“We came to the Serengeti expecting to document wildlife, to see for ourselves one of Earth’s most incredible wonders. But we quickly realized we were witnessing something far more urgent. Climate change is so far away from a buzzword here,” writes Andi Cross.

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By Andi Cross

There is a moment when you arrive in the Serengeti that feels like stepping into a wildlife documentary you’ve seen before. The landscape is iconic – vast plains stretch endlessly, punctuated by rocky kopjes and lone acacia trees. Herds graze in the distance under a soft haze of heat, and for a second, it feels like time slows down. But that illusion does not last long.

Upon our arrival here, local experts informed us that things were noticeably off. The rains had lingered longer than they should have. Patches of mud clung to the tires as we made our way into the bush, even though this was supposed to be dry season. The air was heavier than expected, and the usual rhythms of this famed place – particularly the Great Migration – were said to be scattered. The wildebeest, according to those who know this park intimately, were in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Elephants lingered near areas they typically avoided this time of year, while water pooled in places that should have been bone-dry.

We came to the Serengeti expecting to document wildlife, to see for ourselves one of Earth’s most incredible wonders. But we quickly realized we were witnessing something far more urgent. Climate change is so far away from a buzzword here. It is something extremely visible – shaping the land, shifting age-old migration patterns, and leaving the area’s experts with more questions than answers. Here, no one is afraid to talk about it.

The Serengeti, like so many parts of the world, is in a state of transition. This visit starkly illustrated that even Earth’s most legendary wilds are not immune to human impact.Spanning approximately 30,000 square kilometers across northern Tanzania and southwestern Kenya, the Serengeti is one of the last remaining strongholds of a truly wild, large-scale ecosystem. This region supports an extraordinary range of biodiversity – from the “Big Five” to over 500 species of birds, countless insect varieties, and even microorganisms that keep its ancient soils fertile. It is the only place where large-scale terrestrial migration still occurs with such size and consistency. But that balance has become increasingly unstable.

A critical artery within this ecosystem is the Mara River. Originating in Kenya’s highlands, the river cuts through the Serengeti before eventually feeding into Lake Victoria. It is the only perennial river in the northern Serengeti, and without it, the Great Migration as we know it would not be possible. Wildebeest, zebras, elephants, and predators all rely on this water source, particularly during the dry season. 

In recent years, however, the Mara River has become increasingly threatened. Prolonged droughts, paired with deforestation, agricultural expansion, and dam development in the upper basin, are dramatically reducing its flow and ecological function​. A weakened river disrupts migration paths, strains predator-prey dynamics, and jeopardizes the survival of species that depend on predictable water access​.

Rising temperatures and erratic rainfall are also shifting the patterns of life here. Once predictable seasonal cycles are now interrupted. Invasive plant species like Aspilia and Kakiweed now thrive unexpectedly, overtaking the native vegetation. Guides from the Elewana Collection, who champion sustainable tourism throughout Kenya and Tanzania, flagged concerns about how these changes might be affecting animals like elephants, who now forage plants we do not fully understand. But are they adjusting, or unknowingly consuming something harmful? The Serengeti is still breathtaking and powerful in presence. But underneath its beauty, the system is straining – and those who call this place home feel it every day.

The Great Migration is often described as one of the most spectacular wildlife events on the planet. And we can safely say, the version we saw of it, certainly is. 

Over a million wildebeest, along with hundreds of thousands of zebras and antelope, move across the Serengeti and into Kenya’s Maasai Mara in search of water and grazing grounds. And the true scale is hard to grasp until you are dead in the center of it. Until dust rises from the plains as hooves stampede past, all because a cheetah and its cub are on the hunt. That is when you realize you are witnessing something ancient unfold in real time. But Elewana’s Pioneer Camp, sitting in the center of it all, could not help but admit that what we were seeing was a far cry from business as usual out here on the Serengeti. 

Instead of tracking north during the dry season, large groups lingered in the western corridor, pulled by unexpected, heavy rainfall and delayed dry conditions. Some herds made it to the Maasai Mara as they usually do, but once there, they did not stay long. They turned around almost as quickly as they arrived, backtracking in a way that left even seasoned guides lost and confused.

Angela Desdery, a guide with the Pioneer Camp, confirmed what we were seeing. She has spent the last few years observing these shifts up close – first as a porter on Kilimanjaro, and now as one of the few women guiding in the Serengeti. 

According to her, this is not a one-off fluke. Last year followed the same confusing pattern. Rainfall kept creeping into the dry months, throwing off the delicate cues that drive migration. The animals, she said, are clearly working to adapt. But it is apparent there is disorientation.

When the timing of the migration changes, everything downstream changes too – literally and figuratively. Predators have to shift their hunting grounds. Calving season is disrupted. Grasslands are either overgrazed or left untouched. It is a cascading effect, and it is happening faster than the guides, wardens, rangers and conservationists here imagined. For all the science and satellite data in the world, there is no substitute for lived experience. The people who call this place a second home – those who spend their days in the bush, reading the land and tracking movement – are often the first to notice when something is changing and to what degree. Desdery could not help but emphasize the severity of it all. 

“Many of these environmental shifts are occurring in areas that are not immediately visible to visitors. While the presence of megafauna like elephants and lions might suggest a thriving ecosystem, a closer examination reveals the underlying issues,” she shared. She encouraged us to observe the subtler signs—the health of smaller species and their habitats – which often serve as early indicators of ecological imbalance. For instance, shifts in rainfall patterns can lead to changes in vegetation, directly impacting the availability of food and shelter for these smaller creatures. She went on to explain, “Such disruptions can create a butterfly effect through the food chain, which ultimately alters the entire ecosystem.”

While the challenges facing the Serengeti are profound, they are not going unanswered. Local organizations and community-led initiatives are actively safeguarding these ecosystems. The Grumeti Fund, for example, manages over 350,000 acres in the western Serengeti and has successfully restored wildlife populations, including the critically endangered Eastern Black Rhinos. The Serengeti Preservation Foundation tackles conservation through education and media advocacy, equipping local voices with the tools to drive awareness and action from within. Meanwhile, individuals like Angela bridge conservation and tourism, inspiring visitors to appreciate-and protect this fragile ecosystem.

There is something humbling about standing in the middle of the Serengeti, knowing that a place this vast is shifting under the weight of modern pressures. It forces you to think about more than just the science or the statistics. It makes you think bigger – such as wondering how systems collapse, how they survive, and how much time we really have to course correct. What struck our team the most was the resilience of the place, even as it teeters on edge. The migration still happens, even if it is off-beat. The predators still adapt. The guides still lead, adjusting their knowledge to match a moving target. It is a living example of how nature tries to recalibrate when conditions change and pressure mounts. But that resilience has limits.

The Serengeti showed us that adaptation is not the same as recovery. Just because wildlife still persists does not simply mean all is well. Just because a river has not dried completely does not mean it will not in time. These kinds of changes do not announce themselves with a single traumatic event. They arrive slowly – season by season, rainstorm by rainstorm – until one day you realize the ecosystems you once knew are not the same anymore. Or, in some cases, are not there at all.

For us, the Serengeti was a case study in urgency, making it clear that climate change isn’t something that might happen. It is already here. And it is altering some of the most iconic landscapes on the only planet we call home. It showed us how critical it is to amplify the voices of those living and working on the frontlines – because they are beyond speculation. They are presently observing and adapting. And these powerful voices are in many cases, the only thing standing between these irreplaceable wilds and their destruction.

Featured image: Adam Moore.

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This story is part of an editorial collaboration between Earth.Org and Edges of Earth Expedition, a team dedicated to uncovering powerful stories from the frontlines of the climate crisis. Leading the charge is Andi Cross –an expeditionist, impact strategist, writer, and SSI divemaster –who has spent over two years traveling the world, immersing herself in the realities of environmental change.

The post The Serengeti Is Sending Us a Message: It Is Time We Listen appeared first on Earth.Org.

The Chui Mamas are on a mission to empower women to attain the highest possible standards of living through income-generating activities.

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By Andi Cross

We drove for hours, navigating the dusty roads from Meru National Park to the Loisaba Conservancy. With its relentless terrain, we knew the journey would be long, but worth every mile. Upon arrival at Loisaba Tented Camp, we were greeted by Dalmas Malcom Lemaiyan, a Maasai Warrior with a commanding presence and a contagious passion for the wild. Despite our exhaustion and the dust covering our bodies and all that we owned, we could not resist his invitation to immediately begin exploring. 

With Dalmas leading the way, the wilderness opened up before us: lions laying under shady trees, elephants in the distance, and giraffes crossing our path so frequently we stopped counting. Eventually, we found ourselves saying, “Oh, just another zebra.” We quickly found ourselves utterly captivated by the heart of East Africa.Our next stop, however, was not about the wildlife. We were here to meet the women reshaping what community leadership and independence mean in this part of Kenya.

Elewana Collection, Loisaba Conservancy and the San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance partner with a self-help group in Laikipia County known as the Chui Mamas, whose mission is to empower women to “attain the highest possible standards of living through income-generating activities.” These tribal women, from the Samburu and Ndorobo ethnic groups of the Maa-speaking culture, had invited us into their world to share the next chapter of women’s rights and equal opportunity in a country far behind.

Together with their collaborators, they have built a community center that now serves as both a hub for their efforts and a symbol of progress. These women were stepping into leadership roles for the first time in their lives. Even the name they chose for their group, “Chui” – Swahili for leopard – speaks volumes. Powerful, bold, strong, and unrelenting in their mission, like the leopard on the hunt for prey, these women have committed the rest of their lives to protect their heritage while embracing modern freedoms.

While Kenya’s beauty is undeniable, many communities face significant challenges here. Practices like female genital mutilation persist despite growing opposition. Educational access for girls remains limited. Economic barriers often tether women to outdated systems, despite progress consistent elsewhere in the world. However, the Chui Mamas are rewriting the script, creating opportunities for women and girls to rise above these deeply rooted obstacles for the first time.

At their community center, we were greeted by three members – just a few among the more than 60 women involved in the collective. Wearing intricate, hand-beaded necklaces that displayed their artistry and cultural pride, their energy was magnetic. Communication bridged through their laughter and expressive gestures as well as translation revealed the incredible depth of both their journeys and resilience.

These women’s mission is to use their skills to build a better life. Beadwork, soap making, tailoring, baking, beekeeping, gardening, farming – all serve as income streams and tools for survival, self-sufficiency, and dignity. Their firsthand accounts of hunger, poverty, and drought – conditions worsened by climate change – were sobering. But they wanted us to know that their story was not one of hardship, but rather ingenuity and hope.

To combat both environmental and economic challenges, the Chui Mamas have made regenerative farming a core part of their efforts as well. They walked us through rows of tomatoes, onions, pumpkins, sunflowers, kale, pigeon peas, bananas, cabbages, and fruit trees. Everything is planted and harvested with intention. Crop rotation, water conservation, and companion planting help them stay eco-conscious and productive. Sunflowers serve as natural pest control. Mulching retains moisture in the arid soil. Nothing goes to waste, as compost is made from kitchen and garden scraps to improve soil health and keep their system self-sustaining. 

Water scarcity, however, remains one of their biggest threats. Erratic rainfall patterns have made farming a challenge, and one that requires constant adaptation. Covering crops with hay to slow evaporation, implementing compost strategies, and preparing for future rainwater harvesting systems – none of these are high-tech solutions, but they are practical, effective, and built to last. For the Mamas, it is all about climate resilience, established from the ground up.

The community center is where their efforts come together – a collaborative space to gather, work, and dream. With storefronts scheduled to open later this year, each woman will soon have a dedicated place to showcase her craft, earn an income, and take control of her future. In a region where marginalization, cultural taboos, and gender-based violence have long shaped women’s lives, these storefronts represent freedom.

And while tourism brings more people to Laikipia every year, it does not always benefit everyone equally. High-end lodges are present through the area, but the undercurrent of inequity remains strong — and particularly so for women. But this is something the Chui Mamas are determined to change. They are rebuilding the system – creating a new Africa built by those who know that resilience must be rooted in opportunity, not charity. The aim is that, when their storefronts open, they will sell to both their communities and tourists, offering a piece of them to those passing through.  

Through these efforts, the Chui Mamas are addressing systemic issues that have long been ignored. Many are single mothers, widows, or women who have been pushed to the edges of society due to circumstances beyond their control – like raising a disabled child. These are women often left without land, livestock, or reliable income. This level of vulnerability affects every part of life – from feeding their children to accessing healthcare or education. But here, they have found community, and just as important, a way forward.

Health challenges like obstetric fistula from unassisted births or eye problems from smokey indoor cooking are common here. The Mamas provide healthcare access, basic needs support, and literacy programs as part of their self-help offering. They are distributing essentials like wheelchairs and roofing materials while creating a universal place for women to receive support, escape abuse, and learn the skills needed to regain their independence.

This movement, the Mamas explained, is not just for today’s generation. They are laying the groundwork to build long-term solutions for those to come. For example, rescue centers for girls escaping early marriage, and programs for children with special needs are top of mind. For these powerful women, it is too easy to just react to the present. They expressed that it is a bigger and more critical challenge to help establish the enabling conditions for a better future on behalf of the next generation.

While Kenya’s natural beauty draws travelers from all over the world – it is not present solely in its wildlife. It is found within its people, too. Conservation goes well beyond protecting wild spaces, and spills into uplifting the communities that live within and alongside them. Because if people are struggling to meet basic needs like food, health, and safety, how can they be expected to care for the natural world? 

Laikipia is a proving ground for what social equity and climate resilience can look like when driven from within. The Chui Mamas showed us that refusing to wait for change is the most powerful action a collective can take. They have proven that when women rise, communities stabilize. When tradition meets innovation, progress follows. And when travelers show up with curiosity and care, tourism becomes something far more meaningful than something transactional. It becomes part of the solution. 

So if we want to be more than spectators – if we truly want to support a thriving future for places like this – it starts by recognizing that resilience has faces, names, and a shared mission. And that mission is already being put to work.

Featured image: Marla Tomorug.

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This story is part of an editorial collaboration between Earth.Org and Edges of Earth Expedition, a team dedicated to uncovering powerful stories from the frontlines of the climate crisis. Leading the charge is Andi Cross –an expeditionist, impact strategist, writer, and SSI divemaster –who has spent over two years traveling the world, immersing herself in the realities of environmental change.

The post A Women-Led Community’s Fight For Climate and Community Resilience in Northern Kenya appeared first on Earth.Org.

In the heart of Kenya’s Meru National Park, a landscape of raw beauty and untamed wilderness sets the stage for a remarkable conservation story. From the iconic Elsa the lioness to the dedicated work of modern-day stewards like Grace Leonard Waidaka, Meru’s revival stands as a testament to resilience in the face of challenges, now facing a new adversary: the relentless impacts of climate change.

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By Andi Cross

At first glance, Kenya’s Meru National Park feels almost untouched. Its landscapes roll gracefully between golden savannah, dense riverine forests, and rugged bushland, all framed by distant mountains. It is wild in every  sense — raw, unpredictable, and brimming with life. Elephants weave between trees like lumbering shadows. Reticulated giraffes stretch above the thorns. Lions rest lazily in the heat. And somewhere in the brush, leopards linger, rarely seen but always present. But beneath the beauty, Meru is a park that has been forced to fight for its future.

This stretch of northeastern Kenya — spanning 870 square kilometers — is one of the country’s most historically significant protected areas. It is where famed conservationists George and Joy Adamson raised and released Elsa the lioness, immortalized in the beloved film, Born Free. However, it is also a place that once faced devastating declines. Tourism nearly vanished, entire populations were nearly poached to extinction, and the park itself teetered on the brink of ruin.

Today, Meru has made a miraculous comeback. Wildlife numbers are rising again, and with that, the park’s history is being honored, not forgotten. A new generation of conservationists — including Grace Leonard Waidaka, general manager of Elsa’s Kopje — is leading that momentum. Grace is one of the few Kenyan women in her position, running a world-class eco-lodge carved into the very hillside where George Adamson once set up camp. Her work is part of a broader movement to protect this place, equally for what it stands for then and now: climate resilience, community-driven conservation, and the evolving future of wild Kenya.

Meru National Park helped shape what global conservation looks like today. It is one of the original battlegrounds where ideas like animal rehabilitation, rewilding, and human-wildlife coexistence were put into practice — long before their broader adoption elsewhere in the world. In the mid-20th century, this land became the backdrop to a tale that would capture so much attention. After three lion cubs were accidentally orphaned in 1956 by George Adamson, him and his wife Joy stepped in to care for them. One of those cubs, Elsa, would become the first lioness successfully rehabilitated and released into the wild. The achievement would eventually inspire Joy’s bestselling book Born Free and the film adaptation that followed.

The Adamsons helped shift global attitudes toward wildlife, showing that animals were worth protecting. However, after Joy was murdered in 1980 and George was killed by poachers in 1989, everything changed. Their absence created a vacuum. In the years that followed, the spotlight shifted, and Meru slipped into neglect. At one point, there were even discussions about converting parts of the park into farmland. For a place that had once defined the conservation movement, it was a rapid and painful reallocation of energy.

This disaster was mitigated when Elsa’s Kopje opened its doors in 1999. The lodge, carved into the granite outcrops of Mughwango Hill, was backed by conservation heavyweights including Dr. Richard Leakey and Virginia McKenna. The focus was to establish long-term conservation programs to ensure the future of Meru lived on, and its rich past was never forgotten again. Through partnerships with Kenya Wildlife Service and the Born Free Foundation, Meru began to rebuild.

​In the 1980s and 1990s, Meru National Park faced a severe poaching crisis that drastically reduced its wildlife populations. Elephants were particularly affected, with numbers plummeting from thousands to just a few hundred during this period. Rhinos were completely eradicated from the area, leading to a significant decline in tourism and discussions about potentially de-proclaiming the park once again. 

Concerted conservation efforts, including the establishment of a rhino sanctuary in 2002 and the reintroduction of various species back to these lands, are examples of what has contributed to the park’s gradual recovery. 

Today, the park is home to thriving elephants, cheetahs, Grevy’s zebras, reticulated giraffes, and more than 75 lions believed to be descendants of those originally released here. Elsa’s legacy still lives strong. But keeping it that way requires daily commitment. After all the park has been through, there is one looming threat that is still ongoing, testing this very commitment like never before: climate change.

A New Test

The region has experienced increased temperatures and decreased rainfall over the past few decades, leading to prolonged droughts. In 2022, Kenya faced one of its worst in recent history, resulting in the deaths of numerous species due to food and water shortages. In Meru, rainfall has decreased to only a third of the amount that fell in 1990, and temperatures have risen by between 0.5 and 1C. These climatic changes have led to greater heat and water stress across the landscape, affecting both wildlife and vegetation. Much of the country saw rivers run dry, crops fail, and communities in crisis. While Meru was spared the worst — thanks in part to its three active rivers — warning signs can not be ignored. 

That said, Meru’s comeback has been hard-won. And now, holding the line has only grown more challenging as climate impacts tighten their grip on the region. At Elsa’s Kopje, the team has been observing this firsthand. Wildlife has become more concentrated around water sources. The vegetation, typically lush after rains, thinning. And in nearby parks like Amboseli, conditions have become so severe that the Elewana Collection team, which operates Elsa’s Kopje, had to mobilize emergency aid for neighboring communities.

Grace and her team at the property work closely with the Born Free Foundation and the Kenya Wildlife Service, tracking animal movement, reporting injuries, and assisting with real-time data that supports species protection and climate resilience efforts. Their head guide, Mohammed, speaks daily with conservation partners to ensure the health and stability of the park’s flora and fauna. It is all part of a bigger picture: keeping Meru wild while adapting to the pressures of a climate that no longer behaves the way it once did. 

What’s more, the Elewana Collection is putting sustainability first in all their tourism practices—from solar panels to reduced fuel use, to partnerships that directly benefit local communities and ongoing monitoring of tourism’s footprint on the region.

Climate Education

It is important to note that Meru’s future does not rest on wildlife protection alone to be climate resilient. It depends just as much on the people who call this region home. If families are struggling to access basic needs — like food, clean water, or education — it becomes much harder to expect them to prioritize acting as stewards of the natural world. That is why the conservation model here focuses on both land and people equally.

At Oregate Primary School, a nearby partner supported by the Land & Life Foundation, efforts are focused on helping students stay in school. Scholarships, desks, uniforms, and school supplies are made possible by guest donations and direct support from the property. Education is a cornerstone of resilience, and the team treats it with the same urgency as habitat protection, viewing this funding effort as paramount, not a one-time handout.

That same approach carries into climate education. Every year, Grace and her staff host sessions with the surrounding community to talk about how climate change is affecting their lives. These conversations touch on rainfall, agriculture, grazing, and drought preparedness — topics that used to feel distant, but are now central to everyday life. These dialogues aim to raise awareness and inspire youth involvement in conservation and eco-tourism, helping to inspire the next generation to build a career in the sector.

Meru thrives because people collaborate effectively — rangers, guides, conservationists, and communities united by a shared mission. It is a park that embodies what is achievable through partnership-driven protection. Meru’s legacy is built on the shoulders of pioneers. People like George and Joy Adamson, who showed the world that game animals belong in the wild, not behind bars or as trophies, mounted on a wall. Today, that same spirit lives on through the work of people like Grace and the broader teams who call Meru their own. 

While today’s challenges are different, they still have the same undertone. Climate change as a whole cannot be mitigated with a single “fix” similar to what the park had experienced throughout its lifetime.  Then there are conservation funding ebbs and flows, while communities face new economic pressures. But Meru is still standing, still wild, still full of life. And that is no accident. This park is a reminder that no legacy lasts without care, and that no wild space survives without people willing to fight for it – not with grand gestures, but with daily, deliberate action.

Grace said it best: “Everything I do is for the next generation.” And maybe that is the real story here. Meru is not frozen in time. It is evolving, adapting, and pushing forward. It is shaped by passionate leaders, dedicated communities, and committed educators who are true stewards to the land. Meru has earned its second chance and now its third. This time around, it depends on us to ensure it counts.

Featured image: Adam Moore.

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This story is part of an editorial collaboration between Earth.Org and Edges of Earth Expedition, a team dedicated to uncovering powerful stories from the frontlines of the climate crisis. Leading the charge is Andi Cross –an expeditionist, impact strategist, writer, and SSI divemaster –who has spent over two years traveling the world, immersing herself in the realities of environmental change.

The post Meru National Park in Transition: Preserving a Wild Legacy in a Changing Climate appeared first on Earth.Org.

“[C]onscious travel does not start and stop at offsetting emissions. It often lives in the details — the small, overlooked choices that can add up to real impact. The kinds of decisions we skip past when planning a trip, but that matter deeply in this context,” writes Andi Cross.

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By Andi Cross

After two years on a global expedition — from coral coastlines to island nations, mangrove forests to melting glaciers — one truth has become evident: if we want to keep exploring this planet, we must do so consciously. Conscious exploration means redefining travel itself. It is about moving beyond bucket lists and self-serving adventures, asking deeper questions. Why visit here? What is the impact of our presence? How can we support and respect the people, places, and ecosystems we visit? 

To travel consciously means viewing exploration not just as a personal pursuit, but as a form of stewardship — giving more than we take. It means approaching each journey with intention, humility, and awareness of the footprint we leave behind. It is a mindset shift from consumption to contribution, from escape to engagement. And it is one we urgently need.

Why? Because the way we have been traveling — fast, extractive, and often disconnected — is no longer sustainable. Not for the planet, not for the people who call these places home, and not for the future of travel itself.

Mass tourism now contributes to an estimated 8% of global carbon dioxide (CO2) emissions. Natural ecosystems are being damaged beyond repair by the sheer volume of foot traffic, cruise ships, and pollution. Cultural sites are being stripped of their meaning by overexposure, and local communities are being priced out of their own homes in the name of visitor convenience.In many places, tourism has become extractive — entertainment-driven rather than exchange-focused. With climate change accelerating and global inequities deepening, continuing on this path is as shortsighted as it is harmful. That is why we need a new model. One rooted in respect, reciprocity, and regeneration. A version of travel that leaves fewer scars, and something much better behind.

In her widely debated New Yorker essay The Case Against Travel, Agnes Callard writes, “The single most important fact about tourism is this: we already know what we will be like when we return.” And when it comes to passive, pleasure-first travel, I agree with her wholeheartedly. 

However, there is a world of difference between mass tourism and true travel. Tourism is often rooted in consumption: see the sights, snap the photo, post the proof, move on — collecting moments or things for validation and reverting back to everyday life thereafter. Just as Agnes describes. Traveling is about reciprocal transformation. It is slower, and more intentional. It asks us to show up with curiosity, presence, and a willingness to be changed by what we encounter. And it is far less about what we take away and more about what we contribute.

It means taking responsibility for the footprint we leave behind — starting with asking those better, deeper questions. The more questions we ask, the better. Is this destination overwhelmed by tourism? Are there local operations practicing sustainability that I can support? Can I genuinely offset my footprint by offering my skills, expertise and own resources? The hard truth is that, regardless of how thoughtfully we travel, long-distance journeys, particularly air travel, significantly contribute to our individual carbon footprints. In 2023, aviation accounted for approximately 2.5% of global energy-related CO2 emissions.

To mitigate this impact, choosing direct flights is beneficial, as they reduce emissions associated with takeoffs and landings. Studies indicate that direct flights can substantially lower carbon emissions compared to itineraries with layovers. ​When flying is the only way, investing in verified carbon offset programs is another means by which to mitigate emissions. Organizations like the International Air Transport Association (IATA) offer carbon offset programs that fund projects aimed at reducing or capturing an equivalent amount of CO2 elsewhere.

But conscious travel does not start and stop at offsetting emissions. It often lives in the details — the small, overlooked choices that can add up to real impact. The kinds of decisions we skip past when planning a trip, but that matter deeply in this context. It took us years on the road to truly dial in these basics: which sunscreens will not poison reefs, how to avoid single-use plastics in regions where they are ubiquitous, or what certifications we need to explore responsibly without harming the ecosystems we are there to learn from. This is where conscious travel takes hold — in the quiet, persistent commitment to doing better — one small decision at a time.

Equally important is how we support the people we meet. And that starts with another set of questions we have to ask ourselves every single time: Who are we staying with? Where is our money going? Are there ways to use our skills to benefit the communities hosting us and the ecosystems they rely on? 

Too often, exploration is still viewed through the lens of the consumer. But when we approach it through the lens of community, we start to see the opportunity for meaningful exchange.

Some of the most rewarding moments from nearly 40 countries we have explored on our expedition did not come from wild landscapes or once-in-a-lifetime scuba dives. They came from sitting with people. Sharing space. Listening, learning, offering whatever we could. We have met individuals who have traded comfort, stability — even proximity to their families — for a chance to protect what they love. And that kind of commitment sticks with you. Because while seeing the world is one of life’s greatest privileges, giving back to it — and to those holding the line — is an even greater one.

It has also pushed us to rethink the whole concept of gap years or sabbaticals. What if those breaks were not just about escape, but about purpose? What if, instead of chasing sights, we used that time to offer something of ourselves — our skills, our experience, our energy — in service of something bigger? Around the world, we have met people doing just that: engineers helping restore marine infrastructure, storytellers elevating local voices, students trading vacation time for reforestation projects. That is what conscious exploration looks like in action. Not just passing by, but plugging in.

To explore with more curiosity, empathy, and connection allows you to start seeking out the overlooked, and valuing insight over itinerary. When you prioritize environmental and cultural conservation and regeneration, the entire experience shifts. Your understanding grows richer. And the people you meet become part of your story—not just backdrops or forgotten faces in your camera roll.

Let me be clear: conscious travel is by no means a perfect science. We are still figuring it out, and my team focuses on this evolving definition constantly. But it starts by choosing to care. 

This is the future of travel — not because it aligns with the zeitgeist, but because it is absolutely necessary. The planet cannot afford mindless movement. And communities deserve more than being treated as photo opportunities. The next chapter of exploration must be anchored in respect, reciprocity, and growth — and in giving more of ourselves to the places we are fortunate enough to visit. 

Featured image: Marla Tomorug.

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This story is part of an editorial collaboration between Earth.Org and Edges of Earth Expedition, a team dedicated to uncovering powerful stories from the frontlines of the climate crisis. Leading the charge is Andi Cross –an expeditionist, impact strategist, writer, and SSI divemaster –who has spent over two years traveling the world, immersing herself in the realities of environmental change.

The post The Next Generation of Travel: Conscious Exploration  appeared first on Earth.Org.

“Seas are rising; glaciers are melting; entire coastal communities are watching the shoreline creep toward their doorsteps; fisheries are collapsing from overexploitation; plastic waste is outnumbering fish in some parts of the ocean. And while these certainly are scientific statistics, they are more so symptoms of deeper issues. When I finally understood this, truly grasped it, remaining a passive sidelined observer became impossible,” writes Andi Cross.

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By Andi Cross

The first time I learned to scuba dive, climate change wasn’t on my mind. I was focused almost entirely on just breathing, simply trying to survive. I was finning incorrectly, struggling with my buoyancy, clouding my mask with bulging eyes terrified of what mistakes I might make. But then, 60 dives later, something finally clicked. I found stillness. I looked around, and for the first time in my life, I was inside a world I had only ever seen from the surface.

Those descents – into coral caverns, swimming alongside schools of fish, or withstanding roaring currents – changed everything for me. It felt ancient, delicate and alive; it did not seek my presence but allowed it. This tolerance is what I have learned to cherish. But here is the thing about the ocean: once you have seen it like that, in all of its glory, you cannot unsee it. And to my novice eyes, I did not realize what was missing. I needed to be educated on it.

The ocean covers more than 70% of our planet. It absorbs over 90% of the excess heat generated by greenhouse gas emissions. It acts as the planet’s lungs, thermostat, and circulatory system. Yet, it is in profound trouble. 

Just a 1C rise in ocean temperature is enough to trigger mass coral bleaching. We have already seen this – repeatedly. Over 50% of the world’s coral reefs are teetering on the edge. Ocean acidification, caused by CO2 dissolving into seawater, is making it harder for marine species like plankton, shellfish, and coral to form the calcium carbonate structures they need to survive.

Meanwhile, the seas are rising; glaciers are melting; entire coastal communities are watching the shoreline creep toward their doorsteps; fisheries are collapsing from overexploitation; plastic waste is outnumbering fish in some parts of the ocean. And while these certainly are scientific statistics, they are more so symptoms of deeper issues. 

When I finally understood this, truly grasped it, remaining a passive sidelined observer became impossible.

A New Mission

I had spent years in corporate strategy – helping mega brands grow, expand, market themselves as innovative and impactful. I was told I was good at it. But at some point, I started questioning the frameworks we normalized. You know, things like growth for growth’s sake, or buzzwords like “impact” or “sustainability” serving as simply checked boxes in a slide deck. Then I started diving more. Traveling in order to dive. Listening to the people I was meeting in the water and along the shorelines. And that’is when I began to see what the data alone could not show me: the patterns, the unraveling, the deeply human impact sitting right under our noses.

In California, seaweed scientists shared how rising ocean temperatures devastate critical underwater carbon sinks. In Honduras, coral gardeners are working reef by reef, fragment by fragment, trying to bring dying systems back to life. In coastal Japan, elderly women, some even 90+ years old, freedive not for sport, but to harvest marine life to feed their families. And after decades of perfecting this practice, only now are they witnessing these species vanish before their eyes. In Cambodia, artisanal fishers are being pushed out of the water entirely, as illegal bottom trawlers from neighboring countries strip their waters bare. Meanwhile, in Raja Ampat, Indonesia, leopard sharks have been pushed nearly to extinction, and community-led teams are helping to rewild them.

Every corner of the world that I went to, I kept seeing the same thing: those contributing the least to climate change are paying the highest price. 

This is what inspired Edges of Earth – a company that sits at the intersection of fieldwork and future-building. My team and I are half expeditionists, half consultants. On one side, we live alongside vulnerable communities, documenting stories from climate change’s frontlines. On the other, we work with global businesses to help them rethink how they show up – for the planet, for people, and for future generations.

What makes us different is our focus: we seek out the positive outliers. The regenerative farmers, the scientists, the Indigenous leaders, the youth-led tech projects, the grassroots nonprofits – the people and ideas quietly mitigating the climate crisis in ways that are actually working. By sharing these solutions more broadly, we help document what is working, where it is happening, and why. Systemic change starts by mapping these dots and connecting them wherever we can – helping to apply what is working in similar regions.

We spotlight the hard truths along with the meaningful solutions, because ultimately, both matter. Stories of loss must be met with stories of resilience —– otherwise, all we are doing is numbing people to tune out the familiar noise. We are not here to sell doom. We are here to show reality. To create a bridge between what is breaking and what is possible when people frankly give a shit.Let’s be clear: the climate crisis is not complicated to understand. Its number one driver is the burning of fossil fuels – coal, oil, and gas. That’s over 75% of global greenhouse gas emissions. Industrial agriculture, particularly methane from livestock, is another major contributor. Deforestation. Plastic production. Overconsumption.

We already have so many solutions to this at play. We know how to decarbonize our economies, transition to renewable energy, regenerate ecosystems, redesign supply chains, and rethink food systems. What we lack is not knowledge – it is coordination. The complication is not the problem itself – it is mobilizing the powers of the world to care.We need to rally around a shared vision and implement solutions at scale. We also need to stop letting greed, power, and short-term profit get in the way of our long-term survival on this planet. And yet, here we are, treating the problem like it is too complex to fix. Or in some cases, believing it is not even real. 

What I have learned underwater, in every dense kelp forest, glacial ice pool or reef system I have visited  is that complexity cannot be an excuse. Nature is complex too, but it adapts, rebuilds, self-regulates. If we could mirror even a fraction of that humility and intelligence, we would be in a better place.

Instead, we have built global systems that prioritize profit over planetary stability. Ones that reward short-term thinking. That sees the ocean as a resource to extract from rather than a system to live within. While wealthy nations drag their feet on climate commitments – most having failed to meet their adaptation finance pledges – coastal communities are doing the work regardless. They are restoring their natural buffers like mangroves; switching to regenerative ocean farming; and educating youth not just about sustainability and a changing world, but about sovereignty.

While I started this journey knowing so little about the ocean, what I knew well was how corporate systems work. And now, it is time to start challenging these norms much more critically from within.

So, I am using the tools I have – storytelling, partnerships, in-field exploration and a network – to help people feel what is at stake. To show what climate change looks like when it is not buried in a report, but staring you in the face in the form of a dead reef or a flooded school. And I am here, alongside an incredible team who we have assembled from around the globe, to help businesses do well and do good, as these two are not mutually exclusive.

The work we focus on is not about guilt. It is about clarity. It is about a way forward. Because once you experience the ocean and meet with its long unsung stewards – once you feel the quiet unraveling of ecosystems, the courage of communities fighting to protect them, the stubborn beauty that still exists – you realize that neutrality is a luxury. 

Here, out in the wild, there are no sidelines. There is only inaction disguised as moderation.

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This story is part of an editorial collaboration between Earth.Org and Edges of Earth Expedition, a team dedicated to uncovering powerful stories from the frontlines of the climate crisis. Leading the charge is Andi Cross – an expeditionist, impact strategist, writer, and SSI divemaster – who has spent over two years traveling the world, immersing herself in the realities of environmental change. 

The post Sitting on the Sidelines Is No Longer an Option appeared first on Earth.Org.