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In Search of the Canary Tree: The Story of a Scientist, a Cypress, and a Changing World
The award-winning and surprisingly hopeful story of one woman's search for resiliency in a warming world
Several years ago, ecologist Lauren E. Oakes set out from California for Alaska's old-growth forests to hunt for a dying tree: the yellow-cedar. With climate change as the culprit, the death of this species meant loss for many Alaskans. Oakes and her research team wanted to chronicle how plants and people could cope with their rapidly changing world. Amidst the standing dead, she discovered the resiliency of forgotten forests, flourishing again in the wake of destruction, and a diverse community of people who persevered to create new relationships with the emerging environment. Eloquent, insightful, and deeply heartening, In Search of the Canary Tree is a case for hope in a warming world.
288 pages, Hardcover
First published November 27, 2018
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August 24, 2019
Review originally appeared on Open Letters Review.
When contemplating climate change, it's nearly impossible not to feel an overwhelming sense of pessimism and finality. The gradual warming of the Earth's surface can start to feel like a far-removed concept even for well-versed believers of the science. Individuals may see it as a monumental problem, but not necessarily something that they can see the effects of in their own backyard.
The residents of Sitka, Alaska, a collection of islands adjacent to the Canadian province of British Columbia, no longer have this luxury. Their backyards are old-growth forests, filled with a variety of tree species including the yellow-cedar (Callitropsis nootkatensis), a tree imbued with cultural significance for the native Tlingit tribe as well as being a valuable export for the local logging industry. Mysteriously, these trees began to stand dead in the forests where they used to thrive and while death is a normal part of the life cycle, the scale of the yellow-cedar mortality indicated something was amiss. After early investigations eliminated the suspects normally responsible for large-scale tree death, science gradually discovered that these organisms are dying as result of climate change.
The fine roots of the yellow-cedar tree are, predictably, vulnerable the the intense Alaskan cold but are ironically protected from these temperatures by the formerly reliable snow cover that insulates the ground through the winter. But as temperatures increase and the snow melts increasingly earlier in the season, the unprotected tree roots are fatally surprised by sudden cold snaps. Over time, this has stressed some clusters and completely killed others having no small impact on Alaskan residents dependent on these trees.
As a part of her PhD program, author Lauren Oakes set out to study the death of the yellow-cedars: to investigate the scale of the issue, to assess the local impact of the losses, and to try to predict the future of these forests. Oakes takes us through this research study as she and her team fight the damp and cold of the Alaskan wilderness to gather data. She provides a thorough, yet layman-approved explanation of the scientific methods they used and outlines her interview process with Alaskans. She aimed to understand every consequence the death of the trees would have on this community whether it be economic, cultural, or even spiritual.
At times this book reads like a nature detective novel with Oakes never revealing her hand too soon. The structure and prose insist that we go on this physical and emotional journey with her. As she describes, her PhD stripped away the humanity of her experience in Alaska, reducing her findings to charts of data. This book is the other side of that coin: the side with the human face. By far, the most emotionally resonant portions of the book are her conversations with Alaskans and her fellow scientists about what the loss of the trees mean for the fate of humanity. The tree death is seen by many as the canary in the coal mine, or an indicator that humans have reached a point of no return. Indeed, deeply embedded in this text is an aching sense of loss: the loss of the trees, the loss of Oakes's own father during her PhD program, and the losses humanity will face in the absence of action.
When presented with the problem of climate change, people, not unlike the cedar trees, stand frozen in place. The issue is so momentous that it feels one will be unable to incite any impactful change. It can feel as though admitting defeat is the only course of action if we are all but teetering toward the tipping point of no return. As such, we see surprisingly little individual action taken to ease the burden on the Earth. But Oakes presents the reader with studies to explain why we feel so reluctant to see the issue as one that will affect us personally:
In a study published in 2000...a psychologist studying human-environment relationships found that an individual's perceived responsibility for the environment is greatest at the neighborhood level and decreases as the area become more remote. When it comes to climate change, that means acceptance starts by understanding what's happening in our own communities.
In this book, Oakes makes the effects of climate change tangible; she allows you to reach out and touch its consequences with your fingertips. She presents the devastating impacts on real people and the ripple effect on the ecosystem. She demands the reader consider his or her own connection to the environment since most of us are dangerously removed mentally from the natural spaces in which we live. By writing this book with deep and complex emotion, she provides the critical first spark of making climate change feel like a personal problem in each of our lives. It's a call to arms to think about the changes necessary in our own neighborhoods to give us the perspective and empathy to do our part.
To Oakes, the tree is not just a harbinger of doom, but a “window into our future.” It provides a glimpse of how the Earth will look as the wounds of human carelessness begin to scab over. By turning her PhD program experience into a memoir, the author strives to translate her hard-earned data into something actionable. It is clear that she aims to inspire all of us to see the way forward, however undesirable that path may look at the present moment. It is an achievement that a memoir standing in the melancholy shadow of climate change can leave the reader invigorated with optimism and faith in the future. Oakes is filled with pure resolve, determined to focus on what must be done to prepare for the new world climate change will inevitably shape for us. We, she says, can make the choice to adapt. One can only think Darwin would approve.
When contemplating climate change, it's nearly impossible not to feel an overwhelming sense of pessimism and finality. The gradual warming of the Earth's surface can start to feel like a far-removed concept even for well-versed believers of the science. Individuals may see it as a monumental problem, but not necessarily something that they can see the effects of in their own backyard.
The residents of Sitka, Alaska, a collection of islands adjacent to the Canadian province of British Columbia, no longer have this luxury. Their backyards are old-growth forests, filled with a variety of tree species including the yellow-cedar (Callitropsis nootkatensis), a tree imbued with cultural significance for the native Tlingit tribe as well as being a valuable export for the local logging industry. Mysteriously, these trees began to stand dead in the forests where they used to thrive and while death is a normal part of the life cycle, the scale of the yellow-cedar mortality indicated something was amiss. After early investigations eliminated the suspects normally responsible for large-scale tree death, science gradually discovered that these organisms are dying as result of climate change.
The fine roots of the yellow-cedar tree are, predictably, vulnerable the the intense Alaskan cold but are ironically protected from these temperatures by the formerly reliable snow cover that insulates the ground through the winter. But as temperatures increase and the snow melts increasingly earlier in the season, the unprotected tree roots are fatally surprised by sudden cold snaps. Over time, this has stressed some clusters and completely killed others having no small impact on Alaskan residents dependent on these trees.
As a part of her PhD program, author Lauren Oakes set out to study the death of the yellow-cedars: to investigate the scale of the issue, to assess the local impact of the losses, and to try to predict the future of these forests. Oakes takes us through this research study as she and her team fight the damp and cold of the Alaskan wilderness to gather data. She provides a thorough, yet layman-approved explanation of the scientific methods they used and outlines her interview process with Alaskans. She aimed to understand every consequence the death of the trees would have on this community whether it be economic, cultural, or even spiritual.
At times this book reads like a nature detective novel with Oakes never revealing her hand too soon. The structure and prose insist that we go on this physical and emotional journey with her. As she describes, her PhD stripped away the humanity of her experience in Alaska, reducing her findings to charts of data. This book is the other side of that coin: the side with the human face. By far, the most emotionally resonant portions of the book are her conversations with Alaskans and her fellow scientists about what the loss of the trees mean for the fate of humanity. The tree death is seen by many as the canary in the coal mine, or an indicator that humans have reached a point of no return. Indeed, deeply embedded in this text is an aching sense of loss: the loss of the trees, the loss of Oakes's own father during her PhD program, and the losses humanity will face in the absence of action.
When presented with the problem of climate change, people, not unlike the cedar trees, stand frozen in place. The issue is so momentous that it feels one will be unable to incite any impactful change. It can feel as though admitting defeat is the only course of action if we are all but teetering toward the tipping point of no return. As such, we see surprisingly little individual action taken to ease the burden on the Earth. But Oakes presents the reader with studies to explain why we feel so reluctant to see the issue as one that will affect us personally:
In a study published in 2000...a psychologist studying human-environment relationships found that an individual's perceived responsibility for the environment is greatest at the neighborhood level and decreases as the area become more remote. When it comes to climate change, that means acceptance starts by understanding what's happening in our own communities.
In this book, Oakes makes the effects of climate change tangible; she allows you to reach out and touch its consequences with your fingertips. She presents the devastating impacts on real people and the ripple effect on the ecosystem. She demands the reader consider his or her own connection to the environment since most of us are dangerously removed mentally from the natural spaces in which we live. By writing this book with deep and complex emotion, she provides the critical first spark of making climate change feel like a personal problem in each of our lives. It's a call to arms to think about the changes necessary in our own neighborhoods to give us the perspective and empathy to do our part.
To Oakes, the tree is not just a harbinger of doom, but a “window into our future.” It provides a glimpse of how the Earth will look as the wounds of human carelessness begin to scab over. By turning her PhD program experience into a memoir, the author strives to translate her hard-earned data into something actionable. It is clear that she aims to inspire all of us to see the way forward, however undesirable that path may look at the present moment. It is an achievement that a memoir standing in the melancholy shadow of climate change can leave the reader invigorated with optimism and faith in the future. Oakes is filled with pure resolve, determined to focus on what must be done to prepare for the new world climate change will inevitably shape for us. We, she says, can make the choice to adapt. One can only think Darwin would approve.
August 30, 2018
In Search of the Canary Tree refers to the phrase “canary in the coal mine” – the harbinger of disaster. It is the story of a Stanford graduate student who found herself totally immersed in the fast-disappearing yellow-cedar of Alaska’s southeast coast. She was fishing for a doctoral thesis topic, and the tree came into ever tighter focus. So the delightfully named Lauren Oakes went after the yellow-cedar from every conceivable angle. She obtained grants, went and checked it out, and spent the next six years gathering data herself and with small teams in the forests. She was rigorous and thorough, to make her thesis unassailable. And yet, this book is deeply personal and cathartic.
That she would put herself through such intense and pressured research is remarkable enough. But there are two more aspects she mixes in. In the midst of it all her father died unexpectedly, in his late 60s, and she had to postpone dealing with it and her grief because grants and seasons won’t wait. It clearly affected her and how she looked at the trees, the people and life: through a very different lens because of it. The other thing is her frustration at trying to put a positive light on the rapid disappearance of this huge, not to mention magnificent and useful tree, and how it fits in with all the other looming degradation and destruction from climate change. Because that’s what’s killing off the trees. They used to depend on Arctic snow cover to protect their roots from freezing. But with little and sometimes no snow any more, the roots are destroyed by the wild temperature swings, the frosts and thaws of spring.
The book details Oakes’ microscopic and intensely thorough planning and execution of all aspects of the research, from temperature monitoring to interviewing the locals about how the yellow-cedar fits into their lives. Because trees affect people like no other plants. Especially grand old ones. They are official property markers in England, sacred sites all over the world, and the basis of fond memories for countless millions. People get emotionally attached to trees. So this is also a very emotional account.
For me, the high point came in chapter 6, halfway through the book, where Oakes interviews locals about their relationship and attitude (if any) towards the yellow-cedar. One resident, scientist Greg Streveler, who she knew from her first tour, absolutely dumbfounded her. He had moved to the forest to enjoy it and his life. She could not pin him down to describe civilization and climate change as hopeless, though everything he said reinforced that thought. Yet neither would he allow himself the fantasy of being at all hopeful in thinking he or any one person could change the trajectory. To Oakes, this is a contradiction, but Streveler looks at it differently: Someone installing solar panels is nice. Someone buying a more fuel efficient car is nice. Someone recycling the trash is nice. But it is not going to stop the trainwreck. The sad truth is, the process is accelerating, despite individual efforts, he said. It is simply out of control. I think the reason it stood out was that it was the first time I have seen exactly my take on this in print. It’s my attitude, opinion and position too. And it turns out a lot of scientists struggle to get up in the morning because of it.
Streveler knows that Man’s uncontrollable instinct is to kill that which is big and old, favoring the young and less significant that aren’t yet worthwhile targets. Whether it is cutting down a two thousand year old Giant Sequoia to establish a dancefloor on its stump, draining the Ogallala Reservoir to feed cattle and grow Kentucky blue grass lawns, or hunting large mammals to extinction for trophies, Man looks at everything for its present personal utility, and not its right to exist.
But Streveler also knows Man cannot live in hopelessness. So he has found an attitude that ignores hopelessness without being in any way hopeful. He is living with and within nature, and that is satisfying to him. Oakes cannot relate.
Dr. Lauren Oakes got her Phd, and has kept going back to Alaska. She seems to be as much a part of it as the natives. She knows everyone in the forestry community. And they respect her. She continues to leverage her expertise in every medium available. But it is not clear she has succeeded in finding a positive way to attack or even present the problem with an optimistic bent. Though she really does try.
David Wineberg
That she would put herself through such intense and pressured research is remarkable enough. But there are two more aspects she mixes in. In the midst of it all her father died unexpectedly, in his late 60s, and she had to postpone dealing with it and her grief because grants and seasons won’t wait. It clearly affected her and how she looked at the trees, the people and life: through a very different lens because of it. The other thing is her frustration at trying to put a positive light on the rapid disappearance of this huge, not to mention magnificent and useful tree, and how it fits in with all the other looming degradation and destruction from climate change. Because that’s what’s killing off the trees. They used to depend on Arctic snow cover to protect their roots from freezing. But with little and sometimes no snow any more, the roots are destroyed by the wild temperature swings, the frosts and thaws of spring.
The book details Oakes’ microscopic and intensely thorough planning and execution of all aspects of the research, from temperature monitoring to interviewing the locals about how the yellow-cedar fits into their lives. Because trees affect people like no other plants. Especially grand old ones. They are official property markers in England, sacred sites all over the world, and the basis of fond memories for countless millions. People get emotionally attached to trees. So this is also a very emotional account.
For me, the high point came in chapter 6, halfway through the book, where Oakes interviews locals about their relationship and attitude (if any) towards the yellow-cedar. One resident, scientist Greg Streveler, who she knew from her first tour, absolutely dumbfounded her. He had moved to the forest to enjoy it and his life. She could not pin him down to describe civilization and climate change as hopeless, though everything he said reinforced that thought. Yet neither would he allow himself the fantasy of being at all hopeful in thinking he or any one person could change the trajectory. To Oakes, this is a contradiction, but Streveler looks at it differently: Someone installing solar panels is nice. Someone buying a more fuel efficient car is nice. Someone recycling the trash is nice. But it is not going to stop the trainwreck. The sad truth is, the process is accelerating, despite individual efforts, he said. It is simply out of control. I think the reason it stood out was that it was the first time I have seen exactly my take on this in print. It’s my attitude, opinion and position too. And it turns out a lot of scientists struggle to get up in the morning because of it.
Streveler knows that Man’s uncontrollable instinct is to kill that which is big and old, favoring the young and less significant that aren’t yet worthwhile targets. Whether it is cutting down a two thousand year old Giant Sequoia to establish a dancefloor on its stump, draining the Ogallala Reservoir to feed cattle and grow Kentucky blue grass lawns, or hunting large mammals to extinction for trophies, Man looks at everything for its present personal utility, and not its right to exist.
But Streveler also knows Man cannot live in hopelessness. So he has found an attitude that ignores hopelessness without being in any way hopeful. He is living with and within nature, and that is satisfying to him. Oakes cannot relate.
Dr. Lauren Oakes got her Phd, and has kept going back to Alaska. She seems to be as much a part of it as the natives. She knows everyone in the forestry community. And they respect her. She continues to leverage her expertise in every medium available. But it is not clear she has succeeded in finding a positive way to attack or even present the problem with an optimistic bent. Though she really does try.
David Wineberg
January 8, 2019
Am i starting the year off with a five-star book? Having just finished the second half of the book in one sitting and still processing i think i am. I think this 250 page book is a true gem.
Considering it's length there is really a lot too this book and Oakes' thoughtful narrative touches on many levels.
For her PHD Oakes studied the yellow-cedar tree in Alaska. A species particular about where it will grow, a species coveted for it's fine wood, a species intricately connected to the native people of Alaska and a species dying in large numbers due to climate change.
I guess you could say it's a four part book. Oakes talks about finding her subject and preparing and designing her research. Then there's the fieldwork, gathering data on the ground. Not an easy feat in the rugged and inhospitable landscape of Alaska. In addition to the ecological data Oakes also researches people's relationships with the dying trees by interviewing many Alaskans with different connections to the yellow-cedars. And then there's the realizations and conclusions.
One of the things that resonated most with me; Oakes talks about the difficulties of being an environmental scientist, how do you cope researching, with such intensity, something so devastating in a way. Changing environments, dying forests, loss of species. I never really thought about that but yeah, that can't be easy! Especially with all the things not being done to slow climate change.
Oakes does an fantastic job of conveying those thoughts and feelings. But amazingly, through the years, also shifts, turns, molds this is into a surprisingly positive ans inspiring message.
But there's much more. This is a deeply personal science book. Emotional and inspiring. A small gem, I loved it!
Considering it's length there is really a lot too this book and Oakes' thoughtful narrative touches on many levels.
For her PHD Oakes studied the yellow-cedar tree in Alaska. A species particular about where it will grow, a species coveted for it's fine wood, a species intricately connected to the native people of Alaska and a species dying in large numbers due to climate change.
I guess you could say it's a four part book. Oakes talks about finding her subject and preparing and designing her research. Then there's the fieldwork, gathering data on the ground. Not an easy feat in the rugged and inhospitable landscape of Alaska. In addition to the ecological data Oakes also researches people's relationships with the dying trees by interviewing many Alaskans with different connections to the yellow-cedars. And then there's the realizations and conclusions.
One of the things that resonated most with me; Oakes talks about the difficulties of being an environmental scientist, how do you cope researching, with such intensity, something so devastating in a way. Changing environments, dying forests, loss of species. I never really thought about that but yeah, that can't be easy! Especially with all the things not being done to slow climate change.
Oakes does an fantastic job of conveying those thoughts and feelings. But amazingly, through the years, also shifts, turns, molds this is into a surprisingly positive ans inspiring message.
But there's much more. This is a deeply personal science book. Emotional and inspiring. A small gem, I loved it!
July 30, 2018
NOTE: I received an Advanced Readers Copy of this book from NetGalley. This review is my honest opinion of the book.
In Search of the Canary Tree is not so much a popular science book about a specific topic, but rather the author’s personal experiences while doing research for her PhD project in Alaska. In the author’s own words: "This book is about a species - a tree called Callitropsis nootkatensis, how I fell under its spell, and how it inspired my search for people and plants thriving amidst change. It chronicles my effort to answer what happens in the wake of yellow-cedar death, not only to uncover the future of these old-growth forests, but to share lessons that apply to people on other parts of the planet. It is a book about finding faith, not of any religious variety, but as a force that summons local solutions to a global problem, that helps me live joyfully and choose what matters most in seemingly dark times. If we start looking at the local picture and the ways in which we all depend on nature in various ways every day, solutions emerge. I witnessed this in Alaska".
The book starts off slowly but picks up pace. The book is a nicely-written, accessible, personable, informative, and rather intimate view of what one scientist actually did for her research project, the people that influenced her, what her findings were and how this affected her personally.
If you are only looking for scientific information, this book is not for you. If you want a more personal relationship with the scientists behind the number crunching, then you may enjoy this book.
In Search of the Canary Tree is not so much a popular science book about a specific topic, but rather the author’s personal experiences while doing research for her PhD project in Alaska. In the author’s own words: "This book is about a species - a tree called Callitropsis nootkatensis, how I fell under its spell, and how it inspired my search for people and plants thriving amidst change. It chronicles my effort to answer what happens in the wake of yellow-cedar death, not only to uncover the future of these old-growth forests, but to share lessons that apply to people on other parts of the planet. It is a book about finding faith, not of any religious variety, but as a force that summons local solutions to a global problem, that helps me live joyfully and choose what matters most in seemingly dark times. If we start looking at the local picture and the ways in which we all depend on nature in various ways every day, solutions emerge. I witnessed this in Alaska".
The book starts off slowly but picks up pace. The book is a nicely-written, accessible, personable, informative, and rather intimate view of what one scientist actually did for her research project, the people that influenced her, what her findings were and how this affected her personally.
If you are only looking for scientific information, this book is not for you. If you want a more personal relationship with the scientists behind the number crunching, then you may enjoy this book.
April 14, 2022
I loved this book! What a great combination of a personal story, scientific research, and SE Alaska. It turns out I personally know many of the people she writes about. Couldn’t put it down. Now I need to tell all my friends to read it.
February 18, 2019
2.5 stars. I really wanted to enjoy this book, but it felt bland and forced. There were a few bright moments, but overall I couldn’t wait to finish it.
April 14, 2019
I chose to read this book for a somewhat unusual reason. Lauren Oakes' book was named a Science Friday "Top Science Book of 2018" at the same time as my book. She was published by the same publisher (Basic Books) and edited by the same editor (TJ Kelleher). So I got this book out of a sense of loyalty, wanting to support my fellow author and also wanting to see what she did right.
Well, there are lots of things that she did right. Number one was deciding to write a popular book about her experience researching the dieback of yellow cedars in southeastern Alaska. It's great to have a fresh young voice writing about climate science -- someone in the generation that will be most affected by it. I also commend her for realizing she had to do more than just "monitor the species to extinction." Writing scientific papers was not enough for her. She wanted to communicate to the public what she had seen, and most of all she wanted to answer for herself the question: How do we avoid sinking into despair when we talk about the changing climate? What reasons are there for hope?
There are three parts to the book, which I would describe roughly as follows. Part one is about her field experience. This was great, and I was left wanting more. I think it was also quite fascinating to see how the field research is shaped by the requirements of science for random sampling, objective data, etc. This makes for better science but I also think it leaves a certain feeling of emptiness in Oakes and perhaps other ecologists, too. They are, like anybody, passionate about what they do and the species they study, yet the practice of science does not leave room to express this kind of emotion.
Part two was more about Oakes' interviews with the people who live around the yellow-cedar forest, and this was the best part of the book. It was a joy to read the actual words of a logger, a Native American weaver (yes, they make threads out of cedar), a Forest Service manager, and it was fascinating to see the different things that the forest means to them. She also weaves into the story the death of her father, which happened around the same time, and which accentuates some of her questions about dealing with loss.
Part three was about Oakes' personal journey to understand what she has learned from this and what the trees are calling her to do. Most important, as I said, she wants to resolve the questions: What can I have hope for? What can I have faith in? If the book falls short anywhere, it is here. She doesn't come up with really compelling answers. In the end I feel as if she is saying: I can't go on without hope, I need to have hope, therefore I will hope. I believe there is a better argument to be made. Nevertheless, this does point out an important thing about hope (which she also points out i the book) -- hope mostly comes from inside a person, not from the outside circumstances. I think this is a profound and important insight.
There is one fascinating thread left loose in this book -- perhaps something that could be the topic of a future book? In the course of her research she discovers that the Tlingit Indians actually fled advancing glaciers in the 1700s and moved to the coast, where they live now. In a very real sense this was an enlightened response to climate change. Back then, during the "Little Ice Age," the climate was getting colder. They realized it and responded, or perhaps one might say made the best of it. To me, that's where the reason for hope lies. We see the signs of climate change now, on a larger scale, and we can also adapt. If the Tlingit can adapt, so can the rest of humanity. It's what we do. We muddle through.
I would love to see an ecology writer or climate science writer make this argument with conviction. Oakes doesn't quite do it. But she does write a darned fine book.
Well, there are lots of things that she did right. Number one was deciding to write a popular book about her experience researching the dieback of yellow cedars in southeastern Alaska. It's great to have a fresh young voice writing about climate science -- someone in the generation that will be most affected by it. I also commend her for realizing she had to do more than just "monitor the species to extinction." Writing scientific papers was not enough for her. She wanted to communicate to the public what she had seen, and most of all she wanted to answer for herself the question: How do we avoid sinking into despair when we talk about the changing climate? What reasons are there for hope?
There are three parts to the book, which I would describe roughly as follows. Part one is about her field experience. This was great, and I was left wanting more. I think it was also quite fascinating to see how the field research is shaped by the requirements of science for random sampling, objective data, etc. This makes for better science but I also think it leaves a certain feeling of emptiness in Oakes and perhaps other ecologists, too. They are, like anybody, passionate about what they do and the species they study, yet the practice of science does not leave room to express this kind of emotion.
Part two was more about Oakes' interviews with the people who live around the yellow-cedar forest, and this was the best part of the book. It was a joy to read the actual words of a logger, a Native American weaver (yes, they make threads out of cedar), a Forest Service manager, and it was fascinating to see the different things that the forest means to them. She also weaves into the story the death of her father, which happened around the same time, and which accentuates some of her questions about dealing with loss.
Part three was about Oakes' personal journey to understand what she has learned from this and what the trees are calling her to do. Most important, as I said, she wants to resolve the questions: What can I have hope for? What can I have faith in? If the book falls short anywhere, it is here. She doesn't come up with really compelling answers. In the end I feel as if she is saying: I can't go on without hope, I need to have hope, therefore I will hope. I believe there is a better argument to be made. Nevertheless, this does point out an important thing about hope (which she also points out i the book) -- hope mostly comes from inside a person, not from the outside circumstances. I think this is a profound and important insight.
There is one fascinating thread left loose in this book -- perhaps something that could be the topic of a future book? In the course of her research she discovers that the Tlingit Indians actually fled advancing glaciers in the 1700s and moved to the coast, where they live now. In a very real sense this was an enlightened response to climate change. Back then, during the "Little Ice Age," the climate was getting colder. They realized it and responded, or perhaps one might say made the best of it. To me, that's where the reason for hope lies. We see the signs of climate change now, on a larger scale, and we can also adapt. If the Tlingit can adapt, so can the rest of humanity. It's what we do. We muddle through.
I would love to see an ecology writer or climate science writer make this argument with conviction. Oakes doesn't quite do it. But she does write a darned fine book.
February 15, 2020
This book is a tricky one to describe, which I suspect is somewhat intentional. As a reader and scientist, I’ve read a respectable number of books about the environment and climate change. I procrastinated in picking up this book, and realized that was because I wasn’t convinced yet another book on this topic would really give me anything. In the end, it did give me something new and, predictably, it didn’t. Because what more is there to say that we don’t already know about the main consequences of climate change?
This book ebbed and flowed; at first, I thought its uniqueness was in that it approached its thesis through the lens of a single tree species (yellow-cedar) and its Alaska environs. It struck me that this is a refreshingly esoteric approach compared to other popular science books on climate change, which speak in grand terms about impending doom on a variety of fronts. For the first half of the book, direct mentions of “the double c word” (a euphemism I learned from this book) are also relatively rare. This subtlety lends itself to steering away from established and repetitive talking points and to a more nuanced language of what is happening - to a single tree species in a remote ecosystem - and what is already destined to happen.
However, the most illuminating parts of this book were the author’s interviews with native inhabitants of the land she studied. These interviewees inherently realize the superficial language well-meaning outsiders use to describe the environment, and I’m grateful to have been exposed to these perspectives. I also would have appreciated some color photographs of the trees and sites (and even the people) the author describes, but another highlight of the book are the beautiful illustrations. Perhaps the inclusion of both would make for an odd juxtaposition. I will just look them up instead.
By the second half of the book, I realized that I hadn’t been saturated with yellow-cedar or even tree-specific climate change information, nor was I put off by the author’s inclusion of events in her personal life. As someone who likes my science writing dense and possesses an unshakeable Midwestern skepticism of anyone who thinks they are interesting enough to write about themselves, this book manages an impressive feat of sitting positively with me. I think it’s because the writer is clearly very talented with language and writes with more self-awareness than many in her profession do. However, aside from the views of the interviewees, this is still what I might pessimistically classify as just another (intriguingly written) climate change book. It is unlikely to change unchanged minds or spark significant action, which is perhaps why the writer stops short of directly imploring her readers to do so. The only thing we can do is brace ourselves, grieve as needed, and keep on keepin’ on. There really is no alternative, which is the great unifying reality of climate change.
This book ebbed and flowed; at first, I thought its uniqueness was in that it approached its thesis through the lens of a single tree species (yellow-cedar) and its Alaska environs. It struck me that this is a refreshingly esoteric approach compared to other popular science books on climate change, which speak in grand terms about impending doom on a variety of fronts. For the first half of the book, direct mentions of “the double c word” (a euphemism I learned from this book) are also relatively rare. This subtlety lends itself to steering away from established and repetitive talking points and to a more nuanced language of what is happening - to a single tree species in a remote ecosystem - and what is already destined to happen.
However, the most illuminating parts of this book were the author’s interviews with native inhabitants of the land she studied. These interviewees inherently realize the superficial language well-meaning outsiders use to describe the environment, and I’m grateful to have been exposed to these perspectives. I also would have appreciated some color photographs of the trees and sites (and even the people) the author describes, but another highlight of the book are the beautiful illustrations. Perhaps the inclusion of both would make for an odd juxtaposition. I will just look them up instead.
By the second half of the book, I realized that I hadn’t been saturated with yellow-cedar or even tree-specific climate change information, nor was I put off by the author’s inclusion of events in her personal life. As someone who likes my science writing dense and possesses an unshakeable Midwestern skepticism of anyone who thinks they are interesting enough to write about themselves, this book manages an impressive feat of sitting positively with me. I think it’s because the writer is clearly very talented with language and writes with more self-awareness than many in her profession do. However, aside from the views of the interviewees, this is still what I might pessimistically classify as just another (intriguingly written) climate change book. It is unlikely to change unchanged minds or spark significant action, which is perhaps why the writer stops short of directly imploring her readers to do so. The only thing we can do is brace ourselves, grieve as needed, and keep on keepin’ on. There really is no alternative, which is the great unifying reality of climate change.
July 5, 2019
3.5 stars. I wish this had been better written, because the content is so important and the scientific expedition she went on was full of drama and excitement. The first few chapters in particular are marred by her apparent belief that it's good to jump back and forth in time for no reason.
She tries to marry science to something more psychological/social/even spiritual. If you want to read something that does this better, read Braiding Sweetgrass.
She tries to marry science to something more psychological/social/even spiritual. If you want to read something that does this better, read Braiding Sweetgrass.
January 25, 2019
Ever heard why they used to keep canary in a cold mine? Cause when the tiny canary died, you knew there was lethal gas in the mine that would kill the miners if they didn’t flee.
Oakes uses this reference in her title. Oakes’s book is about more than just the decline and die off of the Alaskan Yellow Cedar. The focus is on what the changes to this species and others portend for us.
Oakes’ research and journey to her Stanford Ph.d is the first part of this book, but she goes on the consider what these changes mean personally to individuals. The message is: spread the word climate change is here now, be sad about what we have lost, makes changes so we don’t lose more, and be hopeful because species can and do adapt to new conditions.
Oakes uses this reference in her title. Oakes’s book is about more than just the decline and die off of the Alaskan Yellow Cedar. The focus is on what the changes to this species and others portend for us.
Oakes’ research and journey to her Stanford Ph.d is the first part of this book, but she goes on the consider what these changes mean personally to individuals. The message is: spread the word climate change is here now, be sad about what we have lost, makes changes so we don’t lose more, and be hopeful because species can and do adapt to new conditions.
January 30, 2023
Such a wonderful example of how a PhD dissertation can double as beautiful storytelling 💚 It was cool to read about Lauren Oakes’ journey through grad school and grapple with what to do with what she learned about yellow-cedar and climate change. I also thought it was really inspiring to see how interdisciplinary science can be- both through her fieldwork with the trees in Alaska and interviewing it’s people. Thank you Lauren for helping to pave the way for other scientist storytellers and also for contributing such important work to our scientific knowledge. I hope more dissertations that are written this way can be published!
August 16, 2025
Felt like what every scientist is feeling when studying climate change, easy to follow, the connection and emotion to her work is strong and important. Everyone should read this
April 11, 2019
I didn't expect to be completely swept away in an account of one scientist's attempts to learn more about mortality in the yellow cedar population in Alaska but I was. I felt like I was reading a novel as Lauren Oakes writes about how she finds a subject for her PhD study, lines up sponsors and transportation and a team, and spends her time in soggy tents and tramping through the underbrush on Chicagof Island looking for plots of yellow cedar to study. She conveys both the tedium and the enthusiasm of such a project. For several years she travels back and forth between the Bay Area and Alaska, and as her study deepens, she realizes she wants to know not just about the trees, but how people who work with the trees feel about them. Greg Strevolor, an early mentor suggests that the cedar tree is her muse, and tells her "You won't be able to understand a place without standing still there." He warns her about "monitoring a species to extinction." This is really where the book comes alive as she switches her focus from documenting what's happening in nature to pondering over how people feel about losing the trees, whether that is talking to a logger, a forester and or a native woman weaver. I especially loved the scene where the weaver woman flares up at the mention of "natural resources" and says she wants to replace the word resources with relationship. Another native weaver woman bridles at the use of the word "wilderness." She says it's a curse word. Oakes wonders: Does our separation from nature stem from our early efforts, to protect it? And is this separation the cause of our problems today? Oakes begins to question the demand for objectivity in science and asks her fellow climate scientists about how they deal with hopelessness when their research is showing the serious consequences of climate change.
For me the real insight had to do with the book I'm writing about a year spent observing nature in my neighborhood. I discovered the narrative arc of my book by reading this book. Several scientists and native people to whom she spoke pointed out the importance of just observing what's going on, and also celebrating the beauty of the world. This is an important starting point for any action that is going to change climate change. I had not recognized before reading this book that my quest to connect with nature in my urban neighborhood came from this same impulse. I'm going to pull out many favorite passages and list this book as a comparable in the comparable book section of my proposal, even though I'm not a scientist and even though this book probably didn't sell that well.
Found it: on the shelves in my local and amazing book store, Elliott Bay Book Company. I am so lucky to live within walking distance of it.
For me the real insight had to do with the book I'm writing about a year spent observing nature in my neighborhood. I discovered the narrative arc of my book by reading this book. Several scientists and native people to whom she spoke pointed out the importance of just observing what's going on, and also celebrating the beauty of the world. This is an important starting point for any action that is going to change climate change. I had not recognized before reading this book that my quest to connect with nature in my urban neighborhood came from this same impulse. I'm going to pull out many favorite passages and list this book as a comparable in the comparable book section of my proposal, even though I'm not a scientist and even though this book probably didn't sell that well.
Found it: on the shelves in my local and amazing book store, Elliott Bay Book Company. I am so lucky to live within walking distance of it.
March 4, 2019
This book felt less about the state of the Yellow Cypress than it did about how to do science on global warming indicators and stay hopeful. It’s also a story about how science on such complex subjects is conducted (little money and lots of sweat equity and minimal sampling).
February 2, 2019
Somewhat humble, clear illustration of the trials & tribulations, however the writing is a bit too insipid.
April 1, 2020
Wow, what a moving book. Oakes makes science thrilling and emotional, from her adventure through Alaska with the mentors and teammates who made it happen, to the grief, despair, and finally hope that she came to through her research and soul-searching.
Some quotes/key concepts I liked-
“The forest gives, gives, gives. It is our job to learn how to give back.”
“Thriving, for people and plants alike, requires reaching toward the light.”
“How do you live with what you know?”
“There’s so much we can do.”
Some quotes/key concepts I liked-
“The forest gives, gives, gives. It is our job to learn how to give back.”
“Thriving, for people and plants alike, requires reaching toward the light.”
“How do you live with what you know?”
“There’s so much we can do.”
April 2, 2019
I read this book as part of my 2019 Reading Women Challenge, for the categories of A Book Featuring a Woman in Science and A Book About Nature.
I really, really loved this book. I generally shy away from books about climate change because I find it so scary and overwhelming, but this one snuck in and even managed to give me a little hope. I found it fascinating, and her writing about both nature and science is just terrific.
I really, really loved this book. I generally shy away from books about climate change because I find it so scary and overwhelming, but this one snuck in and even managed to give me a little hope. I found it fascinating, and her writing about both nature and science is just terrific.
July 8, 2019
Oakes manages both to provide a dismaying account of climate change well under way and to fill her readers with optimism about what we can and should still do. Her interviews with people who deeply love the trees were often memorable and moving.
June 14, 2021
A highly readable mix of scientific methodology, adventure camping, cultural exploration, and interesting personalities all leavened by heartfelt ecological concerns.
December 21, 2020
“Teri Rofkar, Tlingit basket weaver seemed unfazed by all she knew. She made it seem crazy that anyone could not care deeply about climate change; she also made it seem crazy to feel helpless. “What we have here is catastrophic failure,” she said. “What a great opportunity.” Perhaps the greatest opportunity of all.”
I have to admit I was one of the helpless-feeling about climate change, just mired in depression that we can’t convince many people that it is important, depressed that still, so many are trying to survive racially, emotionally, financially, and that we can’t expect them to have energy for the planet.
“I came to Alaska looking for hope in a graveyard. Ice melting, seas rising, longer droughts-in a world seemingly on fire, I chose to put myself in some of the worst of it. The Alexander Archipelago in Southeast Alaska is a collection of thousands of islands in one of the scarce pockets remaining on this planet where thick moss blankets the forest floor and trees range from tiny seedlings to ancient giants. But I wasn’t loading up that Cessna four-seater to look for fairy-tale forests of spruce, hemlock, and cedar. I was flying in search of the forests I’d study-the graveyards of standing dead trees and the plants I so wanted to believe could tell me, through science, that maybe the world is not coming to an end.”
I finished that sentence differently in my mind after some of my reading this year: what I wanted to believe, was aching to know, was that her work, or the science, points to hope for trees and our air and water, nature as us, not separate, and if so, if the hope lies in adaptations. Divorcing humans from nature, making us an “other” is part of where we are going wrong; we are nature, so what we do is ourselves doing it to ourselves. Climate changes over time, it is what it does, and even with emissions decreased, we have set the path and it will still play out. But what the author says we can do is pay attention locally, or support groups that are working locally, and still support conservation initiatives, but to have a long view and a short view, since the short view is what makes our air and water breathable and drinkable.
Per earth.org, in case you did not know:
“…if all greenhouse gas emissions were to be completely stopped starting this year, the public would expect immediate, rapid declines in global warming. However, temperatures are projected to rise at an accelerated pace for at least 13 more years. Without careful, nuanced media messaging to convey and explain this projection, the lack of immediate outcomes may lead to public backlash on the perceived ineffectiveness of the policies, and sustaining climate mitigation efforts in the long-run could be met with significant pushback.”
If art is a by-product of living, and I believe it is, then I want my own efforts to stay as close to earth and human experience as possible- and the only earth I know is the one I have on, the human experience I am at all sure of is my own.” Wallace Stegner
Master wood carver Gordon Greenwald, Tlingit: “If our climate is changing, then our environment will change, and that doesn’t mean as humans that we can’t change with it.” I didn’t think of him as just hopeful, because there was a sense of conviction in his voice. As a scientist, I couldn’t measure it or categorize it into what I was studying… It was a way-his way- of waking up in the morning and living in a world of loss and change. Where there is tragedy. Where there is beauty. Where our actions in coming together and working together to reshape the hillside can still stop the avalanche. Where finding balance again is within the realm of possibility.
That is the sentence. The balance between hope and despair, the fine balance; and the rest of the book is a lovely balance between the human experience of rugged, difficult field work in a trailless place that shows the biology, the words of Alaska residents from a range of backgrounds, and includes the practical and the spiritual.
What does the tree have to teach me?
That we are all vulnerable. There may be survivors, carrying out their lives in pockets where conditions remain favorable. They may regroup, perhaps even evolve, and at the right moment in time even flourish again.
But what does this tree ask of me?
Perhaps far more importantly, that I can observe the changes occurring around me and embrace the struggle to accept them, to respond to them, to adapt to them. I can look ahead and live today holding a space for tomorrow. I can fight for what we can still curtail. I can play a part, not live apart, and I can act with care for others when the floods hit, when the seas rise, when the snow melts, the rivers run dry, and the flames rage. Defeat may only be a failure to adapt.
If fear is an absence of breath, and faith is a positive force, I want to breathe into an uncertain future. If this trees species and all the people connected to it gave me one great gift, it is this: the realization that there’s simply no imaginable tomorrow- no modeled future scenario, no amount or shade of red- that could every possibly nullify the need for unwavering care and thoughtful action today. To me, that is thriving. To me, in this rapidly changing world, that is grace. It is how I choose to live with what I know.
“One of my goals, is to eliminate the term ‘natural resource.’ I think that it’s an atrocity -you know, it’s the resourcing of everything. There’s no relationship. If you just replace the words natural resource with relationship, you’re good to go. When we resource, we don’t make the ties of what was lost in order to gain something… You can create balance. You can manage balance. Here we cut down an old tree, and now there’s a new tree coming up. So when I say in relationship, it’s relationship with the whole, not the individual. It’s relationship with place. Place-based learning. I thinks so many people are disconnected with the place where they live. We’ve got this superficial layer- whether its technology or transportation- but it’s created this isolating layer from place.” Tlingit member Teri Rofkar
I though of restoration in relationships-the actions people take to repair the environment, and the actions people take to support one another, long term…Replacing “resource” with relationship would make nature and humanity a part of one another again. A relationship is so much more than a service provided or a resource to use. It is a mutual commitment to care.
Researchers have conducted extensive studies and written books on the topic of fear and hopelessness in the fields of climate change education and communication. As awareness of climate change increases, whay aren’t we taking the actions to curtail it? ---Sociologist Kari Norgaard wrote, “Although some 68% of the U.S. population list global warming as a serious environmental problem in recent polls, few people spent time writing or thinking about it, much less taking action. Not wanting to know about climate change appeared to be related to the host of powerful emotions the topic engendered. The people I interviewed described fears about the severity of climate change, of not knowing what to do, that their way of life was in question, and the government would not adequately handle the problem.” Living in denial turning your back on fear, is, in many ways, easier.
An Esquire article, “When the End of Human Civilization is Your Day Job,” was about a gloom that sets in for climate scientists and their ability to talk about it publicly. The article highlighted Jeffrey Kiehl, a senior scientist with NCAR, who had taken a break from climate models and projections to get a psychology degree. Ten years of research late, the article said, he’s concluded that consumption and growth have become so central to our sense of personal identity and the fear of economic loss creates such numbing anxiety, we literally cannot imagine making the necessary changes.”
“The planet is just this marvelous, beautiful place, and trees are one of the most glorious expressions of it. You have so much character when you live a long time as old growth, and ancient trees do, and all trees in general, whether young or old. For a class of organisms that is so important to the functioning of the planet and the well being of human societies, it is stunning how little we actually know…It’s not about being depressed, but about feeling a sense of urgency that we need to make progress in a lot of different ways.” Craig Allen, forester
My work in Alaska showed me that “doing something” is not only bout fighting for mitigation, educating others, or reducing home energy use through small actions; its about finding ways to cope with what’s coming. It’s looking at the positive in the midst of the negative, embracing opportunities, and accepting some unavoidable losses. It’s acting out of faith, getting out front in our communities and reaching across to others, not just letting hope blow in the wind. It’s believing that if we got ourselves into this mess by the collective consequences of individual actions, we can also get ourselves out of it.
Faith requires acting. It’s not passive. That also resonated with me. Rebecca Solnit wrote, “Hope is not a door but a sense that there might be a door at some point, some way out of the problems of the present moment before that is found or followed.” My own optimism goes hand and hand with faith, not in a religious sense of the word. But as a conviction that we still have the strength and the power to chart a new course for the future.
I see the forest manager experiment with planting trees farther north as similar to the city planner considering how high the sea will be, or the farmer in Iowa deciding which crops to grow and where, to the Montanan clearing brush to prevent forest fires from spreading. I see the logger reshaping his business to the shifting timber supply in the archipelago as similar to the California installing a gray-water system, the Inuit switching hunting locations, the New Yorker flood proofing his basement, the health practitioner considering how and where climate will affect mosquito populations and the diseases they spread. These people are accepting climate change. They are integrating it into their lives. They are preparing for the future. perhaps, but they’re also reshaping the present to the harsh reality of what they know. They are making it a part of their daily living and doing what’s within their power to do- in an effort to adapt. All those actions begin with an understanding of a relationship with nature that climate change affects. They begin with a sense of urgency, not distance.
Big data has power, and the economics for mitigation requires power. But if adaptation starts in our neighborhoods, the science needs to match the scale at which individuals act and make decisions. As citizens, you and I, each one of us coping today or inevitably coping tomorrow, we need to reach a greater understanding of how climate change affects immediate relationships…What’s happening in my home habitat, whether it’s a city by the rising sea, a landlocked town in the sweltering heat, or a community bordering forests at risk of falmes? What’s happening to my source of water? What about the food I am eating and where it grew? What will we be able to grow there tomorrow? Two circles- Nature and Self- one on top of another. Completely merged. Because that’s where nature is no longer an externality. Because that’s where the problem is no longer us versus the other-what Naomi Klein calls the economics at war with the planetary system. Because Nature and Self as merged is where my responsibility begins. It comes with a consequence- the grief of loss (my research had shown me that; I lived it too). But Nature and Self merged as one also comes with benefits- care, concern, motivation to act.
I have to admit I was one of the helpless-feeling about climate change, just mired in depression that we can’t convince many people that it is important, depressed that still, so many are trying to survive racially, emotionally, financially, and that we can’t expect them to have energy for the planet.
“I came to Alaska looking for hope in a graveyard. Ice melting, seas rising, longer droughts-in a world seemingly on fire, I chose to put myself in some of the worst of it. The Alexander Archipelago in Southeast Alaska is a collection of thousands of islands in one of the scarce pockets remaining on this planet where thick moss blankets the forest floor and trees range from tiny seedlings to ancient giants. But I wasn’t loading up that Cessna four-seater to look for fairy-tale forests of spruce, hemlock, and cedar. I was flying in search of the forests I’d study-the graveyards of standing dead trees and the plants I so wanted to believe could tell me, through science, that maybe the world is not coming to an end.”
I finished that sentence differently in my mind after some of my reading this year: what I wanted to believe, was aching to know, was that her work, or the science, points to hope for trees and our air and water, nature as us, not separate, and if so, if the hope lies in adaptations. Divorcing humans from nature, making us an “other” is part of where we are going wrong; we are nature, so what we do is ourselves doing it to ourselves. Climate changes over time, it is what it does, and even with emissions decreased, we have set the path and it will still play out. But what the author says we can do is pay attention locally, or support groups that are working locally, and still support conservation initiatives, but to have a long view and a short view, since the short view is what makes our air and water breathable and drinkable.
Per earth.org, in case you did not know:
“…if all greenhouse gas emissions were to be completely stopped starting this year, the public would expect immediate, rapid declines in global warming. However, temperatures are projected to rise at an accelerated pace for at least 13 more years. Without careful, nuanced media messaging to convey and explain this projection, the lack of immediate outcomes may lead to public backlash on the perceived ineffectiveness of the policies, and sustaining climate mitigation efforts in the long-run could be met with significant pushback.”
If art is a by-product of living, and I believe it is, then I want my own efforts to stay as close to earth and human experience as possible- and the only earth I know is the one I have on, the human experience I am at all sure of is my own.” Wallace Stegner
Master wood carver Gordon Greenwald, Tlingit: “If our climate is changing, then our environment will change, and that doesn’t mean as humans that we can’t change with it.” I didn’t think of him as just hopeful, because there was a sense of conviction in his voice. As a scientist, I couldn’t measure it or categorize it into what I was studying… It was a way-his way- of waking up in the morning and living in a world of loss and change. Where there is tragedy. Where there is beauty. Where our actions in coming together and working together to reshape the hillside can still stop the avalanche. Where finding balance again is within the realm of possibility.
That is the sentence. The balance between hope and despair, the fine balance; and the rest of the book is a lovely balance between the human experience of rugged, difficult field work in a trailless place that shows the biology, the words of Alaska residents from a range of backgrounds, and includes the practical and the spiritual.
What does the tree have to teach me?
That we are all vulnerable. There may be survivors, carrying out their lives in pockets where conditions remain favorable. They may regroup, perhaps even evolve, and at the right moment in time even flourish again.
But what does this tree ask of me?
Perhaps far more importantly, that I can observe the changes occurring around me and embrace the struggle to accept them, to respond to them, to adapt to them. I can look ahead and live today holding a space for tomorrow. I can fight for what we can still curtail. I can play a part, not live apart, and I can act with care for others when the floods hit, when the seas rise, when the snow melts, the rivers run dry, and the flames rage. Defeat may only be a failure to adapt.
If fear is an absence of breath, and faith is a positive force, I want to breathe into an uncertain future. If this trees species and all the people connected to it gave me one great gift, it is this: the realization that there’s simply no imaginable tomorrow- no modeled future scenario, no amount or shade of red- that could every possibly nullify the need for unwavering care and thoughtful action today. To me, that is thriving. To me, in this rapidly changing world, that is grace. It is how I choose to live with what I know.
“One of my goals, is to eliminate the term ‘natural resource.’ I think that it’s an atrocity -you know, it’s the resourcing of everything. There’s no relationship. If you just replace the words natural resource with relationship, you’re good to go. When we resource, we don’t make the ties of what was lost in order to gain something… You can create balance. You can manage balance. Here we cut down an old tree, and now there’s a new tree coming up. So when I say in relationship, it’s relationship with the whole, not the individual. It’s relationship with place. Place-based learning. I thinks so many people are disconnected with the place where they live. We’ve got this superficial layer- whether its technology or transportation- but it’s created this isolating layer from place.” Tlingit member Teri Rofkar
I though of restoration in relationships-the actions people take to repair the environment, and the actions people take to support one another, long term…Replacing “resource” with relationship would make nature and humanity a part of one another again. A relationship is so much more than a service provided or a resource to use. It is a mutual commitment to care.
Researchers have conducted extensive studies and written books on the topic of fear and hopelessness in the fields of climate change education and communication. As awareness of climate change increases, whay aren’t we taking the actions to curtail it? ---Sociologist Kari Norgaard wrote, “Although some 68% of the U.S. population list global warming as a serious environmental problem in recent polls, few people spent time writing or thinking about it, much less taking action. Not wanting to know about climate change appeared to be related to the host of powerful emotions the topic engendered. The people I interviewed described fears about the severity of climate change, of not knowing what to do, that their way of life was in question, and the government would not adequately handle the problem.” Living in denial turning your back on fear, is, in many ways, easier.
An Esquire article, “When the End of Human Civilization is Your Day Job,” was about a gloom that sets in for climate scientists and their ability to talk about it publicly. The article highlighted Jeffrey Kiehl, a senior scientist with NCAR, who had taken a break from climate models and projections to get a psychology degree. Ten years of research late, the article said, he’s concluded that consumption and growth have become so central to our sense of personal identity and the fear of economic loss creates such numbing anxiety, we literally cannot imagine making the necessary changes.”
“The planet is just this marvelous, beautiful place, and trees are one of the most glorious expressions of it. You have so much character when you live a long time as old growth, and ancient trees do, and all trees in general, whether young or old. For a class of organisms that is so important to the functioning of the planet and the well being of human societies, it is stunning how little we actually know…It’s not about being depressed, but about feeling a sense of urgency that we need to make progress in a lot of different ways.” Craig Allen, forester
My work in Alaska showed me that “doing something” is not only bout fighting for mitigation, educating others, or reducing home energy use through small actions; its about finding ways to cope with what’s coming. It’s looking at the positive in the midst of the negative, embracing opportunities, and accepting some unavoidable losses. It’s acting out of faith, getting out front in our communities and reaching across to others, not just letting hope blow in the wind. It’s believing that if we got ourselves into this mess by the collective consequences of individual actions, we can also get ourselves out of it.
Faith requires acting. It’s not passive. That also resonated with me. Rebecca Solnit wrote, “Hope is not a door but a sense that there might be a door at some point, some way out of the problems of the present moment before that is found or followed.” My own optimism goes hand and hand with faith, not in a religious sense of the word. But as a conviction that we still have the strength and the power to chart a new course for the future.
I see the forest manager experiment with planting trees farther north as similar to the city planner considering how high the sea will be, or the farmer in Iowa deciding which crops to grow and where, to the Montanan clearing brush to prevent forest fires from spreading. I see the logger reshaping his business to the shifting timber supply in the archipelago as similar to the California installing a gray-water system, the Inuit switching hunting locations, the New Yorker flood proofing his basement, the health practitioner considering how and where climate will affect mosquito populations and the diseases they spread. These people are accepting climate change. They are integrating it into their lives. They are preparing for the future. perhaps, but they’re also reshaping the present to the harsh reality of what they know. They are making it a part of their daily living and doing what’s within their power to do- in an effort to adapt. All those actions begin with an understanding of a relationship with nature that climate change affects. They begin with a sense of urgency, not distance.
Big data has power, and the economics for mitigation requires power. But if adaptation starts in our neighborhoods, the science needs to match the scale at which individuals act and make decisions. As citizens, you and I, each one of us coping today or inevitably coping tomorrow, we need to reach a greater understanding of how climate change affects immediate relationships…What’s happening in my home habitat, whether it’s a city by the rising sea, a landlocked town in the sweltering heat, or a community bordering forests at risk of falmes? What’s happening to my source of water? What about the food I am eating and where it grew? What will we be able to grow there tomorrow? Two circles- Nature and Self- one on top of another. Completely merged. Because that’s where nature is no longer an externality. Because that’s where the problem is no longer us versus the other-what Naomi Klein calls the economics at war with the planetary system. Because Nature and Self as merged is where my responsibility begins. It comes with a consequence- the grief of loss (my research had shown me that; I lived it too). But Nature and Self merged as one also comes with benefits- care, concern, motivation to act.
August 7, 2021
I appreciate what the author is trying to say and agree with her views on climate change but I did not enjoy this book. Too much banal psychology & philosophy and not enough hard science.
April 6, 2019
Reminiscent of Lab Girl, this is the story of the final work for a Ph.D. in ecology and how she searched for a specific tree in specific conditions. She talked to the people who value it, and those who don't, and she reflects on climate change and hope in a world of extinctions and climate driven environmental loss. It made me happy to be warm at home as she writes about expeditions into the Alaskan rainforests, but also made me want to go out and hug a few trees - like my local redwoods. A more hopeful book about climate change, even though it discusses the loss of ecosystems and species.
Read as an audiobook through the SF Public Library and the Libby App.
Read as an audiobook through the SF Public Library and the Libby App.
January 24, 2019
A different kind of science book which also feels like a memoir. Excellent audio book. The story itself, and the energy with which the narrator reads it, drew me right in and kept my attention all the way. Lauren's physical and emotional journey takes her through the dieback of yellow cypress trees in Alaska, and later on, the death of her father. It is a heartening that although Lauren found reason for discouragement regarding the effect of climate change on cypress trees, she also found multiple reasons for hope in both nature and human behavior.
July 14, 2019
A very interesting read that is both saddening yet hopeful. The author gives the reader both a glimpse into her scientific planning and research of yellow cedar decline due to climate change and her personal emotions and journey learning what she did. About loss and change but also the resilience we will need to adapt to a changing world. I found it interesting with both my scientific background and my fear for what awaits us because of climate change.
I recommend this book to readers who enjoyed Lab Girl by Hope Jahren and/or Spineless by Juli Berwald.
I recommend this book to readers who enjoyed Lab Girl by Hope Jahren and/or Spineless by Juli Berwald.
July 22, 2019
I'd give this 3.5 stars if I could...got a little slow for me in the middle, when discussing the interviews, but I thought the initial third and final third of the book were moving and well written. The final 2-3 chapters in particular were lovely and stirring. A book that leaves you a little sad but also hopeful for our future.
August 3, 2019
This book is about a woman writing her thesis on the yellow cypress tree. It is the canary tree because it is the "warning" for global warming with regard to other trees and life. Similar to the canary that warned miners to a problem with the air in the mine. The book is the more personal part of her research that didn't get published as part of her thesis.
I think this book was chosen as the book in common because of the Campfire in Paradise, CA. The book focuses on how trees and people adjust through major life and climate changes.
Highlights from the book include:
p. 126 Some individuals fare better than other in changing conditions, and over time, species evolve. Greg called the path forward grace, and that perspective was more empowering to me. In a difficult situation, grace meant my actions and my outlook - my choices - matter.
p. 140 I thought back to what my father's friend had told me at his memorial - that our relationship to the deceased determines, in part, how we respond Death can feel so cataclysmic in our lives, but only when we're close to what we're losing, that there's nothing that can replace it, and especially when the death is sudden. There's something about a gradual process, in contrast, that creates the space for acceptance or fighting, and ideally some combination of the two.
p. 159 So, behavioral response remained the most uncertain variable to me. Why do some people freeze up, look the other way, and stick to the status quo? Why do other have the courage to try something new? I was starting to see that if we respond with forward action and a positive outlook, fear could be a part of learning to thrive.
p. 188 It was not the science that still gnawed at me, but two other questions I needed to resolve for myself: How do you live with what you know? Do you have hope about the future?
p. 190 It was up to me to decide how I want to live with the knowledge of a rapidly changing world, cut and carved and warming still. What kind of outlook do I want to cultivate? What do I want to do with what I know? I refused to wallow in any puddle of despair and helplessness and want optimism to be my choice.
p. 205 Same for people, I thought. To make our communities more resilient we have to decide not if but how and where.
p. 211 When I asked my students what had surprised them the most, one student raised her hand "increasing global carbon emissions tomorrow", she read, " we would probably experience several centuries of additional warming, rising sea levels, and more frequent dangerous weather events. If our cities are to survive, we have no choice but to adapt. If we decrease emission tomorrow, it would take centuries to notice the effect.
You're not sitting up until the last minute waiting for crisis to hit or for the glacier to go over the village. You're thinking about where you might go. You're thinking about what you can do.
p. 230 So these are the survivors, I thought. Luck, by where they happen to be. Perhaps those trees had possessed some evolutionary advantage over all the others from the beginning. From seedling to sapling to ancient elder, perhaps where they had first rooted had somehow sealed their fate for survival. The ice never hit them. Protected from root injury they somehow persist today. Perhaps their survival was, indeed, only luck. I will never know.
p. 230 We are all vulnerable. There may be survivors carrying out their lives in pockets where conditions remain favorable. They may regroup perhaps even evolve, and at the right moment in time even flourish again.
p. 231 But what does this tree ask of me? Perhaps that one is far more important. That I can observe the changes occurring around me and embrace the struggle to accept them, to respond to them. to adapt to them. I can look ahead and live today holding space for tomorrow. I can fight for what we can still curtail. I can play a part, not live apart, and I can act with care for others when the flood it, when the seas rise , when the snow melts, the rivers run dry and the flames rage. Defeat may only be a failure to adapt.
p. 203 Five minutes, I thought as we continued in different directions. You spend five or six years studying something that becomes absolutely everything, then you get five minutes for recommendations. I was disappointed that no one had strategized or made any decisions that afternoon. I had evidence that the people most connected to the trees were already adapting. I still have faith that efforts will continue.
I think this book was chosen as the book in common because of the Campfire in Paradise, CA. The book focuses on how trees and people adjust through major life and climate changes.
Highlights from the book include:
p. 126 Some individuals fare better than other in changing conditions, and over time, species evolve. Greg called the path forward grace, and that perspective was more empowering to me. In a difficult situation, grace meant my actions and my outlook - my choices - matter.
p. 140 I thought back to what my father's friend had told me at his memorial - that our relationship to the deceased determines, in part, how we respond Death can feel so cataclysmic in our lives, but only when we're close to what we're losing, that there's nothing that can replace it, and especially when the death is sudden. There's something about a gradual process, in contrast, that creates the space for acceptance or fighting, and ideally some combination of the two.
p. 159 So, behavioral response remained the most uncertain variable to me. Why do some people freeze up, look the other way, and stick to the status quo? Why do other have the courage to try something new? I was starting to see that if we respond with forward action and a positive outlook, fear could be a part of learning to thrive.
p. 188 It was not the science that still gnawed at me, but two other questions I needed to resolve for myself: How do you live with what you know? Do you have hope about the future?
p. 190 It was up to me to decide how I want to live with the knowledge of a rapidly changing world, cut and carved and warming still. What kind of outlook do I want to cultivate? What do I want to do with what I know? I refused to wallow in any puddle of despair and helplessness and want optimism to be my choice.
p. 205 Same for people, I thought. To make our communities more resilient we have to decide not if but how and where.
p. 211 When I asked my students what had surprised them the most, one student raised her hand "increasing global carbon emissions tomorrow", she read, " we would probably experience several centuries of additional warming, rising sea levels, and more frequent dangerous weather events. If our cities are to survive, we have no choice but to adapt. If we decrease emission tomorrow, it would take centuries to notice the effect.
You're not sitting up until the last minute waiting for crisis to hit or for the glacier to go over the village. You're thinking about where you might go. You're thinking about what you can do.
p. 230 So these are the survivors, I thought. Luck, by where they happen to be. Perhaps those trees had possessed some evolutionary advantage over all the others from the beginning. From seedling to sapling to ancient elder, perhaps where they had first rooted had somehow sealed their fate for survival. The ice never hit them. Protected from root injury they somehow persist today. Perhaps their survival was, indeed, only luck. I will never know.
p. 230 We are all vulnerable. There may be survivors carrying out their lives in pockets where conditions remain favorable. They may regroup perhaps even evolve, and at the right moment in time even flourish again.
p. 231 But what does this tree ask of me? Perhaps that one is far more important. That I can observe the changes occurring around me and embrace the struggle to accept them, to respond to them. to adapt to them. I can look ahead and live today holding space for tomorrow. I can fight for what we can still curtail. I can play a part, not live apart, and I can act with care for others when the flood it, when the seas rise , when the snow melts, the rivers run dry and the flames rage. Defeat may only be a failure to adapt.
p. 203 Five minutes, I thought as we continued in different directions. You spend five or six years studying something that becomes absolutely everything, then you get five minutes for recommendations. I was disappointed that no one had strategized or made any decisions that afternoon. I had evidence that the people most connected to the trees were already adapting. I still have faith that efforts will continue.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
April 10, 2022
Climate change memoir written by a young female scientist (studying in Southeastern Alaska for her Stanford graduate education) who includes personal, emotional, and scientific elements. The years of focus for her research and writing spans 2010 - 2017. (The book publication date is 2018.)
The yellow cypress tree research documents the ecological status and changes to the tree in the SE Alaska area, but interestingly she includes a human component to the natural world using especially oral history and interviews of (over 40) folks who report on their relationship to the yellow cedar and their adaptations and emotional responses to their new reality.
The research revealed a tree under stress. The warming winters mean the snow no longer can be relied upon to cover the yellow cedar roots which then get too cold, leading to tree death and threats to a species integral to the local people’s lives and traditions.
What sets this book apart is the author’s exploration of how she and others live and cope with their specialized knowledge and front row view of the seriousness of the climate change impacts —in her case, documenting the death of a beloved tree species —without descending into despair.
Some end of the book quotes:
“… the tree’s beauty wasn’t what caught my attention anymore… That tree was my looking glass into the rapidly changing world. It taught me about the tangible effects of climate change when the future projections seem too distant and removed. It taught me how what happens to my environment will ultimately affect me. …it also taught me to believe that what I do matters in spite of how seemingly insignificant I am in the face of climate change….that I can be a part of a larger force working from a place of care and concern and conviction.”
“As a scientist I think the best I can do is contribute to a better understanding of what climate change means at the local scale, for that’s where people will need to know the risks and benefits, where lives are carried out —not just people’s lives but all life…”
“As a citizen, I can bring some level of restraint in my own actions that contribute to the problem. I can reject the politics that attempt to silence the science… I can help increase awareness, instead of enabling denial.”
“But my faith is in our will for survival, in our intellectual capacity to problem-solve and in our responsibility to one another. The little actions alone can’t stop climate change, but they will be a part of adapting to it.”
“ What does this tree have to teach me? That we are all vulnerable. There may be survivors carrying out their lives in pockets where conditions remain favorable. They may regroup, perhaps even evolve, and at the right moment in time even flourish again.”
“What does this tree ask of me? … that I can observe the changes occurring around me and embrace the struggle to accept them, to respond to them, to adapt to them….I can fight for what we can still curtail…. I can act with care for others when the floods hit, when the seas rise, when the snow melts, the rivers run dry, and the flames rage.”
The yellow cypress tree research documents the ecological status and changes to the tree in the SE Alaska area, but interestingly she includes a human component to the natural world using especially oral history and interviews of (over 40) folks who report on their relationship to the yellow cedar and their adaptations and emotional responses to their new reality.
The research revealed a tree under stress. The warming winters mean the snow no longer can be relied upon to cover the yellow cedar roots which then get too cold, leading to tree death and threats to a species integral to the local people’s lives and traditions.
What sets this book apart is the author’s exploration of how she and others live and cope with their specialized knowledge and front row view of the seriousness of the climate change impacts —in her case, documenting the death of a beloved tree species —without descending into despair.
Some end of the book quotes:
“… the tree’s beauty wasn’t what caught my attention anymore… That tree was my looking glass into the rapidly changing world. It taught me about the tangible effects of climate change when the future projections seem too distant and removed. It taught me how what happens to my environment will ultimately affect me. …it also taught me to believe that what I do matters in spite of how seemingly insignificant I am in the face of climate change….that I can be a part of a larger force working from a place of care and concern and conviction.”
“As a scientist I think the best I can do is contribute to a better understanding of what climate change means at the local scale, for that’s where people will need to know the risks and benefits, where lives are carried out —not just people’s lives but all life…”
“As a citizen, I can bring some level of restraint in my own actions that contribute to the problem. I can reject the politics that attempt to silence the science… I can help increase awareness, instead of enabling denial.”
“But my faith is in our will for survival, in our intellectual capacity to problem-solve and in our responsibility to one another. The little actions alone can’t stop climate change, but they will be a part of adapting to it.”
“ What does this tree have to teach me? That we are all vulnerable. There may be survivors carrying out their lives in pockets where conditions remain favorable. They may regroup, perhaps even evolve, and at the right moment in time even flourish again.”
“What does this tree ask of me? … that I can observe the changes occurring around me and embrace the struggle to accept them, to respond to them, to adapt to them….I can fight for what we can still curtail…. I can act with care for others when the floods hit, when the seas rise, when the snow melts, the rivers run dry, and the flames rage.”
November 30, 2022
Lately, I have had arguments about whether individual actions make changes like collective action. As someone who advocates for the environment, collective action is more important and makes an impact. However, whenever I call for change, I am plagued by the thought of "hypocrisy," which does not apply to me. As someone who drives a car to school and can't avoid using plastic or the extensive use of electricity, I feel guilty. But, as much as I want to avoid wasting fuel and engaging in unethical behavior, I can't. All of my necessities are primarily powered by fossil fuels, which I oppose. But just like someone said, it's unavoidable. We are only the consumers. Big businesses that consistently engage in unethical behavior, do not invest in climate mitigation, and are driving us to a warmer planet must be pressured.
Just like the author, I have this passion within me that I want to grow. I want to make a change, too. If possible, I want to conduct research and studies to prevent this extinction. But I believe that there is no such thing as "impossible" if you are possessed and driven by passion. the desire to save the planet from extinction I think Lauren has that.
It would be crazy to think that scientists spend years on a specific thing, but I think it's the attachment that drives them. It would also be crazy to put the word "love" on this—it's quite cheesy, but I relatively like it. When we fall in "love" with someone or something, we do everything we can to keep them, to save them. Everything leans toward the emotional. I didn't know about yellow cedar until I read the book. I think books always lead us somewhere or something. It made me "virtually" explore Alaska and made me able to see yellow cedar through my mind. Lauren introduced me to that tree. I loved how she respected each individual's perspective and beliefs. the commitment she has and that of other scientists to save something. That means a lot. Because they're not just caring for the species but also for the future of everyone.
You see, once a species goes extinct, a group of people or the majority of us get affected by it. It's like a ripple effect. And we come up with solutions to deal with it. to adapt to changes Just like emotions, I do think that climate change is inevitable. with that vast growth of population, the continuous burning of fossil fuels, and so on.
Do I want to give up? Definitely not. But sometimes I doubt my capabilities. But I still go on. And I think it is because of my faith. faith in myself and hope in the people. I know they care for the earth, too. And I hope they will instill the “faith” within them. To encourage everyone that there are a lot of things we can do to avoid the Earth’s tipping point. I believe in people's ability to effect change. Everyone will be affected by one's voice. I just don't know when or where it will happen. But I have faith in it.
Just like the author, I have this passion within me that I want to grow. I want to make a change, too. If possible, I want to conduct research and studies to prevent this extinction. But I believe that there is no such thing as "impossible" if you are possessed and driven by passion. the desire to save the planet from extinction I think Lauren has that.
It would be crazy to think that scientists spend years on a specific thing, but I think it's the attachment that drives them. It would also be crazy to put the word "love" on this—it's quite cheesy, but I relatively like it. When we fall in "love" with someone or something, we do everything we can to keep them, to save them. Everything leans toward the emotional. I didn't know about yellow cedar until I read the book. I think books always lead us somewhere or something. It made me "virtually" explore Alaska and made me able to see yellow cedar through my mind. Lauren introduced me to that tree. I loved how she respected each individual's perspective and beliefs. the commitment she has and that of other scientists to save something. That means a lot. Because they're not just caring for the species but also for the future of everyone.
You see, once a species goes extinct, a group of people or the majority of us get affected by it. It's like a ripple effect. And we come up with solutions to deal with it. to adapt to changes Just like emotions, I do think that climate change is inevitable. with that vast growth of population, the continuous burning of fossil fuels, and so on.
Do I want to give up? Definitely not. But sometimes I doubt my capabilities. But I still go on. And I think it is because of my faith. faith in myself and hope in the people. I know they care for the earth, too. And I hope they will instill the “faith” within them. To encourage everyone that there are a lot of things we can do to avoid the Earth’s tipping point. I believe in people's ability to effect change. Everyone will be affected by one's voice. I just don't know when or where it will happen. But I have faith in it.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
December 8, 2020
The first half of this is about the science around dying stands of yellow-cedar trees in coastal Alaska. (I'm so shallow that I was still as bothered by that hyphen on the last page as the first.) Other scientists had determined that climate change was the culprit, since the trees needed a thick snow cover to survive a spring cold snap and there has been less snow lately. Oakes was interested in what was happening to the species - would it die out, migrate upslope or farther north, adapt to the changing climate, or what. She writes entertainingly about her time in Alaska doing the field work.
The second half is about how someone goes about living when facing seemingly inevitable disaster. She tackles the question by doing sociological research, identifying and interviewing people who have a relationship with the trees about their knowledge, attitudes, and behavior associated with the dying trees. In the end she decides that local action, trying to live sustainably and modeling that to others, will provide enough optimism, or at least distraction, to make life worthwhile.
I'm not sure what ultimately will happen with the climate, whether the worst predictions will come true or not. Modeling with many not-well-understood variables tends to yield not-particularly-accurate results. But her quandary resonates with me when it comes to the political future of the United States and indeed the world. I foresee countries increasingly being run according to theories and beliefs that have historically ended in economic collapse and tyranny, and I don't see any way my individual actions can stop or even slow the result.
Oakes is down on "hope" as a tactic, and constitutionally fixed on action. I tend toward denial and literature immersion. Some prayer couldn't hurt, either.
The second half is about how someone goes about living when facing seemingly inevitable disaster. She tackles the question by doing sociological research, identifying and interviewing people who have a relationship with the trees about their knowledge, attitudes, and behavior associated with the dying trees. In the end she decides that local action, trying to live sustainably and modeling that to others, will provide enough optimism, or at least distraction, to make life worthwhile.
I'm not sure what ultimately will happen with the climate, whether the worst predictions will come true or not. Modeling with many not-well-understood variables tends to yield not-particularly-accurate results. But her quandary resonates with me when it comes to the political future of the United States and indeed the world. I foresee countries increasingly being run according to theories and beliefs that have historically ended in economic collapse and tyranny, and I don't see any way my individual actions can stop or even slow the result.
Oakes is down on "hope" as a tactic, and constitutionally fixed on action. I tend toward denial and literature immersion. Some prayer couldn't hurt, either.
October 31, 2022
I had trouble getting into this book and I think it could have been shorter, but have much admiration for the ambitious field work that made me tired just listening to it, let alone getting out in the AK wilderness. She made her scientific work personal and I am grateful she shared it with the rest of us. Her message of optimism about the future of the natural world and our relationship with it is worth reading(or listening to). The parts about her tree research and people interviews were interesting and showed her progress in answering her own questions but not leading to a tidy ending because science and policy are messy. While she did explain the limitations of her own research, what she could explain, deduce or quantify, she didn’t extend that courtesy to the uncertainty in climate science. I was understanding and empathetic as a fellow tree hugger and self described environmentalist, but not as scientist allowed to be skeptical about how much we know about what will happen to arctic temperatures or sea levels. She could have enlisted climate experts who could have explained the range of climate models and what we do and do not know. If she was so curious about trees why not extend that to climate as well. It seems shortsighted to be optimistic about trees ability to adapt or human’s ability to change relationships with nature but just accept the worst case scenario of climate modeling.
If you can gloss over her biased and pessimistic take on climate science, this book is enjoyable and worth reading if you like trees and relationships with nature.
If you can gloss over her biased and pessimistic take on climate science, this book is enjoyable and worth reading if you like trees and relationships with nature.
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