America’s national parks are in crisis, and the environmental disaster unfolding at Yellowstone National Park is the latest example of extreme weather driven by climate change battering parkland.

Glacier National Park in Montana is also experiencing severe flooding, in addition to the severe diminishment of the park’s 26 named glaciers — some by as much as 80%.

The unpredictability caused by climate change adds a further challenge as predictive models become increasingly irrelevant, causing delays in planning and resource allocation.

The U.S. national parks are a passion for Douglas Noble, associate dean for academic affairs at the USC School of Architecture. He credits a childhood spent visiting the parks as a Boy Scout for cultivating his love of America’s wilderness. This spring, he and faculty across USC introduced a new interdisciplinary course, “An Exploration of America’s National Parks,” that centers on how humans interact with the national parks. We spoke with Noble about the flooding at Yellowstone, how climate change affects our national parks and his favorite national park.

What does the situation with Yellowstone flooding tell us about how climate change is affecting the national parks system?

The climate conditions are really troubling. It’s not so much that it’s warmer — people will say, “Oh, it’s only 2 degrees warmer, what possible harm could that cause?” First off, 2 degrees centigrade is a big jump. It also changes the kind of things that can live or adapt to be there. It also changes migratory patterns. Water access in some places will dry up, and the lifeforms that lived where a tiny creek or pond used to be can no longer survive.

Yellowstone is a water-based place. Old Faithful, for instance: If you visit, there’s a chalkboard that says how often it will erupt — usually around 55-65 minutes — and they’re usually accurate to within a minute. But what happens when the conditions have changed? If there’s more water? What if there’s less? What has been a fairly predictable phenomenon now becomes an unknown. Maybe it erupts twice as often, or maybe it stops altogether. That’s all to say we no longer can entirely know what’s going to happen because the conditions have changed.

What is the impact of this unpredictability?

If you know what’s going to happen in a climate, whether it’s hot or cold, then you can make confident personnel and resource decisions to maintain the parks. There are impacts on tourism and agriculture — you know that based off predictive weather models that the last frost will take place after such-and-such date. If suddenly it’s less predictable, there might be another frost later in the season, it could be warmer, it stops raining sooner or it might rain a lot harder. I’m a lot happier when things are just like last year — even if last year there was a week in the summer where it was too hot in L.A. — because I know that if we do the same as last year, we know how it works and we know what the impact is going to be.

In what other ways is climate change affecting the national parks?

Not long ago the biggest challenges were wildfires and, again, it goes back to climate change. Part of it was direct impacts — the fires wiping out vast chunks of forests — but it also affected the management strategies in place. Now we look back and say, “OK, maybe that was not a great strategy putting out all fires” because the amount of debris and dead stuff piled up. Where there had been a fire here and there to clear that debris, once we began putting out every single fire the amount of dead stuff really begins to pile up. Now when it catches fire, instead of 1,000 little fires, you get a really big one and the really big ones act a lot differently.

Glacier National Park has a rough idea when the last glacier will finally melt down. They can tell you how many there used to be just a few years ago, and how many there are now — the number is fewer and they’re smaller. In some cases, a lot smaller and they keep shrinking. How much longer do they have? It’s decades, not centuries.

What’s your favorite national park?

I always answer that question by saying that it changes every time someone asks. There are 63 that many people think of as the so-called “regular” national parks, and almost 450 National Park [Service] units, including national battlefield parks, national historic sites, national monuments and others. Some are like Yellowstone that are large, and then there are others where something culturally important took place. I’m going to Joshua Tree this weekend, so maybe that is my favorite today. Climate change is being felt there, too. There are a small number of oases in the park — one of the most famous is the Oasis of Mara, which has been used by civilizations for millennia. There are six oases in a park nearly the size of Rhode Island, so these are rare treasures. Now the water table has fallen so much that the Oasis of Mara would die without human intervention. We’re keeping it alive in the hopes that things will change for the better.

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This story was first published on June 17, 2016

Father’s Day is a time our thoughts turn to the unique relationship we enjoyed with them as children and the ways they helped make us who we are today. We asked seven USC faculty members to share how their dads helped shape and inspire their academic careers.

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I have my father to thank for my problem-solving skills, and for a determination to get things done and never give up until I am satisfied.

Laura Baker

Laura Baker, professor of psychology, remembers her father, John P. Baker.

“As long as I can remember, my focus in life has been on figuring out how things work — including people’s behavior. I have to attribute this, at least in part, to my father, who was a civil engineer and a handyman extraordinaire.

“Early memories include having Dad help me with math homework and visiting his civil engineering office, where I was fascinated by the rooms full of computers, whirring tape decks — and yes, punch card machines — that filled an entire air-conditioned floor of the high-rise building where he worked. There were plenty of opportunities to figure things out on my own, growing up in a house with seven other siblings.

“My father also remodeled his home with his own hands and came to Los Angeles to help me and my husband restore a little Victorian house near USC. As my own research in behavioral genetics shows, Dad’s influence was undoubtedly a combination of genes and environment. Regardless of the etiology, I have my father to thank for my problem-solving skills, and for a determination to get things done and never give up until I am satisfied.”

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We share more than a name, and I’m ever grateful for all of it.

William Deverell

William Deverell, professor of history, chair of history and director of the Huntington-USC Institute on California and the West, remembers his father, William F. Deverell Sr.

“My father, for whom I am named, is a retired orthopedic surgeon who spent the first 20 years of his medical career as an officer in the United States Air Force. Growing up a military brat, I’ve learned since boyhood, is a little strange and outside the borders of more conventional, civilian life. But my sister and I knew nothing else, so it seemed entirely normal to us.

“I grew up in houses on Air Force bases in Japan, California and Colorado. They shared a certain “base housing” exterior sameness, even drabness. On the inside, they shared books. Packed bookcases: medical texts, of course (The Journal of Bone and Joint Surgery by the dozens), travel books, biographies, Great American novels and, always, history.

“My father has always been drawn to history, and he is deeply well-read. His books called to me as a kid, and my constant borrowing of them no doubt shaped my life and my thinking for the better. I went off to college thinking I wanted to be a surgeon; I left college knowing I wanted to be a history professor. In no small way, that journey is motivated by the imprint of a father’s curiosity on a son. We share more than a name, and I’m ever grateful for all of it.”

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As a second-grader in a Catholic school in Cleveland, Ohio, I stood up and spoke out against a teacher who said that only Catholics would go to heaven.

The Rev. James Heft

The Rev. James Heft, Alton M. Brooks Professor of Religion, remembers his father, Berl Ramsey Heft, a farmer and warehouse manager.

“My father was a Protestant; I was raised Catholic, the faith of my mother. For the first 36 years of his life, my dad was a farmer; I’ve spent my life in cities. My father never went past the eighth grade; I got a PhD. My dad didn’t go to church with me and the rest of the family that often; we went every Sunday and more. My father was 5 foot 8 inches tall; I am 6 foot 5. So, how did my father influence my career as an academic and a Catholic priest?

“Though my father was not Catholic, he was a loving and good man. As a child, I never doubted that he would go to heaven, and as a second-grader in a Catholic school in Cleveland, Ohio, I stood up and spoke out against a teacher who said that only Catholics would go to heaven.

“Though he had little formal education, he was bright, very bright, and verbally quick. He told great stories. He supported the private education of my four siblings and me. I guess you could say that for much of his life he was deeply spiritual then, but not so religious — ahead of his time.

“He influenced me profoundly even though we might seem to have been very different. Towards the end of his life, shortly after I had told my family what I wanted to do with my life, he became a Catholic. Perhaps I influenced him a little, too.”

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When my marriage failed and my world unraveled, my dad said two things that righted me: ‘I understand you baby’ and ‘Forgive yourself because God does.’

Lanita Jacobs

Lanita Jacobs, associate professor of anthropology and American studies and ethnicity, celebrates her stepfather, Jackie L. Stewart Sr., a retired machinist and church pastor.

“I was in the sixth grade when my dad entered my life. He’d recently found God and fell hard for my mom. I eyed him warily; I didn’t know what to make of this recently converted preacher and single father of five. Soon, his and my family merged and I inherited four sisters, a brother and a new dad — and two more sisters as our family steadily grew. We were a black Brady Bunch with no Alice; I sulked to the point of disrespect.

“Then, I grew to love him. I knew it when, five months into blended familyhood, I dreamt my new dad had died. I remember waking up in a panic and searching to find and hug him. He said, ‘Don’t worry about it Nita. I’m still here.’

“My dad has held me many times since. When my marriage failed and my world unraveled, my dad said two things that righted me: ‘I understand you baby’ and ‘Forgive yourself because God does.’ He saw me in my vulnerability (priceless), loved me, and inspires my classes on the fraught subject of black love and respectability.

“My dad didn’t graduate high school. In the past five years, he’s earned his BA and later MA at a seminary. I didn’t make it to his most recent graduation for reasons I can’t defend. When I apologized for my absence, he replied, ‘That’s OK. I know you love me.’ And I do. I do. I do. I do.”

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To this day, I always begin writing with the aim that the result would be something he would want to read, and the best thing is, he always does.

Megan Luke

Megan Luke, assistant professor of art history, on her father, Richard Luke.

“My dad is my first and most avid reader. He reads everything I write (he even read my doctoral dissertation!), and he always understands just what I am trying to do with any given text. My father is a sculptor, a builder and an architect, so he has a high tolerance for art history, but he’s also a passionate self-taught reader of literature and philosophy — and poetry is what he likes reading best. At key moments in my studies, he would introduce me to a writer or an artist and I, in turn, would take up the challenge to write about them.

“Once, when I was in high school, I asked him to read a paper I had written for English class on one of his favorite poets, William Bronk, and he read it as he would a text by any ‘real’ writer. It was the first time my words had received such a demanding audience, and I vividly remember that being the moment when I realized the responsibility that comes with writing — a responsibility to write well and with conviction. To this day, I always begin writing with the aim that the result would be something he would want to read, and the best thing is, he always does.”

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When I accompanied him to the Soviet Union in the early 1970s, and he tried to give out copies of a paper analyzing anti-Soviet jokes, his colleagues were afraid to accept it.

Alison Dundes Renteln

Alison Dundes Renteln, professor of political science, anthropology, public policy and law, pays tribute to her late father, Alan Dundes, a professor of anthropology and folklore at the University of California, Berkeley.

“My father was a professor for more than 40 years. From him I learned the great joy of exploring libraries, conducting interdisciplinary research, and mentoring students. I also saw the benefits of belonging to a vibrant intellectual community.

“It is important, he often said, to pursue a career one enjoys. He certainly loved his work. A Freudian folklorist, he believed that the psychoanalytic approach, making the unconscious conscious, could enable us to change our ways.

“Some of the data my father analyzed was difficult, dangerous and unpleasant. But he was strongly opposed to censorship and considered no topic taboo. When I accompanied him to the Soviet Union in the early 1970s, and he tried to give out copies of a paper analyzing anti-Soviet jokes, his colleagues were afraid to accept it. This experience sparked my interest in political freedom and human rights, topics on which I continue to focus.

“My father shared his research with influential people to try to contribute to social change. He corresponded, for example, with President Bill Clinton about military policy banning gays and lesbians. From my father, I learned the importance of identifying ethnocentric attitudes, so we can be more compassionate and accepting of people who come from diverse backgrounds. My own research on the legal protection of cultural traditions reflects a commitment to this value. Inspired by my father, I encourage students to reconsider their tacit assumptions, appreciate different points of view, and empower them to use their research to make the world a better place.”

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My dad told me he loved me, but for him that love was not a just a feeling; it was a mission.

Robert Shrum

Robert Shrum, Carmen H. and Louis Warschaw Chair in Practical Politics and professor of the practice of political science, pays tribute to his father, Clarence Shrum.

“My parents were part of the great westward migration of the 1950s. They left behind a place where my father’s family had lived for nearly two centuries and brought my 6-year-old sister, Barbara, and me — I was 8 — to the better life of the new America that was California, with its booming growth and perpetual sunshine.

“But there was another reason for the move: No one in my father’s family had ever gone to college and he was determined that Barbara and I would. My mother taught me to read before kindergarten. My father worried that we wouldn’t have a chance to go to the best schools from a small coal town in Western Pennsylvania. So he drove us across the continent in his 1948 Chevy in search of education.

“He and my mom always found the money for the books I yearned to buy — and then for my tuition at Loyola High School. They put off buying a house until I graduated from Georgetown.

“My father — and the wife he adored — made it their life’s work to lift our lives. My dad told me he loved me, but for him that love was not a just a feeling; it was a mission. And he was quietly proud in his 90s of what his children had done — and though he never said it, what he had done for us.”

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