The Day We Lost the Forest: A Letter to My Granddaughter from the Future
How Trump’s 2025 Rollback of the Roadless Rule Sacrificed 58 Million Acres of Protected Forest for Profit
Executive Summary
On June 22, 2025, the Trump administration officially repealed the Roadless Rule, a critical environmental protection that had preserved nearly 58 million acres of America’s untouched national forest lands since 2001. This rollback opened vast stretches of wilderness, previously off-limits to road-building, logging, and mining, to industrial development, threatening biodiversity, Indigenous communities, and climate stability. The Tongass National Forest in Alaska, one of the largest carbon sinks in North America, was among the areas most affected. Despite public outcry and legal resistance, the decision marked one of the most consequential environmental rollbacks in U.S. history.
What follows is how I imagine a private letter to my granddaughter might sound, discovered 50 years from now.
To My Bright and Beautiful Granddaughter,
If you’re reading this, then somehow, this letter made it to you, folded into the pages of a dusty book, tucked in the corner of a family trunk, or maybe handed to you by someone who knew I wanted you to have it. However it found its way, I hope you’re somewhere quiet, somewhere safe, with the time to sit with what I’m about to share.
You’re only ten now, with your whole life stretching ahead of you. I’m an old man, but I was once like you, curious, hopeful, and full of big questions about how the world came to be the way it is. This is my attempt to answer at least one of those questions.
This is the story of June 23, 2025.
It was a Monday, ordinary at first glance, but it turned into a day that cracked something open inside me. That was the day the President of the United States, his name was Donald Trump, formally repealed the Roadless Rule. It sounds small, bureaucratic even. But it wasn’t. That decision shattered protections for nearly 60 million acres of our most pristine, untouched national forests. Lands that had been protected for decades. Lands that, until then, belonged not to politicians or companies, but to all of us—and to you.
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The Roadless Rule had been a safeguard since 2001. It meant “no new roads” in wild public forests, no logging roads, no mining routes, no destruction carved through old-growth wilderness. These forests were home to towering trees, clean rivers, wildlife, and sacred lands of Indigenous people. They stored carbon, cooled the planet, and stood watch for generations. They were living ecosystems and quiet sanctuaries. Places you’d want to take your own children to one day.
Presidents before Trump understood this. President Clinton established the rule. President Obama defended it. President Biden, with care and urgency, restored protections that Trump had previously tried to unravel. I remember when Biden reinstated the protections for Alaska’s Tongass National Forest, a place so big, wild, and lush that some people called it America’s Amazon. But then came 2025. Then came the reversal. And I remember watching it all fall apart, piece by piece.
Trump’s administration didn’t just chip away at the Roadless Rule, they bulldozed it. Literally. What followed was the opening of sacred, untouched lands to commercial logging, mining, drilling, and road construction. Ancient trees, hundreds of years old, were suddenly marked for cutting. Rivers where salmon spawned and where eagles flew overhead were at risk of silting up and dying out. Indigenous communities that had lived off these lands for generations, people who saw the forest as family, were told, once again, that their voices didn’t matter.
The justification? Forest management. That’s what they called it. They claimed they needed to thin the forests to reduce wildfire risk. But sweetheart, it wasn’t about safety. It was about profit. The timber industry had lobbied hard for access. Big business saw dollar signs. And Trump—well, Trump listened to them. Not to the scientists, not to the tribes, not to the environmentalists or the everyday Americans pleading to preserve these last wild places. No. He listened to those with money and influence. He always did.
I remember reading the headlines and feeling a deep, aching pit in my stomach. I felt powerless and angry, and I remember crying, really crying, when I saw footage of trucks carving paths into the forests. I had always believed that public lands meant just that: lands held in trust for the public, for all of us, across generations. And suddenly, they were being sold off in the name of “freedom” and “economy.”
The lies were everywhere. Misinformation spread like wildfire itself. Social media was polluted with claims that protecting forests caused fires. That environmental protections were anti-American. That those of us who spoke out were radical. Truth had become slippery in those days, and many people didn’t know what to believe. I knew better. I had watched the science for years. Fires often start where there’s more human activity, not less. Roads and industry bring sparks. Wildness keeps balance.
But logic didn’t win. Greed did.
Let me tell you more about the Tongass, because I want you to know what we lost.
It was the largest national forest in the United States. Over 16 million acres. Home to brown bears, bald eagles, moose, and salmon that shimmered like liquid silver. There were trees older than our Constitution. Water so clean you could drink straight from the streams. Air so pure it smelled like pine and ancient soil. Some of my most sacred memories are from visiting there when I was younger. I remember standing in the quiet, listening to wind moving through the canopy like a whisper from another world.
Under the Roadless Rule, 9.5 million acres of the Tongass were shielded from roads and industrial logging. These areas acted like lungs for the Earth, absorbing carbon, keeping the planet just a little cooler. They also fed people, housed wildlife, and held spiritual significance for Indigenous communities who had cared for those lands since time immemorial.
When the rule was repealed, all of that was put at risk. Logging companies wasted no time drafting plans. The chainsaws came. Roads were cut. The damage was swift and deep. I remember one tribal leader saying, “Our forests are finally healing, and now they want to wound them again.” That line stuck with me. It still does.
I wasn’t silent. I couldn’t be.
I called my representatives. I joined local protests. I signed petitions, wrote op-eds, spoke up at town halls. I donated to legal funds and supported environmental watchdogs who took the fight to court. But our efforts were drowned out. The people in power—Trump, his allies in Congress, his corporate donors—moved too fast, and they moved together. They claimed it was an “emergency,” that over half the forests were in poor condition. It was a fiction. A cover story to get their way.
What hurts most is knowing that you, and your generation, will inherit the fallout. Maybe the air is heavier now. Maybe the rivers don’t run as clear. Maybe some of those animals are gone, just pictures in books. Maybe the forests are quieter. Too quiet.
And maybe, like you did the other day, a child asks, “Why didn’t they stop it?”
That question haunts me.
I’ve wrestled with guilt. I’ve asked myself if I could’ve done more. Could I have screamed louder? Shown up earlier? Reached more people? I’ll never know. All I know is that I tried. I tried so hard. And still, we failed to protect what mattered most.
I’m telling you all this not to burden you, but to pass the torch. Because while we didn’t do enough, you still can. The story isn’t over. The damage, while deep, isn’t final. You are not powerless. You are the next steward of this Earth. And it is your voice, your vote, your choices that will shape what happens next.
If you ever wonder whether one person can make a difference, let me remind you: every forest was once a single seed.
You, my darling girl, are a seed. May you grow with strength, with wisdom, and with purpose. May you ask hard questions and hold leaders accountable. May you always fight for what’s beautiful and wild and worth saving.
And when you walk through a forest, if you're lucky enough to find one still untouched, breathe deep. Remember the people who came before you, who tried to protect that ground with everything they had. And remember me. Sitting on my porch, writing this letter with tears in my eyes, love in my heart, and stubborn hope in my bones.
The future is still yours to shape.
Love always,
Grandpa Mitch
Thank you for reading, sharing and caring.
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What a treasure for her. Lucky granddaughter! This issue is sad for all of us. Such destruction by an unfit President that will be felt for generations.
Beautifully written but heartbreaking!