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Cata ogue
A Forgotten Promise
A wise person once told me that glaciers are our water towers. By the word “our”, I
assume they were referring to us, humans. Human-centrism aside, it is no mystery that
water provides critical hydration and habitat for all downstream. In the Pacific
Northwest, not only farmers, but also forests and fish, ranchers and rhododendrons,
data centers and drinking water, all rely on alpine glaciers and their promised meltwater.
From the perspective of a bull trout, a federally listed threatened species, it’s not only
water that glaciers promise, but cold water. Some species of anadromous fish, including
bull trout, rely on cold water cues to initiate swimming upstream to spawn. As glaciers
melt more each year, these fish face new challenges beyond what many generations of
evolution in the dynamic conditions of a glacial stream could have prepared them for.
To be clear, I use the word “promised” to explain the conditions that countless animal,
plant, and fungi species have adapted to before humans really took the helm globally.
Acknowledging here that natural forces are constantly in flux, dynamic by nature, and
not literally “promised”, we, including the fish, are coming to terms, or not, with the
reality of “new normals”. For the bull trout, whose species has swam upstream to spawn
for many generations in glacial streams, they have evolved their behavior to the
predictable cold “pulses” of water seasonally. That predictability may well have been a
promise. That promise is now, well, melting.
An Etheric Symbol
Glaciated peaks continue to be a kind of symbol of the Pacific Northwest. You see these
snow-clad peaks depicted on tourism agencies’ websites, city buses, and even on the
Washington State license plate, portraying an image of Mt. Rainer, predictably covered
in glaciers. Will the WA State Department of Motor Vehicles, or whoever decides what
goes on a state’s license plate, update their plate’s artistry as the glaciers are reduced
to rock-covered, recumbent edifices of their former glory?
How about the collective image of Mt. Hood? As Oregon’s tallest peak with 11 glaciers,
the world’s second most climbed technical mountain, and with a shape of a nearly
perfect pyramid being mostly white well into the summer months, Mt. Hood is a
glistening, regional emblem visible from much of downtown Portland, Oregon. How will
this well-loved strata volcano be talked about over executive lunch conversations
peering from a 10th-story window when it holds mere glimmers of snow in June and
shines brown by September?
While the impacts of losing a significant portion of the glaciers in the PNW over the next
several decades expand far beyond these nearly satirical examples of collective images
held in nearby metropolises, there lies an interesting opportunity to convey the reality of
a changing planet through something so visceral as a melting glacier, especially when
perhaps millions of people have a clear view of these cryo-covered mountains on their
way to work. And I think it's safe to say that many have a certain idea of how these
mountains are “promised” to look—covered in glaciers. This promise, however, the
image of a white Mt. Rainer from Seattle or Mt. Hood from Portland, is starting to melt
along with the many inhabitants of these cities without AC during the increasingly potent
PNW heatwaves, myself included.
As I write this, my apartment in Portland, converted from a house built in 1892, often
swelters hotter inside during a 100℉-heat wave. Such is the case with much of the oldinfrastructure that was also “promised” livable summer temperatures when it was constructed decades ago. Heat-related impacts, especially to those most vulnerable, such as the elderly and houseless communities, remain one of the top climate change-related hazards in the PNW.
A Requiem for a Glacier
Telling the story of the PNW glaciers is especially poignant this summer, as much of the
West Coast has received one of the lowest snow years on record. At one SNOTEL test
site on Mt Hood, this past winter held one of the lowest recorded snowpacks on record,
and all snow melted at this site earlier than any year since testing began in 1979 (USDA
NRCS). Glaciers depend on significant snowfall, especially at higher elevations, to
maintain, well, being a glacier. Once glaciers stop accumulating enough snow from year
to year to eventually be compacted into ice, they stop moving downhill. Once a glacier
comes to rest and continues to melt in its terminal location, it is considered “dead”.
An organization of scientists and climbers, Oregon Glaciers Institute (OGI), which, you
guessed it, studies Oregon’s glaciers, has held funerals on the steps of the Oregon
State Capital for glaciers that have unfortunately met their demise at the hands of
warming temperatures due to human-caused climate change.
OGI has found that 50% of Oregon’s glaciers could be dead in the next 25 years, with
29% already vanished. What this will mean for the countless downstream critters,
plants, and fungi is yet to be seen, though the impacts are already being noticed.
Back to the bull trout. Remember the cold-water cues? Scientists are now noticing that
the fish are receiving mixed signals as the glaciers melt earlier than in the past. Also,
the warmer air temperatures at lower elevations warm the water so much that the
cold-water signal is muffled by the time it makes it to the fish far downstream, eagerly
awaiting the cue to swim upriver to spawn. Not to mention, extreme weather events likeatmospheric rivers, which are becoming more frequent and severe due to human-caused climate change, send so much water down glacial streams that the habitat gets bulldozed by a torrent of rocks, logs, and other debris.
Climbers in Paradise?
What will these melting glaciers mean for the thousands of climbers in the PNW who
eagerly saunter from trailheads at 1AM with the intention of ascending a glacial-covered
peak? Well, the demand for crampons may steadily get replaced by hiking boots.
Though for some of the most popular climbing routes, such as Old Chute on Mt. Hood,
a loss of ice and snow may lead to climbing becoming much more difficult, dangerous,
and riddled with even more “overhead hazards”.
A guide who worked on Mt. Rainer once told me that these Cascade volcanoes are like
giant choss piles held together by ice (choss, here, referring to the climber’s term of
loose, friable, and otherwise dangerously undesirable rock, which most climbers tend to
avoid, if possible). Like giant sand piles, only here, the grains of sand are melon-sized
or larger rocks. These PNW glaciated peaks are made of loose, crumbly, volcanic rock
that is great to climb on when covered in a few meters of glacial ice or even a few feet
of hard-packed June snow. But when the snow melts earlier and earlier each season,
exposing glaciers to the beaming June sun alongside dark, hot, low-albedo volcanic
rocks, which often inconveniently take the role of projectile once released from their icy
cocoon, the situation for climbers becomes somewhat of a more hazardous, if not
altogether unappetizing, story.
Let’s take a look at the guides who work on these proud strata-volcanoes. The guiding
industry may be one that could be among the most impacted in the coming decades as
the temperatures warm and glaciers melt. Some of the most well-trodden routes, which
have, for the most part, safely allowed many guided groups to the summit and back to
the trailhead, may become more hazardous and even unclimbable in the comingdecades. Mountain guides in the PNW may be alongside many others who face their livelihoods at stake amid human-caused climate change, though there also lies an
opportunity for these guides to share their story while the glaciers are still here.
A Flickering Opportunity
In my master’s research, I explored how guides are in a unique position to communicate
climate change-related impacts with their guests because: 1) the implied trust inherent
to a guided experience and explicit trust developed between the guide and the client;
and 2) the natural ability, which is developed over time, of guides to communicate
effectively with their guests. In other words, if you trust somebody to safely help you
navigate through glacial terrain and all its natural hazards, you may likely also trust
them in what they have to say about how the glaciers are changing. Odds are that the
guide is a pretty good communicator, because a successful guided experience is all
about clear communication of hazards, natural history, and maybe even how changing
conditions are affecting their decisions of the day.
Over the past few years, I have had the opportunity to lead climate communication
trainings for guides in the PNW and Alaska. All of which have given me more fuel for the
idea that guides harbor a largely untapped potential as climate communicators.
Focusing on science communication and storytelling, I have found that many guides
have the desire to share, from their perspective, how the glaciers and surrounding
environments are changing, though some are understandably trepid or altogether avoid
a subject as unfortunately divisive as climate change.
On more than a few occasions, I’ve heard guides express trepidation toward the idea of
discussing climate change while guiding. After all, and I know from working as a guide
for over 10 years, it is a job largely based on tips. And if you piss off or put off your
guests, well, there goes your tips. There are ways, though the way may be tricky, tobroach these topics engagingly and invitingly. And who else but guides can safely
navigate around tricky situations?
Then let’s bring in the science. There already exist exciting opportunities for guided
experiences in glacial terrain to incorporate community science initiatives into their day
while leading people through mountains, though that opportunity also remains largely
untapped. The thousands of people who are guided among the Cascade volcanoes
each year could contribute to glacial research while they climb. What better way to learn
about the glacier you are climbing than to give a helping hand in research and to better
understand how that glacier is changing due to warming temperatures?
Here lies a larger opportunity for tourism to shift more toward a sense of stewardship
over extraction. And guides could be a solid connector between the towers of academia,
research NGOs, and the public who happen to be climbing a mountain.
I am currently working with OGI to develop a more intentional community science glacial
study project for guides and their guests to engage with as they climb Mt. Hood,
coupled with guide-focused climate communication training.
Such is the opportunity to empower a group of communicators who work directly in the
face of climate change and discuss those changes with hundreds, if not thousands, of
people every season, as tricky as it may be. Guides may deliver first-person storytelling
while working in the face of real impacts of a warming planet, a melting glacier,
alongside an engaging community science opportunity. All of which leaves one with a
sense of stewardship over a desire for only a summit selfie, and a yearning for active
resilience over depressing apathy.Where do the fish, the farmers, the forests, the salamanders, all who depend on these glaciers, fit into this? Well, for those who have climbed big mountains know and those
who have not yet can imagine, there are many hours, putting one foot in front of the
other, for which one can share stories of all those downstream.
