A stocky brown-and-white shorebird, a rock sandpiper, scurried along a windswept Alaskan beach, its delicate beak probing the mud for the tiny pink clams that sustain it and countless other species in this vital ecosystem. Nearby, Dan Ruthrauff, a former colleague and seasoned biologist, meticulously recorded observations on eBird, a public platform for citizen science, a habit ingrained from years of dedicated fieldwork. Ruthrauff’s Ph.D. research had revealed the remarkable hardiness of these birds, capable of enduring frigid Alaskan winters, their legs sometimes encased in ice like miniature popsicle sticks. While Ruthrauff documented the sandpiper’s movements, I photographed a scattering of seabird carcasses that had washed ashore, a somber testament to the growing frequency of wildlife mortality events I had been investigating for the past decade.

We had arrived by sailboat in a rain-drenched cove within Alaska’s Shumagin Islands, a rugged landscape where vibrant eelgrass beds met crumbling sea stacks, and black-legged kittiwakes perched precariously on steep rock walls. Though not on official duty, our scientific instincts remain perpetually active when observing ecosystems and species we have long studied and cherished. Ruthrauff and I, both former research biologists for the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) in Alaska, brought over fifty years of collective experience to our observations. Ruthrauff specialized in shorebirds and waterfowl, while my focus centered on wildlife and environmental health.

Our departures from the USGS in April 2025 coincided with a significant escalation in what many perceived as an assault on federal science. The prevailing climate of hostility and uncertainty within the USGS and other federal agencies made continuing our work untenable. This decision was solidified upon hearing Interior Secretary Doug Burgum, a prominent businessman, describe the nation’s public lands as a mere "balance sheet," openly advocating for their development and exploitation. The Department of the Interior oversees the USGS, placing Burgum in a position of ultimate authority over our scientific endeavors. His introductory remarks revealed a concerning lack of scientific understanding and a clear intent to dismantle crucial research components, posing severe implications for our careers, as well as for the nation’s wildlife, lands, and waters.

Compounding the administration’s perceived pro-extraction, anti-science agenda, we faced another significant challenge. In the preceding weeks, threatening emails demanded that we report colleagues suspected of promoting diversity and equity initiatives, even those aimed at supporting women and underrepresented groups in science. Daily pronouncements of impending job losses and program funding terminations were common, accompanied by advice to prepare statements for interagency partners in the event of sudden dismissal. These communications, often originating from fabricated email addresses, employed demeaning and unprofessional language, creating a climate of fear and demoralization.

The impact was both disheartening and chilling. The federal employees with whom I worked were not radicals but dedicated public servants committed to providing impartial scientific information for the management of species and ecosystems, and for the protection of public safety. Our collective responsibilities spanned forecasting earthquakes and other natural hazards, measuring toxin levels in subsistence foods, monitoring streamflow essential for navigation and aquatic life, mitigating human-wildlife conflicts, and issuing early warnings for infectious diseases like avian influenza. Far from being detached academics, my colleagues directly contributed to the well-being of others. In Southeast Alaska, for instance, USGS scientists utilized decades of mapping data to identify hazardous landslide zones, a critical need as a warming climate intensifies rainfall. Along the Yukon River, my colleagues investigated the alarming decline of chinook salmon stocks, which deprived Alaska Native communities of a vital food source and severely impacted the commercial fishing industry.

By the spring of 2025, our workplace had transformed from a leading public science institution into an environment designed to foster submission through intimidation. The specter of job loss, or worse, loomed large. As a writer and a concerned citizen, I recognized that my ability to voice my concerns would be significantly curtailed. As a researcher, my ethical compass prevented me from abandoning the principles of scientific transparency and conservation ethics that had guided my career.

Federal employees like myself were presented with two difficult choices: remain and endure the escalating abuse and forced complicity, or resign and forfeit our entire careers. Some colleagues found themselves unable to leave due to pressing circumstances, such as caring for hospitalized children who required uninterrupted healthcare, managing single-income mortgages, or supporting elderly family members. Others maintained faith that the legal system would ultimately prevail. Many lacked immediate alternative career paths, yet a substantial number were nonetheless dismissed, some with mere hours of notice, others with none at all.

Ruthrauff and I were among the fortunate. He was eligible for early retirement, and I had a burgeoning career as a freelance writer, bolstered by a new book contract. Still, the decision to leave was profoundly unwelcome. We were granted less than a week to gather our belongings, formally withdraw from multi-year projects, and archive as much data as possible before losing permanent access to our government email accounts.

We are part of an estimated 352,000 federal employees who have either been terminated or have voluntarily left the federal workforce in response to the administration’s policies. The scientific community has been particularly hard-hit, with significant budget cuts targeting climate, environment, health, and wildlife programs. Approximately 7,800 research grants have been frozen or terminated, and further proposed reductions threaten additional losses to programs and personnel. While Congress has shown some resistance, considerable damage has already been inflicted. With programs dismantled, staff dispersed, and employee morale severely depleted, resuming our previous work is a near impossibility.

Despite promises of cost savings, the administration’s disruptive budget cuts over the past year have not yielded the anticipated financial benefits for taxpayers. In fact, the federal budget increased by $220 billion in the first hundred days of the administration compared to the same period the previous year. Yet, the nation has suffered losses far beyond monetary calculations. We have long relied on weather and natural hazard forecasting for our safety, trusted in the perpetual preservation of our national parks, and engaged in hunting, fishing, and recreation with the assurance that our natural resources were being managed. That assurance was provided by individuals like myself, Dan Ruthrauff, and my former colleagues who took an oath of public service, only to find themselves unable to fulfill their commitments not due to a lack of qualification or dedication, but because the current government has failed us all.

Following our resignations, I seized the opportunity to embark on a long-held dream: sailing with my husband and our sons, aged 9 and 11, aboard our small expedition sailboat through the Northwest Passage. The same passions that fueled my career as a biologist have always intertwined with my personal interests. Having explored much of my home state by foot, paddle, skis, and sail, this four-month voyage offered a chance to connect disparate regions of the Arctic and to document my observations firsthand. Concurrently, I conducted in-person research for my forthcoming book examining wildlife responses to climate change.

Our journey traversed numerous locations familiar to me from my work as a federal biologist. I observed the snow-capped peaks of the Brooks Range overlooking the Arctic Coastal Plain, where I had once lived in a tent while studying the impact of climate-driven storm surges on nesting common eiders. We visited communities where I had collaborated with local residents to assess the risks posed by harmful algal blooms, an escalating environmental health concern, to both wildlife and human populations. The landscape had undergone dramatic transformations in the two decades since my career began. Barrier islands where I had conducted fieldwork were now routinely battered by storms once considered exceptional; hungry polar bears had become common summer visitors; and vast expanses of sea ice had receded, replaced by open water. We witnessed historical sites submerged and seawalls breached. The prospect of these remote Arctic communities losing federal support for critical issues like salmon returns, wildfires in boreal forests, or permafrost slumping into the sea is deeply concerning.

Ruthrauff joined us for an 800-mile sailing segment from Nome to Sand Point, both in Alaska, providing an extra pair of hands and a wealth of ornithological facts for my inquisitive 9-year-old. This marked our first reunion since our hurried farewells while packing our USGS offices five months prior.

As we scanned the horizon with binoculars and performed daily chores aboard, it initially felt like a return to a familiar field assignment. It wasn’t until we sailed past coastal areas where we had both conducted research that we openly discussed our departure. I learned that a multi-year project investigating the impacts of climate change on Arctic-nesting geese, which Ruthrauff had helped organize, had been abruptly halted. The research I had been conducting on harmful algal blooms no longer had a program lead or a budget. Long-term monitoring studies on caribou, polar bears, walruses, fish, and birds—essential for population inventories, endangered species assessments, and sustainable harvest limits—had been indefinitely shelved. Compounding these issues, employees were prohibited from speaking to the media, even on critical topics such as avian influenza and other animal and human health concerns. Our remaining colleagues and their invaluable expertise had been effectively silenced.

Other federal programs, particularly those focused on weather forecasting, experienced such rapid funding reductions that they struggled to perform essential public services. These service gaps would soon become apparent.

We had ventured into the Bering Sea during a period of favorable weather, but the conditions were destined to change, with devastating consequences. Far to our west, anomalously warm waters in the North Pacific were generating significant atmospheric disturbance. Three weeks later, after we had sailed south and out of the storm’s path, Typhoon Halong, a Category 4 storm, struck the coastal villages of Kipnuk and Kwigillingok. The typhoon’s unexpected course change prevented residents from evacuating, leaving many to become climate refugees. Survivors, many now temporarily residing in my hometown of Anchorage, are victims not only of extreme weather but also of federal funding cuts: a $20 million coastal resilience grant was canceled in the months preceding the storm, coinciding with the grounding of federal weather balloons and significant cuts to forecasting budgets.

While no amount of preparation could have altered the storm’s track or intensity, the lack of resources and timely information exacerbated an already dire situation. Rick Thoman, a veteran Alaska meteorologist, noted that while the precise impact of grounding weather balloons on the forecast remains unclear, it is "likely that that had some effect on the model performance." Furthermore, emergency funding designated for communities responding to extreme weather events is no longer available under the current administration, casting a pall of uncertainty over the future for residents of Kipnuk and Kwigillingok, many of whom are striving to maintain their cultural heritage while living in temporary accommodations in Alaska’s largest city.

These are not simply the complaints of scientists or disgruntled employees; these are real people experiencing the tangible consequences of a federal workforce in crisis. It requires no advanced degree to recognize that these and other losses will have repercussions for decades to come, and that the true cost of dismantling our federal science programs far exceeds any purported savings.

On our final day before dropping Ruthrauff in the Unangax̂ community of Sand Point—a location where I had once spent a frigid December chasing sea ducks as a USGS employee—we conducted a final eBird survey. It was a drizzly afternoon with unpredictable sailing conditions, shifting from gusty winds to dead calm in rapid succession. Ruthrauff sat in the cockpit, binoculars focused on the restless horizon, while I gripped an overhead rail, steering through the waves.

As we called out our sightings—sooty shearwater, common murre, black-legged kittiwake—we understood that these observations, in isolation, represented mere data points within a vast ocean of information needs. Yet, we also recognized that even the most seemingly routine reports, when aggregated, can yield valuable insights. Public data platforms like eBird cannot entirely replace comprehensive monitoring studies, but in the absence of robust federal support, the collective observations of concerned citizens might help bridge some of the critical gaps. Focusing our collective attention on the natural world also offers a much-needed source of inspiration during this period of crisis. From the resilient rock sandpipers enduring deep freezes to the millions of seabirds that survived Typhoon Halong, examples of resilience abound in our own backyards. We, too, must find a way to weather this storm.