National Monuments at risk: Behind the filming of Our Common Ground

The silence was deafening on the rim of Marble Canyon in northern Arizona. I stood on the edge, the chasm unfurling like a runway carpet in front of me, its ridges and shadows stretching outward until sky and stone blurred. As the sun sank toward the horizon, the last rays of light spilled across this vast canyon, washing the rock in shades of ochre and purple. Far below, a thin ribbon of water traced the canyon floor, dividing walls stacked in bands of color, each layer a chapter in a story written over millions of years.  

I stood on the edge, suddenly aware of how small and ephemeral I was against such immensity. In that stillness, I realized I had never heard true silence before; not just the “wow, it’s quiet” silence, but the total and complete absence of sound. It pressed against my ears so tightly that the only sound I could hear was my heartbeat. Soon, the light would fade, and the sky would melt into an inky blackness, illuminating the arc of the Milky Way and igniting star after star.  

It was the first night of our journey across the American West to visit and film nine threatened national monuments and to meet the people who know them by heart. We wanted to remind people of what’s truly at stake and showcase the power and beauty of these places through the eyes of people with deep connections to them.  
 

With my notepad in hand, and Mason Cummings, our talented videographer, hauling at least 50 pounds of camera gear, we journeyed across Arizona, California, Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Nevada to make a short film that captured the landscape and our conversations. 

It began in Arizona’s Baaj Nwaavjo I'tah Kukveni, “where Indigenous peoples roam; our ancestral footprints.”

“What we have to lose is everything.” - Reverend Andrew Black 
Director of Land and Rivers for National Wildlife Federation & EarthKeepers 360 

Since taking office, the Trump administration has threatened to shrink or abolish several national monuments, including Chuckwalla and Sáttítla Highlands in California; Browns Canyon in Colorado; Avi Kwa Ame in Nevada; Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks in New Mexico; Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante in Utah; and Baaj Nwaavjo I'tah Kukveni and Ironwood Forest in Arizona, to open more than six million acres to mining and drilling.  

The news hit our organization hard. For decades, we’ve worked with Tribal Nations and local communities to preserve these landscapes: ensuring outdoor access, defending wildlife habitat, safeguarding clean water, protecting sacred and cultural sites and keeping intact large, wide-open spaces that are disappearing at an alarming rate. 

Each monument is unique and has its own story of designation, built through countless community conversations, coalition meetings, field trips, Hill visits, and stacks of petition signatures. Establishing a national monument is never simple; it’s a labor of love grounded in persistence, shared values and compromise. When federal protections are stripped away, those years and decades of work can vanish overnight.  
 

For thousands of years, people and land have moved in a kind of dance: the land shapes who we are–our cultures, traditions, and ways of life–and in turn we shape the land. The two are inseparable. We distinguish ourselves by region, culture, or socially constructed borders, by all the ways we’ve learned to divide and define. But land remains our common ground, literally and figuratively. No matter where we went, this was the message we heard again and again.  
 

“Protecting places like this… there is no higher cause.” - Gilbert Morales, Veteran 

“The people need the land, but the land also needs the people.”- Rocio Ronquilo, Friends of the Rio Bosque 

Planning for this epic adventure started months in advance. Coordinating interviews with local leaders who fought for these designations in the first place, mapping travel schedules, booking hotel reservations, scouting locations, finding camp spots, and managing countless logistical details required constant communication. Dozens of people across thousands of miles helped bring this project to life, and our trusted partners connected us with community members on the ground. In every sense, it was a herculean team effort.  
 

Logistics were only one part of the preparation; just as important was how we chose to show up. Entering these spaces required a heavy dose of humility and self-awareness. We understood that these conversations carried emotional weight and we did not take that labor lightly. We made time to get to know one another, to build trust, and create space for personal stories and emotions to surface naturally. Each interview unfolded differently, shaped by individual experiences and perspectives. Yet the emotional undertone was the same: we love this place, we don’t want it to change.  
 

I felt like a sponge, taking in each story, letting the words reverberate when we were out traversing the monuments.  
 

The power of national monuments lies in their ability to preserve both what is and what will be. A designation is more than just lines on a map; it’s a declaration of our values and an insurance policy for future generations. These landscapes are the places we go to remember who we are and where we come from.  
 

“It’ll change your life, it’ll make you think it is worth protecting” - Carletta Tilousi, Havasupai Tribe Uranium Committee Member 
 

It’s the last night of our monuments tour, and we’re standing on top of a hill in Ironwood Forest National Monument outside of Tucson, Arizona, watching the last light cast shadows across Ragged Top and the saguaro forest below. The desert is quiet, the air cooling as day turns into night. We look down and–WOW!–petroglyphs begin to emerge from the stone. One by one, shapes we hadn’t noticed before reveal themselves. It takes my breath away.  
 

Among them, one carving in particular, a series of concentric circles surrounded by smaller concentric circles, inspires Mason to share an Indigenous concept he learned: time is not linear, it spirals upward. The idea feels both ancient and immediate. It’s a reminder that the challenges we face today are not new. This fight has happened before and will happen again. History doesn’t repeat; it rhymes.  
 

Standing there, I’m transported to another edge–Marble Canyon–where I once felt similarly small and ephemeral yet deeply human. In both places, the sensation is the same: awe mixed with responsibility. On the hilltop, we are standing where someone thousands of years ago once stood, looking out at the same expanse of land, the same jagged peaks. What they didn’t see was a creeping white band of mining tailings on the ridge just to the south of the peaks, a waste byproduct of the Silver Bell open-pit copper mine on the other side. The view has endured, for now. 
 

Will someone stand here a thousand years from now and see what we see today? That answer depends on us.  

National monuments endure because people choose to defend them. Their protection is not inevitable; it’s intentional. We warmly invite you to watch the film, visit your local monument, and join us in preserving these places. It will take all of us because the story isn’t finished; it’s still spiraling upward.  

Learn more about Our Common Ground.