A sturdy shorebird, its plumage a mix of brown and white, diligently foraged along the Alaskan coastline, probing the damp earth for small clams that sustain rock sandpipers and a myriad of other species vital to the region’s ecosystem. Nearby, a former colleague, Dan Ruthrauff, meticulously recorded his observations into eBird, a public platform for citizen science, a habit honed over years of dedicated fieldwork. The delicate markings on the bird’s breast and its slender beak belied its remarkable resilience; Ruthrauff’s doctoral research had previously revealed photographs of rock sandpipers enduring frigid temperatures, their feathers puffed and legs encased in ice. While he tracked the sandpiper’s movements, I documented several washed-up seabird carcasses, a somber testament to the escalating wildlife mortality events I had been studying for the past decade.

Our arrival by sailboat to this rain-soaked cove in Alaska’s Shumagin Islands, a landscape where vibrant eelgrass meadows met the sea and black-legged kittiwakes clung to sheer rock faces, was not an official expedition. Nevertheless, our commitment to observing and understanding the ecosystems we have long studied and cherished remained. Both Ruthrauff, a specialist in shorebirds and waterfowl, and I, focused on wildlife and environmental health, were former research biologists with the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) in Alaska, collectively possessing over five decades of experience.

Our departures from federal service in April 2025 coincided with a significant shift in the administration’s approach to scientific research. The escalating hostility and uncertainty within the USGS and other federal agencies made continuing untenable. This decision was solidified by a statement from the newly appointed Secretary of the Interior, Doug Burgum, a businessman who characterized the nation’s public lands as mere components of a "balance sheet," explicitly aiming to monetize their development and exploitation. As the head of the Department of the Interior, Burgum held ultimate oversight of the USGS, placing him as our highest-ranking superior. His initial address revealed a profound lack of scientific understanding within his team and signaled an intent to dismantle critical research initiatives, with far-reaching consequences for our careers, as well as the nation’s wildlife, lands, and waters.

Compounding the perceived pro-extraction, anti-science agenda, we faced an additional challenge. In the preceding weeks, threatening emails instructed us to report colleagues suspected of promoting diversity and equity initiatives, even those aimed at supporting women and underrepresented groups in science. Daily notifications warned of potential job losses and the termination of all programmatic funding, advising us to prepare statements for inter-agency partners in the event of sudden dismissal. These messages, often disseminated through anonymous email addresses, employed demeaning and unprofessional language.

The impact was both disheartening and deeply unsettling. The federal employees I worked alongside were not radical activists but dedicated public servants committed to providing impartial scientific information essential for managing species, ecosystems, and safeguarding public safety. Our collective responsibilities encompassed forecasting earthquakes and natural hazards, assessing toxin levels in subsistence foods, monitoring streamflow crucial 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 perilous landslide risks exacerbated by a warming climate and increased rainfall. Along the Yukon River, our team investigated the alarming decline in chinook salmon populations, a vital food source for Alaska Native communities and a critical component of the commercial fishing industry, which brought both to a standstill.

By the spring of 2025, our workplace atmosphere had transformed from a leading public science institution into an environment fostering submission through intimidation. The constant fear of job loss, or worse, permeated the air. As a writer and an engaged citizen, I recognized that my capacity to voice concerns would be severely limited. Furthermore, as a researcher, abandoning the principles of scientific transparency and conservation ethics that had guided my career felt ethically untenable.

Federal employees like myself were presented with an agonizing choice: remain and endure the escalating abuse and forced complicity, or depart and sacrifice an entire career. Many colleagues found themselves unable to leave due to unavoidable commitments, such as caring for hospitalized children who required continuous healthcare, managing single-income mortgages, or supporting elderly family members. Others maintained faith that the legal system would ultimately prevail. The majority lacked readily available alternative career paths, yet many still faced termination, sometimes with mere hours’ notice, and in other instances, without any warning at all.

Ruthrauff and I were comparatively fortunate. He was eligible for early retirement, and I had established a career as a freelance writer with an upcoming book contract. Nevertheless, the decision to leave was profoundly difficult. We were granted less than a week to gather our belongings, formally withdraw from long-term projects, and archive as much data as possible before losing permanent access to our work emails.

We joined an estimated 352,000 federal employees who, by that point, had either been dismissed or had voluntarily left the federal workforce in response to the administration’s policies. The scientific community bore a disproportionate impact, with significant budget cuts targeting climate, environmental, health, and wildlife programs. Approximately 7,800 research grants were frozen or terminated, and further proposed reductions threatened to decimate existing programs and personnel. While Congress actively resisted these measures, considerable damage had already been inflicted. The departure of programs and staff, coupled with a significant decline in employee morale, rendered the prospect of resuming previous work virtually impossible.

Despite promises of fiscal responsibility, the administration’s abrupt and disorganized budget cuts over the preceding year had not yielded genuine cost savings 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 had sustained losses far exceeding this figure. We had long relied on the accuracy of weather and natural hazard forecasts 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 diligently managed. This stewardship was the responsibility of individuals like myself, Dan Ruthrauff, and countless other colleagues who had taken an oath of public service, only to find themselves incapable of fulfilling their duties. This inability stemmed not from a lack of qualification or dedication, but from the government’s failure to support its scientific workforce.

Following my resignation, I embarked on a four-month expedition with my husband and our two sons, aged nine and eleven, aboard our small sailboat, traversing the Northwest Passage. This journey represented the culmination of years of planning and a chance to connect disparate elements of my personal and professional interests. The same passions that fueled my work as a biologist had long aligned with my personal pursuits. I had explored vast areas of my home state through hiking, paddling, skiing, and sailing, and this extended voyage offered an opportunity to gain a broader perspective of the Arctic and to document my observations firsthand. During the trip, I conducted in-person research for my forthcoming book examining wildlife responses to climate change.

Our route led us through numerous locations familiar from my tenure as a federal biologist. I observed the snow-capped peaks of the Brooks Range bordering the Arctic Coastal Plain, where I had previously lived in a tent 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 emerging environmental health concern, to both wildlife and people. The landscape had undergone profound transformations in the two decades since I began my career. Barrier islands where I had conducted fieldwork were now frequently subjected to storms once considered rare; hungry polar bears had become a common summer sight; and sea ice had receded, yielding vast expanses of open water. We witnessed historical sites inundated by rising waters and breached seawalls. The prospect of these remote communities facing the loss of federal support, particularly as salmon runs falter, wildfires consume boreal forests, or permafrost thaws and collapses into the sea, was deeply concerning.

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

Initially, scanning the horizon with binoculars and washing dishes with seawater, it felt as though we had simply resumed a fieldwork assignment. It was only later, as we sailed past stretches of coastline where we had each conducted research, that we openly discussed our departure. I learned that a multiyear project investigating the effects 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 designated program lead or a dedicated budget. Long-term monitoring studies focusing on caribou, polar bears, walruses, fish, and birds—essential for population inventories vital for endangered species assessments, sustainable hunting quotas, and other critical applications—had been indefinitely suspended. Compounding these issues, remaining employees were prohibited from speaking to the media, even on topics pertinent to animal and human health, such as avian influenza. Our colleagues, along with their invaluable expertise, had effectively been silenced.

Simultaneously, other federal programs, including those crucial for weather forecasting, experienced such rapid funding reductions that they were unable to perform essential public services. The repercussions of these gaps were poised to manifest swiftly.

We ventured into the Bering Sea under favorable weather conditions, but this calm was short-lived, heralding a period of significant disruption. Far to our west, unusually warm waters in the North Pacific were generating considerable trouble. Three weeks later, after we had sailed south and out of the storm’s path, Typhoon Halong, a Category 4 hurricane, struck the coastal villages of Kipnuk and Kwigillingok. The storm’s rapid change in course prevented residents from completing their evacuation. Survivors, many now temporarily residing in my hometown of Anchorage, approximately 800 kilometers (500 miles) away, became not only climate refugees but also victims of federal funding cuts. A $20 million coastal resilience grant had been rescinded in the months preceding the typhoon, coinciding with the grounding of federal weather balloons and substantial cuts to forecasting budgets.

While no amount of preparedness could have altered the storm’s trajectory or intensity, the scarcity of resources and information exacerbated an already dire situation. Rick Thoman, a veteran Alaska meteorologist, noted that while the precise impact of the reduced number of weather balloons on the forecast remains unclear, "it seems likely that that had some effect on the model performance." Furthermore, emergency funding allocated for community response to extreme weather events was no longer available under the current administration, casting further uncertainty on the future for the residents of Kipnuk and Kwigillingok. Many of these individuals are striving to maintain their cultural heritage while residing in temporary accommodations in the state’s largest city.

These are not simply abstract scientific concerns or the grievances of disgruntled employees; they represent tangible impacts on real people affected by a federal workforce in crisis. It requires no advanced degree to recognize that these and other losses will have profound and lasting repercussions for decades to come, and that the true cost of dismantling our federal science programs far outweighs any perceived financial savings.

On our final day before dropping Ruthrauff in the Unangax community of Sand Point—a place where I had once pursued sea ducks as a USGS employee during a frigid December—we conducted a final eBird survey. It was a drizzly afternoon with unpredictable sailing conditions, shifting from gusts to dead calm in rapid succession. Ruthrauff remained in the cockpit, binoculars fixed on the choppy horizon, while I held onto 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 were isolated data points within a vast landscape of information needs. Yet, we also recognized that even the most seemingly routine reports, when aggregated, can yield invaluable insights. While public data platforms like eBird cannot fully replace comprehensive monitoring studies, in the absence of robust federal support, an increased number of observers in the field, on the water, and in the air might help bridge some of the critical gaps. Directing our collective attention toward the natural world also offers a vital source of inspiration during this challenging period. From the resilient rock sandpipers enduring frigid conditions to the millions of seabirds that survived Typhoon Halong, we need only look to our surroundings to find examples of resilience. In facing our own challenges, we too must find a way to weather this storm.