Rising majestically from the northern California landscape, Mount Shasta stands as a solitary sentinel, its imposing presence undimmed by neighboring peaks that might otherwise diminish its stature. From a hundred miles to the south, its snow-capped summit pierces the horizon, a beacon above the rolling oak savanna, evoking comparisons to Tolkien’s iconic Lonely Mountain, a sentiment underscored by the whimsical installation of a dragon sculpture on the plains to its north. This stratovolcano, a geological marvel, is not only a visual spectacle but also a custodian of seven named glaciers, including the Whitney Glacier, the longest in California and historically significant as the first glacier in the continental United States definitively identified by modern science. Clarence King, leading the inaugural U.S. Geological Survey expedition to the summit, christened the Whitney Glacier in honor of 19th-century geologist Josiah Whitney, describing Shasta in The Atlantic Monthly as a "colossal cone of a burned-out volcano, springs upward from a plain… bearing upon its summit a cap of solid white." Historical photographs from September 11, 1870, vividly capture the Whitney Glacier, a formidable expanse of ice fissured with immense crevasses.

Today, however, Mount Shasta’s glaciers, like their counterparts across the Western United States, are in a state of retreat. Once symbols of immutability, a concept enshrined in the phrase "glacial pace," these icy titans are diminishing year by year. While this transformation unfolds at a glacial speed in geological terms, it is imperceptibly slow to human observation. A child born today might easily perceive Shasta’s current, diminished glaciers as their natural, perpetual state, a phenomenon scientists term "shifting baseline syndrome." This syndrome describes our insidious ability to adapt to and normalize deteriorating environmental conditions, a gradual acclimatization to loss that can mask the urgency of ecological change.

Fortunately, methods exist to illuminate these environmental shifts, to peel back the layers of time that obscure the present reality. For approximately 140 years, a dedicated practice of re-photography has captured the Mount Shasta glaciers from consistent viewpoints, decade after decade, creating a robust, visual archive of Earth’s transformation under the influence of climate change. Even in an era saturated with digitally manipulated imagery, the irrefutable evidence presented by a century-long photographic record offers a compelling testament to these alterations. Such enduring records are indispensable in counteracting the "shifting baseline syndrome" and the environmental amnesia it fosters. The most potent, indeed the essential, antidote to this collective forgetfulness lies in the preservation of history, with the initial documentation of natural history manifesting in diverse forms: photographs, personal journals, scientific logs, landscape paintings, antique maps, historical property deeds, and even the humble restaurant menu. The inherent vulnerability, however, is that these invaluable source materials risk becoming as transient as the very landscapes they meticulously chronicle.

A dedicated citizen-scientist named Phil Rhodes has been meticulously re-photographing the Mount Shasta glaciers since the 1970s, amassing what is likely the most extensive private collection of images documenting these icy formations. Now in his seventies, Rhodes, a tall, lanky, and earnest individual, cultivated an early appreciation for the natural world while exploring Corte Madera Creek in his childhood home of Mill Valley, California. His initial encounter with the Whitney Glacier occurred in 1972 during his geology studies at Humboldt State University, an experience that profoundly captivated him. "I quickly became aware that the glaciers on Mount Shasta were acting in a very unusual manner," Rhodes recounted, "And that led into a lot of scientific investigation as to why the glaciers were behaving the way they were."

Inspired by the book Exploring Glaciers—With a Camera, Rhodes established his inaugural photo station near the Whitney Glacier in 1974. Over time, he expanded his project, setting up additional sites to document other significant glaciers on the mountain, including the Bolam, Hotlum, and Wintun, bringing the total to fourteen distinct locations. He viewed his endeavor as a continuation of the tradition of amateur naturalists who have made profound contributions to glaciology, citing John Muir as a prime example – individuals possessing scientific acumen without formal professional credentials.

Between 1983 and 1988, Rhodes resided in the town of Mount Shasta, dedicating his summers to serving as the caretaker of a mountain hut that acts as a staging point for mountaineers aiming for the summit. Even after relocating to the San Francisco Bay Area to manage his family’s shipping-export business, he steadfastly continued his photographic mission, undertaking the arduous four-and-a-half-hour drive north, often alone, to reach his remote photo stations. "What I did was try to make this definable by setting up these photo stations: taking the same photo year after year after year," he explained. "You can look at these photos, and you can see changes."

Eventually, life’s demands began to impinge upon his glacier photography. In the early 2000s, Rhodes entrusted the project to a graduate student in Portland State University’s Geology Department. Subsequently, around 2015, the exact year eluding precise recollection, the responsibility transitioned to Forest Service rangers who welcomed the engaging diversion. It was through this chain of custody that I found myself accompanying Forrest Coots, a Forest Service seasonal ranger, who graciously agreed to guide me up the mountain one spring weekend to witness a photo station firsthand.

Coots, a native of the region, possesses an intimate knowledge of Mount Shasta, perhaps unparalleled among those currently living. His personal baseline for the mountain’s changes extends back to his earliest childhood memories. As we traversed the rutted backroads on the mountain’s northern flank, Coots shared a cascade of ecological observations. Born in 1981, he has witnessed profound transformations in just over four decades. "I remember, as a kid, you never doubted that winter would come," he stated. "And now?" he mused, recalling a recent winter where the region experienced "36 days without any precipitation. Like, dry as a bone."

The dirt road eventually dissolved into a sandy wash, not far from a weathered sign marking the boundary of the Mount Shasta Wilderness. Donning our boots and shouldering our packs, we began our ascent. While the majority of climbers approach Shasta’s summit from the south, the north side presented a stark, untrodden wilderness. Coots expertly navigated us upslope, relying on a blend of mountaineering instinct and ingrained memory. We wound our way through gullies and avalanche chutes, traversing dense stands of pine, many of which appeared stressed or deceased, their needles brittle and brown. He gestured towards the southeast, indicating the Bolam Glacier. "I doubt it will be here at the end of my lifetime," he stated somberly. "The Hotlum—maybe. The Whitney—maybe. But not the Bolam. It’ll be gone."

We had now ascended well beyond the treeline, entering a desolate expanse of dirt, rock, and ice. Coots led us to a rocky outcrop overlooking a small, icy pond. Above us, the Whitney Glacier flowed, its ice a brilliant white against a backdrop of digital blue. "We’re here," he announced. "This is the spot." It took a moment to fully grasp his meaning. Coots pointed to a salmon-colored, medium-sized boulder situated at the edge of the shelf. Photo Station Whitney #1, it turned out, was an unassuming, utterly ordinary rock, positioned in the vastness of nowhere, indistinguishable from countless others. This unremarkable boulder had, for decades, served as a critical vantage point for observing and documenting a world in flux. Yet, the seemingly permanent rock was itself ephemeral, a physical anchor to understanding the history of one of California’s most iconic peaks, held precariously by the thin thread of lived human memory.

During my time with Coots, I pieced together more of the narrative surrounding the Mount Shasta glaciers’ comparative photography project. It is an admirable saga of citizen science and self-funded historical preservation, a testament to individuals striving to resist the insidious erosion of ecological memory. It was inspiring to contemplate the sheer dedication of Rhodes—whom Coots aptly described as "the foremost expert on Shasta’s glaciers"—who invested so much energy into documenting these vanishing natural forces, all at his own expense and during his personal time. This, I surmised, is how environmental memory endures across generations: through the often unheralded efforts of those committed to preserving recollections that are truly worth keeping.

However, memory, even when diligently cultivated, is not always infallible. A significant portion of Rhodes’ Mount Shasta photographs from 2015 to 2019 went missing, lost on a misplaced thumb drive—a loss that, according to Coots, left Rhodes "distraught." The project’s continuity faced further challenges when, the summer after guiding me up the mountain, Coots departed his Forest Service position. Responsibility for the re-photography then fell to Nick Meyers, the lead climbing and wilderness ranger for Mount Shasta. Yet, persistent staffing shortages and adverse weather conditions have hampered his and his crew’s ability to maintain the photographic record. Meyers informed me via email that they managed to photograph only "a handful" of sites in 2023 and 2024, missing many in 2025. While the project "hasn’t come to a halt, but we don’t always have the capacity" to visit every location, he stated, emphasizing the agency’s continued commitment and openness to volunteer assistance. For the present, the photo station at the base of the Whitney Glacier has reverted to its primordial state: a simple, ordinary rock, much as it had been for millennia.

At one juncture, a partial compilation of Rhodes’ Mount Shasta photographs had been transferred to Andrew Fountain, a distinguished glaciologist at Portland State University. However, even this transfer represented a form of evidentiary purgatory. Fountain shared that over his career, he has accumulated over 10,000 glacier photographs. While some are accessible on his website, Glaciers of the American West, many reside unseen on data servers and hard drives. Although Glaciers of the American West offers a glimpse into glacier loss through comparative photography, its interface is cumbersome, image navigation is challenging, and the site has not been updated in years—a consequence, Fountain explained, of dwindling resources, particularly following his retirement. Attempting to access the Glacier RePhoto Project on the site and navigating to the Mount Shasta photo gallery results in a "404 error," and the galleries for Mount Hood and Mount Rainier are similarly defunct. "I’d like to get that site going again," Fountain expressed, a palpable weariness in his voice.

If a glacier melts away from a mountain, and there is little publicly accessible visual evidence of its existence, did it truly exist at all? Fountain confessed that for much of his academic career, he maintained an "academic remove" from such existential questions. However, he eventually recognized that "in the near future, like maybe 2070 or whatever, glaciers will get so small that nobody will read my work." This realization led him to "a certain depression." He candidly admitted, "In a way, frankly, it is encouraging me to work a little more feverishly, because right now what I’m doing is developing an inventory of all the glaciers in the Western U.S., trying to tie down where they all are and how big they are. It might be a map of what times used to be."

As Coots and I descended from the Whitney Glacier, the pervasive sound of rushing water accompanied our descent. The spring melt was in full swing, and countless rivulets carved their paths downhill. The glacier was visibly melting beneath our feet, and we were the sole witnesses to this silent, profound transformation. A narrative persists only as long as it is retold; our histories, much like glaciers, remain alive only when they continue to flow and evolve.