It would have been easy to feel alone today, with so many things I value rejected point blank.

Peace.

Compassion.

Justice for all (species).

Sometimes it’s helpful to look at what we know (or think we know) from a different perspective—where up is down, down is up, and the boundaries are blurred. Thus my travels in British Columbia last week, first for a spirited gathering of mesocarnivore biologists at “Weaselfest” (Best. Name. Ever.), and then an annual conference on regional habitat connectivity, called “Cascadia Connects.”

During my last research trip into the Olympic National Forest, I decided to sit tight by an unnamed lake while Robert proceeded to a nearby marten survey station. We’d already slogged nearly a kilometer off-trail, tumbling downhill through a lot of woody debris that tweaked my sprained ankle and tested my mood. When Robert and our dog, Alder, scared up a nest of ground hornets—prompting me to scream “No! No! No! No!” as we all scrambled to outrun an angry mob—I knew it was time for Alder and me to take a little break.

When I first learned of J.D. Vance’s derisive comments about the “childless cat ladies” who are ruling the country without a stake in its future, I had to chuckle: surely, he must have been joking—and what about us childless dog ladies; don’t we deserve equal billing? Alas, this was no joke, and Vance’s dangerous remarks picked at a scab for me and millions of others. So when I recently read an op-ed on this topic in The Seattle Times, I seized the opportunity to add my two cents. My LTE was published online last week, and in print on Sunday.

Were it not for the salamander, today might have felt foreboding. Temperatures so high I could almost see the glaciers melt, Mount Baker like a snow cone in the boiling sun. I could almost hear mourning in the song of the thrushes, smell fire in the firs as their needles yielded to brown. How will the wolverines survive these Hellish hot summers? I worried, their fate, like our own, tied to the future of climate change.

I’m thrilled to announce that the new issue of Deep Wild is now in print—including my essay, “Wolverines in a Land of Wildfire.” The essay was originally published in About Place last year and has since been minimally revised. Deep Wild is beautifully curated and crafted, and sized perfectly for traveling in a backpack!

Truth be told, I’m not much of a birder. There’s a reason I study carnivores instead of, say, corvids—cougars and black bears are more night owls like me. When a brilliant Vermont sunrise beamed through my eyelids at 6am, however, I felt an acute case of FOMO that prompted me to reach for my phone. Was my cohort at Bread Loaf still planning to birdwatch at 7, just as we’d done the morning before? Head propped on my pillow, I read Hai-Dang’s confirmation email with enough groggy gusto to spark a supine stretch—but it was the message from Helen Macdonald that really sealed the deal.

It’s too rare these days that we have cause for celebration in wildlife conservation—but alas, it looks like grizzly bears will finally have a future (and not just a tragic past) in the North Cascades! Last weekend, the Seattle Times printed my letter to the editor responding to this eagerly awaited news.

Recently, Seattle’s King5 Evening program came to Woodland Park Zoo to film Robert and me talking about our automated scent dispenser. You can watch the clip here and see the scent dispenser in action for yourself. Just be glad that you can’t smell it.

It takes a global community of researchers to shed light on how wildlife responded to COVID-19—and I’m honored to be one of many co-authors on a new paper that achieves just that. Led by Dr. Cole Burton, a conservation biologist at the University of British Columbia, the ambitious paper looked at 102 camera-trap projects around the world to determine how wildlife responded to changes in human activity during the pandemic.

When we agreed to talk about carnivore conservation with Jack Humphrey for the podcast, Rewilding Earth, Robert (Long) and I knew we’d be in for an interesting conversation. Jack has hosted more than a hundred of these podcasts over the last few years, and each one explores yet another fascinating tendril of rewilding—the bold approach to conservation that has driven our respective careers for the better part of three decades.

Last week, I participated in an online writing class with Pam Houston. Pam’s work is witty and important, and I savored her soul-stirring memoir, Deep Creek: Finding Hope in the High Country—which, come to think of it, could easily serve as the title of my own memoir-in-progress.

Last fall, I visited Cairngorms National Park in the Scottish Highlands to attend the 8th International Martes Symposium. This intimate conference occurs every 5 years, inviting biologists who share a passion for members of the Martes Complex (martens, sables, fishers, tayras, and wolverines) to get together and discuss the latest science and conservation priorities pertaining to these little-studied animals.

In this podcast interview with “How It Looks From Here,” I talk with host Mary Clare about my longstanding relationships with writing and rewilding, and how the two have been intertwined throughout my life and career. A social psychologist and deep thinker, Mary guides our conversation with skill, generosity, and her own love for wild nature.

I first learned that About Place Journal would be dedicating its October issue to the more-than-human-world as a participant at the Kachemak Bay Writer’s Conference in May. Already a fan of the conference, I couldn’t resist making the trip to Homer, Alaska, to spend time with Robin Wall Kimmerer as the 2023 keynote.

I glanced at my phone only moments after I’d been peering across Puget Sound in hopes of seeing a distant splash, that dreamlike flash of black and white and glimmering blubber that bellows “Orca!” from the depths of my primordial brain. I’d been blessed with such a sighting a few weeks before, after my husky mix, Alder, cued me (nose in the air) that something very special was happening out there. Today there was no such indication, nor a dorsal flare. On this tragic August morning, there was only a headline pronouncing Tokitae was gone.