A misty Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park; metaphor for the park's murky future? (Photo: Craig Miller)

Last month, in a post from Glacier National Park, I noted that Park Service director Jon Jarvis was not in a mood to mince words, calling climate change “the greatest threat to the integrity of the national park system that we’ve ever faced.”

That assertion was underscored last week in a new report on potential impacts to the parks from climate change. The collaboration by the Natural Resources Defense Council and the Rocky Mountain Climate Organization, attempted to zoom in on specific parks and projected changes ahead for ten national parks in California, as well as impacts on the state’s economy.

Death Valley is already the hottest spot in North America. The highest recorded temperature there is 136 dF. (Photo: Craig Miller)

Some conclusions under a “medium-to-high” emissions scenario, toward the end of this century: Higher temperatures in Joshua Tree National Park would mean the end of, well, Joshua trees in the park. Muir Woods could be as warm, on average, as San Diego has been historically, making it less hospitable to the park’s legendary coast redwoods. Death Valley, already the hottest spot on the continent, could become virtually uninhabitable during the summer, as average temperatures rise by more than eight degrees, Fahrenheit, over average readings from 1961 to 1990.

And of course, for Montana’s Glacier National Park, the report’s authors cite projections that the last of the park’s glaciers will be gone within 20 years, if not sooner.

This is, perhaps, a good place to pass along a favorite mantra of park rangers of late; that Glacier park wasn’t actually named for its glaciers, but for the geologic history that formed the region’s spectacular features. But it’s logical that Glacier, tucked into the northwestern corner of Montana, has become the “poster child” of climate change in the national parks. Scientists estimate that its 25 remaining glaciers could well be gone in a dozen years or so. Superintendent Chas Cartwright conceded that may be a small part of why Glacier is seeing record numbers of visitors — more than two million this year, which is the park’s centennial.

“Glacier isn’t the only place we’re seeing direct effects from climate change on the ground, right now,” Jarvis said, standing on a gravel bar in McDonald Creek. The parks chief cited apparent climate effects throughout the park system, including receding glaciers, withering water content in the mountain snowpack, and rain-on-snow events shifting from spring to fall. “That completely changes the system,” said Jarvis, who said they’re also seeing wildland fires burning an average of 20 days longer into the season, encroachment of more exotic plants, and species moving up in elevation or vanishing from the landscape entirely. “We’re not just gonna sit around and not do anything about it.”

The question is what to do about it, which presents some unprecedented dilemmas for park managers and scientists, which, Jarvis says, are “causing us to rethink even the fundamental principles of national parks.” Where as in years past, for example, new species moving into a park were looked upon as invaders to be dealt with inhospitably, now “they may be coming in because this is their last refuge.”

Accommodating migrating species is one thing. But also on the table is direct, possibly radical intervention to save others. Jarvis recounts the time when a park scientist asked him, sardonically, “When do you put a sprinkler system on the giant sequoias?” Jarvis asks rhetorically, “Where is the next habitat for the giant sequoia and are we as a society willing to move them, or plant them (somewhere else)? “The biggest step in climate change is starting to ask those kinds of questions and to bring the very best minds to help us begin to wrestle with those as a society.”

To this end, Jarvis is advancing a strategy with four key components:

- Expand the science and develop long-term data sets

- Embrace adaptation and multiple-scenario planning “at the landscape scale”

- Continue mitigation efforts, reducing the carbon footprint of the parks themselves

- Communication, leveraging the “extraordinary bully pulpit” that the parks provide, training scientists to speak to the layman, seizing opportunities to talk to the public about climate change.

Park managers worry about the "downstream" impacts of vanishing glaciers. (Photo: Craig Miller)

Jack Potter, who directs science at Glacier, reinforced that this isn’t just tomorrow’s problem. He noted that spring “green-up” is occurring about three weeks ahead of the 40-year average at Glacier, which means that the landscape is drying out sooner in the season. “No matter what scenario you look at, it’s going to be drier,” said Potter, pointing toward distant mountain snowfields. “That has all kinds of cascading effects downstream.”

Potter said park managers are being forced to re-examine “the role of parks as reservoirs for biodiversity” and “how we view the type of appropriate management…in the face of the possible scenarios that are out there relating to climate.”

To read about another challenge facing the parks, see Lauren Sommer’s story on air pollution impacts at Yosemite.

Sand dune near Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley. Photo: Craig Miller

The quietest place I’ve ever been was in a national park and I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it was like.

Okay, “quiet” is a somewhat subjective thing. When I lived on the upper (way upper) west side of Manhattan in the 1980s, any interval without hearing a car alarm seemed like blessed relief. Quiet can be measured, of course, with sound pressure meters. Anything below about 40 decibels is pretty darn quiet for most people’s purposes (a state that I doubt was ever attained in my apartment on West 119th St.).

The National Park Service (NPS) says the quietest place it has yet measured is a spot in Great Sand Dunes National Park, where Vicki McCusker, who helps oversee the natural sounds program for the Park Service, says it was “bottoming out” their meters.

I’ve never been there but it’s hard to imagine greater quietude than an afternoon I spent in Death Valley. Coincidentally this was also on a sand dune, near Stovepipe Wells. It was also Christmas Day, which kept the tourist traffic to a minimum. It was at a point in my life when I was in desperate need of some deep introspection, so I parked my car along Highway 190 and trekked into the dunes, found an accommodating slope and sat down. Occasionally a fly (or something) would buzz by. Other than that, the loudest thing was the buzzing in my own head, which I can only hope would’ve been inaudible to anyone with me.

Looking across the dunes in Death Valley. Photo: Craig Miller

It’s interesting how, when things get really quiet, our bodies try to make up for it with ringing ears and internal chaos. The noted bioacoustician Bernie Krause talks about the time he and his wife, Kat were hosting guests from New York, who literally had to leave the Krause’s semi-secluded Glen Ellen “sanctuary” because the night-time quiet was creeping them out.

I asked Krause what he could draw from that. “Well, it tells me that we’re more insane than I ever thought in the first place,” he mused. “I mean, we’re definitely verging on pathological.  Because it’s exactly those kinds of sounds–the urban acoustic envelope in which we enfold ourselves–that kind of urban noise that’s driving up the numbers of prescriptions for Prozac.”

Surveys of national park visitors would seem to bear that out.  In the early 1990s, NPS surveyed 15,000 visitors in 39 parks, about noise issues (NPS manages 391 “units” nationwide, 58 of which are designated as “parks”). More than nine out of ten visitors surveyed cited “enjoyment of natural quiet” as a reason for visiting. This survey provided some juice for the ongoing natural sounds program in the parks.

An open question is: where does it go from here? Much of the current effort in the parks appears to be geared toward developing “air tour management plans,” a response to concerns that first arose over the increasingly crowded skies above the Grand Canyon. McCusker told me that while aircraft overflights are the most pervasive noise issue across the parks, the most common complaint is probably over loud motorcycles (note to “straight-pipe” Harley owners).

Krause, who conducted a year-long project documenting soundscapes in Sequoia-Kings Canyon National Park, hopes the research will also be used to develop new rules governing on-the-ground noise pollution. “If the parks can set aside places where people can go and hear the natural world as it is, at any season of the year, then that will be a really big benefit for visitors coming to the parks,” he says. “Otherwise, you’re seeing the parks with the wrong soundtrack. It’s like watching Star Wars without a soundtrack.”

Leave a comment with your own “quietest place.”

In 2003, Bernie Krause & I co-produced a short film for the National Park Service, which takes you on a 4-and-a-half-minute journey from the “urban sound envelope” to a restful spot in Sequoia National park.

Tune in to PBS this week for the premiere of Ken Burns’ new series: The National Parks: America’s Best Idea. Also Quest television explores the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, an urban national park. This program is now available for viewing at the Quest site (see previous link).