Dominating the northern California landscape, Mount Shasta rises as a solitary, majestic peak, its immense scale unobstructed by neighboring mountains, earning it comparisons to the iconic Lonely Mountain from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Visible from over a hundred miles south, its snow-capped summit pierces the sky above the rolling oak savannas, a stark and awe-inspiring sight. The mountain’s dramatic presence is further emphasized by a 20-foot metal dragon sculpture situated on the plains to its north, a whimsical acknowledgment of its mythical aura.

Home to seven named glaciers, Mount Shasta boasts the Whitney Glacier, California’s longest and historically significant as the first glacier in the continental United States positively identified by modern scientists. Clarence King, leading the inaugural U.S. Geological Survey expedition to the summit, named it after prominent 19th-century geologist Josiah Whitney. King’s vivid description of Shasta in The Atlantic Monthly captured its essence: "a colossal cone of a burned-out volcano, springs upward from a plain… bearing upon its summit a cap of solid white." A photograph dated September 11, 1870, vividly portrays the Whitney Glacier, its icy expanse fractured by deep crevasses, a testament to its former grandeur.

Today, however, Mount Shasta’s glaciers, mirroring the fate of ice formations across the Western United States, are in a state of decline. Once symbols of enduring permanence, evoked by the very phrase "glacial pace," these ice masses are diminishing year by year. While the scale of this reduction might be imperceptible on a geological timeline, it is alarmingly rapid by human reckoning. A child born today might easily mistake Shasta’s present-day, diminished glaciers for their natural state, a phenomenon scientists refer to as "shifting baseline syndrome"—our remarkable capacity to adapt to and normalize environmental degradation.

Fortunately, a powerful countermeasure exists to illuminate these environmental transformations, peeling back the layers of time to reveal the stark reality of change. For approximately 140 years, individuals have diligently revisited the same viewpoints to photograph Shasta’s glaciers, decade after decade. These re-photography projects serve as irrefutable evidence of climate change’s profound impact on our planet. Even in an era saturated with digitally manipulated imagery, the persistent evidence of a century-long photographic record offers an unassailable testament to these shifts.

Such historical records are indispensable tools in combating the "shifting baseline syndrome" that fosters complacency in the face of environmental loss. The most potent, indeed the essential, antidote to environmental amnesia lies in the meticulous preservation of history. The foundational narratives of natural history can manifest in various forms: compelling photographs, detailed journals, personal diaries, rigorous scientific observations, evocative landscape paintings, antique maps, historical property records, and even mundane items like old restaurant menus. The inherent risk, however, is that these invaluable source materials may prove as transient as the very landscapes they document.

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 these images. Now in his seventies, Rhodes, a tall, earnest individual, developed a profound connection with the natural world during his childhood in Mill Valley, California, exploring the creeks and wild spaces around his home. His inaugural visit to the Whitney Glacier in 1972, while pursuing a geology degree at Humboldt State University (now Cal Poly Humboldt), proved transformative. "I quickly became aware that the glaciers on Mount Shasta were acting in a very unusual manner," he recounted, "And that led into a lot of scientific investigation as to why the glaciers were behaving the way they were."

Inspired by a book titled Exploring Glaciers—With a Camera, Rhodes established his first photographic station near the Whitney Glacier in 1974. He subsequently expanded his efforts, setting up additional sites to capture the other glaciers on the mountain, including the Bolam, Hotlum, and Wintun, bringing his total to fourteen distinct locations. He viewed his endeavor as a continuation of a rich tradition of amateur naturalists who have historically studied glaciers, citing figures like John Muir—individuals possessing significant scientific insight without formal professional accreditation.

From 1983 to 1988, Rhodes resided in the town of Mount Shasta, spending his summers as the caretaker of a hut that served as a vital staging point for mountaineers aiming for the summit. Even after relocating back to the San Francisco Bay Area to manage his family’s shipping and export business, he remained steadfast in his commitment. He would undertake the arduous four-and-a-half-hour drive north alone, ascend the mountain, and meticulously visit his photo stations, driven by his dedication to documenting the changing ice. "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, the demands of life necessitated a transition for the glacier photography project. In the early 2000s, Rhodes entrusted the endeavor to a graduate student within the Portland State Geology Department. Subsequently, around 2015—the exact year remains a subject of hazy recollection—this student passed the responsibility to Forest Service rangers who welcomed the challenging diversion.

It was through this lineage of custodianship 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 local who grew up in the vicinity, possesses an intimate knowledge of the mountain, perhaps unparalleled among his contemporaries. His personal baseline for Mount Shasta begins with his earliest memories, and as we navigated the rugged backroads on the mountain’s north side, he readily shared his observations of ecological shifts. Born in 1981, he has witnessed a multitude of changes in his forty-plus years. "I remember, as a kid, you never doubted that winter would come," he recalled. His current perspective is starkly different: "One recent winter, we went 36 days without any precipitation. Like, dry as a bone."

Our journey took us to the edge of a sandy wash where the dirt road dissolved, near a weathered sign marking the boundary of the Mount Shasta Wilderness. Donning our boots and shouldering our packs, we began our ascent. While most climbers approach Shasta’s summit from the south, the north side presented an untamed, trackless expanse. Coots skillfully guided us upslope, relying on a combination of mountaineering instinct and ingrained memory, navigating through gullies, avalanche chutes, and dense stands of pine, many of which bore the visible signs of stress and mortality, their needles brittle and brown. Pointing towards the southeast, he indicated the Bolam Glacier, expressing grave doubt about its survival through his lifetime. The Hotlum and Whitney glaciers, he conceded, might persist, but the Bolam, he was certain, "will be gone."

Having ascended beyond the treeline, we entered a stark terrain of dirt, rock, and ice. Coots led us to a rocky shelf overlooking a small, icy pond. Above us, the Whitney Glacier lay spread out, its ice a brilliant white, shot through with veins of digital blue. "We’re here," Coots announced. "This is the spot." It took a moment for the significance to register. Coots gestured towards a medium-sized, salmon-colored boulder at the edge of the shelf. Photo Station Whitney #1, it turned out, was an unassuming, ordinary rock situated in the vastness of the wilderness, indistinguishable from countless others.

This seemingly unremarkable boulder had, for decades, served as a crucial vantage point for observing and documenting the profound transformations occurring in the world. Yet, even this solid rock was ultimately ephemeral. The anchor for understanding the history of one of California’s most iconic mountains was tethered by little more than the fragile thread of lived memory. During my time with Coots, I had pieced together more of the narrative surrounding the Mount Shasta glacier comparative photography project. It emerged as a compelling testament to citizen science and resourceful historical documentation, a collective effort to resist the insidious pull of ecological amnesia. It was inspiring to consider the immense dedication of Rhodes—whom Coots aptly described as "the foremost expert on Shasta’s glaciers"—who poured so much energy into recording these vanishing natural forces, all at his own expense and during his personal time. This, I mused, is how environmental memory endures across generations: through the often unheralded efforts of individuals striving to preserve memories of profound significance.

However, memory, even when diligently cultivated, can falter. Nearly all of the Mount Shasta glacier photographs from 2015 to 2019 were lost when a thumb drive containing them was misplaced, a loss that, according to Coots, left Rhodes "distraught." The project’s continuity faced further challenges when Coots departed from his Forest Service position the summer after guiding me up the mountain. Responsibility then shifted to Nick Meyers, the lead climbing and wilderness ranger for Mount Shasta. However, persistent staffing shortages and adverse weather conditions have made it increasingly difficult for him and his team to maintain the photographic record. Meyers indicated in an email that they managed to photograph only "a handful" of sites in 2023 and 2024, and missed many in 2025. While the project has not entirely ceased, he noted, "we don’t always have the capacity" to visit all locations, though he affirmed 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 state of millennia past: a simple, unassuming rock.

At one juncture, a partial collection of Rhodes’s Mount Shasta photographs had been transferred to Andrew Fountain, a distinguished glaciologist at Portland State University. Yet, even this represented a form of evidentiary limbo. Fountain revealed that over his extensive career, he has amassed over 10,000 glacier photographs. While some are accessible on his website, Glaciers of the American West, many remain unseen, stored 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 in his post-retirement phase. Visitors attempting to access the Glacier RePhoto Project’s Mount Shasta photo gallery encounter a "404 error" message, and the galleries for Mount Hood and Mount Rainier suffer a similar fate. "I’d like to get that site going again," Fountain stated, his voice tinged with weariness.

If a glacier melts away from a mountain, and tangible visual evidence of its existence is scarce and inaccessible to the public, does its former presence effectively vanish from collective understanding? Fountain admitted that for much of his professional life, he maintained a degree of "academic remove" from such existential considerations. However, he eventually came to the sobering realization that "in the near future, like maybe 2070 or whatever, glaciers will get so small that nobody will read my work." This profound understanding led him to a "certain depression." He elaborated, "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 trickling water accompanied us. The spring melt was in full swing, sending countless rivulets cascading down the mountainside. The glacier was melting beneath our feet, and we were the sole witnesses to this poignant, silent retreat. A narrative, much like a glacier, remains vital and present only as long as it is actively remembered and retold. Our histories, in essence, are akin to glaciers: they possess life only when they continue to move and evolve.