktail hour before heading to to grab wings to go. In the morning, take a 54-mile detour to and hike to the namesake falls. Finally, continue 80 miles north to the city of Ely to rent a canoe from (from $35), and paddle out to explore some of the 1,175 lakes in the remote wilderness area, which has more than 2,000 designated (from $16). 278 miles one-way —Abigail Wise

Play Geologist: Badlands National Park to Custer State Park, South Dakota

The theme of this trip: rocks. Western South Dakota has some of the finest hunks of sandstone, mica schist, granite, and phonolite porphyry in the American West. Kick off your trip at , a maze of bizarre and beautiful canyons and spires you can explore from a handful of easy to moderate trails. A campground (from $23) and 26 cabin rentals at (from $182) make this a great place to bunk down on your first night—seeing the sun rise on these formations is worth it. On day two stop by , perhaps the most widely advertised tourist trap in the world, with billboards from Minnesota to Amsterdam; the interconnected shops sell everything from jewelry to jackalopes. Grab a hot beef sandwich and doughnuts to go from the . Ninety miles west is Sylvan Lake in��, a wildlife reserve home to 1,300 bison. The surrounding area offers some of the best roped climbing in the state. You’ll also find a via-ferrata-esque hiking experience at the park’s����and, just two miles east, a scenic drive that takes you through the Needles Eye Tunnel, a narrow path through granite rock pinnacles. Stay at one of the state park’s nine (from $7). 119 miles one-way���.��.

Ride it Out: Hartford to Pere Marquette State Park, Illinois��

According Shawn Fechter, of motorcycle-adventure outfitter , one of the best riding��routes is the Great Rivers Byway, starting where the Mississippi, Missouri, and Illinois Rivers converge.

“Some of the most scenic pockets of the 2,552-mile�� which follows the Mississippi River from Minnesota to Louisiana, are found in Illinois. Start in the small town of Hartford, where the Meeting of the Great Rivers Byway begins. The 22 miles between Hartford and Grafton offer spectacular views of the rivers to one side and limestone bluffs to the other, and are filled with stops to take in the area’s diverse flora and fauna, like the 300-acre , home to more than 150 species of birds. Farther west, at the , you can catch the great southerly bird ­migration in fall. The trip can be completed in a day, but if you want to take your time, spend a night in a riverside shelter at (from $25), which has plenty of hiking, fishing, and rock climbing.” 67 miles one-way

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For 25��years, an oceanographic buoy�� has been moored in the middle of the Bering Sea��collecting data on ocean conditions��for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. In 2017, it��picked up something extraordinary: the siren song of North Pacific right whales, an endangered species so rare that scientists say tracking one down is like finding a needle in a haystack.

Nearly��2,000��miles away, in Seattle, an environmental educator and boat captain named Kevin Campion was also searching for��signs of the whale. Campion, a 42-year-old West Coast skater turned biologist, was a few years into a about the whales��and nearly a decade into an obsession with them. After a failed attempt to spot them during the summer of 2017, and spurred by Peggy’s findings, Campion blocked off two weeks of the summer of 2019, borrowed a friend’s boat, and roped in two crew members. In August 2019, the team crisscrossed��a��200-nautical-mile stretch of Bering Sea that is the whales’ critical habitat, running the boat’s hydrophone in hopes of hearing what Peggy had.

We know surprisingly little about the species the Center for Biological Diversity calls . We know they can live at least 70 years, and that they get huge—up to 100 tons��and 65 feet long. Thanks to , we think they migrate from California to the Bering Sea, and that there are two surviving populations: one of about 300 whales on the western side of their migration range, and one of about 30 whales on the eastern side, which Campion is tracking.��

We know they still exist because there were two sightings off the coast of British Columbia in 2013, more than 60 years after the last sighting in the area,��and because the acoustic recorder on Peggy captured their song in 2017. That same year,��NOAA recorded several other sightings, including one of a young whale—a hopeful sign that the whales were still reproducing.

North Pacific right whales are members of the baleen whale family, a close relative to the slightly less rare—but much more studied— and whales, which have become a larger part of the conversation about marine-mammal conservation. (They’re all related to the , whose population is endangered but increasing). The recording captured on Peggy��recently that the North Pacific right was a distinct species, because the others don’t sing.

Before whaling took off in the region in the 1830s,��there were an estimated 30,000 North Pacific right whales. Those numbers were quickly decimated: the species is fatter and floatier��than other whales, which made them prime targets for whalers looking for oily blubber. Like most whales, they have long life spans and reproduce slowly; that��hinders population regrowth,��though��it has been illegal to hunt them since 1937. By 1951, when one was documented as having been��killed illegally at a whaling station in Coal Harbor, British Columbia, the North Pacific rights had all but vanished. It has been listed as an endangered species since 1970.

So it seemed to Campion that scientists should have a better handle on these whales. How—in the age of and ��and Google Maps��and Peggy—can the life of an enormous rare creature remain a mystery? How can something so big just disappear?

Campion is a biologist who has sailed vast swaths of the world’s oceans��and runs a marine-science program called Deep Green Wilderness in Seattle. He’s been obsessed with whales since he was a kid, but he had never heard of the species before 2013, when the second North Pacific right to be seen in 60 years was spotted near Vancouver Island. He started reading up and asking the whale researchers he knew about them. Soon��the mystery of the North Pacific rights had pulled him in, in part because their disappearance from human view and scientific study struck him as near mythical.��“The deeper I dug, the less people knew about them,” he says.��

For two summers, Campion has led a crew on trips to search for the whales. The first time, in 2017, Campion’s crew spent about six weeks circling Vancouver Island, where that single North Pacific right had been spotted four years earlier.��He tracked down Brian Gisborne, the 60-year-old former commercial fisherman who had seen the whale in 2013. (Gisborne used to run a water-taxi business��and is contracted by the Canadian Department of Fisheries and Oceans to look for rare species. “He’s spent years of his life at sea,” Campion says. “If anyone had the rights to find something rare, it was this guy.”) Gisborne was initially reticent, but once he warmed up, he shared a wealth of information about where the whales might want to eat��and what topographical features might give them trouble. “We were pretty sure we weren’t going to see one,” Campion says.��“But the researchers were like, ‘You might!’”��

Their first trip was fruitless, whale-wise. But “might” was enough for Campion and his crew to try again in 2019 in the Bering Sea, motivated in part by the��groundbreaking recording captured on the Peggy buoy. By then��the whales had become a focal point of Campion’s lifelong environmentalism: he wanted people to care about the fragile state of the oceans as passionately as he did, and the North Pacific rights were an enigmatic and especially endangered victim of them. By that point, he and his crew had been working on making a film��about the whales since 2017. A sighting, he believed, would help highlight the charismatic megafauna. After all, it’s hard for people to care about things they don’t know about.

When Campion’s crew began��the��second whale expedition, he couldn’t help but get his hopes up. As they headed north, during what was��an unusually warm summer, he felt like they might have a chance. They had diligently researched the most likely place to catch up to the whales��and the time of year that they had the best chance of spotting them. Campion talked to , the scientist who had identified the song of the North Pacific right that was recorded on Peggy. He dove into all the data and reports he could find��and tracked the history of places the whales had been seen. They planned their trip based on whale��behavior as much as possible.

They traveled to the Bering Sea during a year of very low sea ice. If sea-ice concentration is high, then the abundance and concentration of baleen whales’��prey is also high—meaning a buffet for the whales. However, when there is minimal sea ice, there’s a decrease in prey abundance and concentration (which adds another stress variable for the whales, who are already routinely threatened by ships, fishing nets, and ocean noise). They crisscrossed the sea in the heat, recording their journey for their upcoming , which��will reveal the details of the trip, Campion says. He hopes to complete the film later this year.

During these expeditions, and as a result of his research��and his conversations with the few other obsessive people who have tried to track the whale, Campion became even more concerned with how ignored the species was in conservation circles. It seemed, to him, like crazy negligence��on behalf of the government, environmental groups, and anyone��who loves marine mammals. Why wasn’t more information available for a general audience?��

“More than I want to see one, I feel pretty obligated to share, now that I know the story as well as I do,” Campion says. “If people don’t know about them,��we’re not going to be able to save them.”��

Conservation efforts are often dedicated to charismatic megafauna like whales,��and publicity campaigns often hinge on a visual representation of how the appealing creature is being harmed. It would seem that North Pacific rights are ignored mostly because they are so rarely sighted, even compared to their close relatives.��An interesting analogy to the North Pacific rights’��place in species-protection efforts are North��Atlantic rights, which have��become a celebrated figurehead of marine-mammal conservation. Nearly all North��Atlantic rights have been identified and are carefully tracked by human beings. We know what’s going on with them, their plight is highly visible to researchers and the public, and the public seems to adore them. “Every time one of those whales died, there would be a New York Times story,” Campion says. “Even West Coast news organizations would mention Atlantic whales—it’s crazy.”��

Conservation groups have designated 2020 as the year of the right whale��family, but that campaign focuses on the less threatened North��Atlantic species. In 2013, NOAA issued a formal ,��but so far it’s largely been a nonstarter. Even in circles focused on identifying and protecting whales, the North Pacific right seems invisible.��

Once Campion’s film is done, he plans to launch other initiatives, like a postcard campaign to the Department of Commerce,��which, in addition to NOAA, is partially responsible for the recovery plan.��“No one has been hammering on it,” Campion says.��NOAA has received funding for inexpensive projects, like maintaining the acoustic recorder on Peggy, but it isn’t enough for large-scale vessel surveys and fieldwork.��

Campion admits that positioning himself as an advocate for��an enigmatic, struggling species is exhausting. Sometimes it feels like screaming at a wall, he says. But he doesn’t want to give up on his quest to save the rarest whale in the world.��

“These whales are very likely going to go extinct, potentially in my lifetime,” he says, “It seems like��telling this story��is what I can do right now.”

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For the past few years, journalist Leah Sottile has been looking at the question of who owns public lands in the West. Her reporting began with the Bundy family, which infamously challenged the authority of the federal government on its ranch and then with an armed occupation of Oregon’s Malheur National Wildlife Refuge. That investigation resulted in the award-winning audio series .��Now, Sottile is back with a new project that begins with the case of a man named Glenn Jones, who in the summer of 2016 blew up the house of a friend and former coworker in the tiny town of Panaca, Nevada. To her surprise, she would come to learn that that bombing had roots in the very same conflict that began with the Bundys.

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The West Coast has phenomenal surfing, but the waves that crashed ashore Sunday and Monday were too wild for everyone except the best athletes.��In fact, the waves were so high that the National Weather Service warned people in central California to avoid the beach or “,” (never mind that that's impossible, but you��get��the idea).��

Local weather forecasts had called for dangerously high waves along the California and Oregon coasts to close out the weekend and they��were right on the money. A 27-foot wave measured by a buoy off the shore near��Monterey Bay was recorded��there since the 1980s. A beach-goer captured a picture of a wave in Oregon.��

So why were the waves so nasty in California those two days? It’s all thanks to a low-pressure system thousands of miles away.

These epic waves are similar to what you'd��see beneath an intense hurricane in warmer oceans. Really, the conditions that��led to these huge waves aren't��all that unusual for the eastern Pacific Ocean. What was unusual was that the waves got so big right along the coastline.����

First, a sprawling storm system in the Gulf of Alaska generated high winds that slammed into the West Coast. Pretty normal, and in most cases, you'd expect to see the highest waves near the strongest winds at the heart of the storm, way up north.��But that’s not what happened this time. Instead, the pattern over the eastern Pacific Ocean allowed for an insanely long��“fetch” (a term for how far wind travels over open waters) from the Gulf of Alaska straight to the West Coast.

This fetch that developed over the eastern Pacific on Sunday and Monday was responsible for the intense waves. The above image shows winds near the ocean surface on Sunday evening, according to the . Winds roughly follow the isobars on the map, and you can see how they’re parallel almost the entire distance from the Gulf of Alaska to California and Oregon. That extremely long reach allowed those waves to build up over a considerable distance, leading to life-threatening conditions and .��

The storm that generated the mammoth waves has since weakened and moved closer to land, lowering the risk for massive waves along the West Coast. Another storm system approaching by the end of the week will kick up the waves again, but they'll be��much smaller—and maybe even surfable��for us mere mortals.��

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At Outside, we’re all about scoring reasonable airfare to cool places that we can sneak off to for the weekend, and we’re definitely not going to hit the rental shop when we get there. You better believe that I’m going to haul our surfboard to Costa Rica and bring our whole quiver for an Alaska ski trip. There’s no need to feel guilty about that, either, because on Alaska Airlines, gear counts as your first bag, and it’s only $25 (same goes for the second bag).

That’s just one of the reasons we (and the , among others) love this airline. Here are nine more:

1. A robust flight schedule with lots of destinations that just got even better. After its 2016 acquisition of Virgin America, Alaska Airlines has from the West Coast and more West Coast hubs than any other carrier. What’s more, the union will allow Alaska to expand across the country, so now everyone can experience its superiority.
2. Low prices and fees.
3. A mileage rewards program that actually feels rewarding. It gives you a point for every mile you fly, not how much you shell out for your ticket. And if you have the rewards card, you get a free companion pass every year so you can bring your favorite adventure buddy along.
4. The cabins don’t feel like flying buses.
5. The airline treats its people well. Employees are frequently described as “empowered,” which I don’t need to tell you is superior to their counterparts, whose only recourse when shit hits the fan is to say, “I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s nothing I can do for you.” Alaska employees have the discretion to do things like waive flight-change fees, offer meal vouchers, or give out free Wi-Fi codes without calling their supervisor.
6. Early boarding for those wearing the jersey of Seattle Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson (the company’s “chief football officer”).
7. Serves West Coast fare à la chef Tom Douglas and from local companies like Tillamook cheese and Tim’s Cascade chips. It sounds ridiculous, but I know people who choose to fly Alaska just so they can order the famous cheese plate. The last time I flew Alaska, a flight attendant whipped me up a specialty cocktail for no reason at all.
8. Alaska makes me feel at ease, joyful even, when flying. For some inexplicable reason, it makes me want to tag my Instagrams with #IFlyAlaska. Who says that about air travel? All I can say is that when flying other airlines, especially the budget carriers, I go into a travel day essentially bracing to get screwed, rehearsing arguments with customer service before a problem even arises. Flying Alaska feels easy because I know I’m going to be taken care of, especially if something goes awry, and that’s the real dream.
9. But seriously, that cheese plate.

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In the first chapter of ' film series, Water Cycle, Brian Ohlen bikes around the West Coast in search of the legendary, noble steelhead.��

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When got his brand new , he knew he had to test its limits. So he booked a ticket to Oregon and drove the coast in search of ocean landscapes. On the edges of cliffs, with the stiff breeze flowing off the water, he gathered this footage to make A Fleeting Dream. Find more from Worsley on and .

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