Roughly 7,700 years ago, high in the southern reaches of the Cascade Range, the 12,000-foot Mt. Mazama began to erupt with astonishing force. Over the course of several days, the volcano released a towering column of pumice and ash that reached 30 miles into the atmosphere, spewing debris across 656,000 square miles of what is now the western United States and southwestern Canada.
I’ve always been one to love a good interconnected narrative. It’s the reason I spent much of my twenties poring over the mysteries of LOST, attempting to unravel the connections between survivors and Others and past, present, and future. It’s why in the span of two weeks, I watched every single film in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, diving into a meticulously layered chronicle of S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra, Nine Realms, a Mad Titan, and a team of avenging heroes.
To those who have seen its verdant shores, it will come as no surprise to learn that Kauai is one of the wettest places on Earth. The peak of Mt. Wai’ale’ale, perpetually shrouded in mist at 5,148 feet, receives approximately 450 inches of rain each year. But even natives of the Garden Isle were shocked by the storms of April 2018, when 49.69 inches of rain fell on Kauai’s north shore in a 24-hour period, setting a new national record—and drowning farms, roads, and homes—in the process.
The first time I ever saw Zion National Park was by accident. In July 2001, as my family was moving (and driving) from the San Francisco Bay Area to Washington, D.C., our trusted Chevy Suburban ran into trouble in the desert outside Las Vegas.
In the waning days of this past July, a killer whale—soon to be known to the world as Tahlequah—gave birth to a calf in the waters off the coast of Victoria, British Columbia. The event was a cause for celebration for Tahlequah’s endangered pod, whose 75 members had not seen a live birth in nearly three years. But within less than an hour, the calf had stopped moving.