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It is tempting to think that the threat of the current Congress abusing the Congressional Review Act (CRA) is over, now that the deadline to revisit rules implemented during the previous Congress’s session—provided by the CRA’s unique “lookback provision”—has formally passed. But that would be a mistake, as conservative lawmakers have found novel ways to target agency actions from previous administrations.

The Trump administration recently repealed the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s 2009 endangerment finding—the scientific and legal determination that greenhouse gases threaten public health and welfare that has anchored federal climate regulation for nearly two decades. Environmental Protection Agency Administrator Lee Zeldin called the finding “the Holy Grail of federal regulatory overreach.” Within weeks, a coalition of more than 20 states filed suit in the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit to reverse the repeal. The legal battle that follows will help define American environmental policy for a generation. Brigham Daniels and I did not plan the timing of our new book, Lessons for a Warming Planet: A Vital History of US Environmental Law, to coincide with this particular legal conflict. But we could not have chosen a more clarifying moment for its release. The endangerment finding repeal is not an aberration—it is a recognizable recurrence in a history that stretches back centuries. Law has always been the primary engine of both environmental exploitation and protection in the United States.

The U.S. Forest Service (USFS) is undergoing one of the most consequential and likely disruptive transformations in its 121-year history. The agency plans to relocate its headquarters from Washington, D.C., to Salt Lake City and overhaul its structure and management. According to a Forest Service press release from March 31, the overhaul aims to bring leadership “closer to the forests and communities they serve,” replacing the agency’s long-standing regional model with a state-based structure. At first glance, the rationale seems intuitive. Forest management should be informed by local conditions, local relationships, and decisions made closer to the ground. But that premise raises a more fundamental question: what happens when the scientific infrastructure that informs those decisions is dismantled at the same time?

As the release date of my forthcoming book, Unlearn Power: Strengthening Communities in the Age of Environmental Crisis, approaches, naturally, I've been asked, "What's the book about?" But given the amalgamation of ecological devastation across the planet, with fallout and stakes unevenly felt across socioeconomic lines and underscored by political forces that engage in climate denialism and assaults on democratic institutions, I urge that "Why Unlearn Power?" is the more apropos question.

The 56th Earth Day may also be the bleakest. Wave upon wave is crashing upon our system of ecological protections. But having spent years studying the full sweep of American environmental legal history, we can say with confidence: the bigger the wave, the stronger the undercurrent.

This Earth Day, environmental advocates are looking backward as well as forward. With the U.S. federal government so dramatically overhauling environmental policy, history shows how American social movements of the 19th and 20th centuries overcame seemingly insurmountable odds to preserve public lands and pass laws protecting human health. “I’ve been trying to look through the history of the United States to understand how we’ve gotten where we are,” said Alejandro Camacho, a Professor of Law at UCLA School of Law and co-author of Lessons for a Warming Planet: A Vital History of U.S. Environmental Law, which comes out on Earth Day, April 22, 2026. “Prior generations did meet the moment and at least partially addressed some of the major problems that were in front of them.” Camacho discusses the book in this lightly edited transcript.

A fan of place-based education, every year I haul my students to Louisiana’s Maurepas Wildlife Management Area to paddle the swamps and learn about coastal law. This semester, I had ten students with me, each paddling a kayak on the swamp’s shimmering water. Bits of salvinia, a free-floating aquatic fern, eased downstream at an almost imperceptible rate. Stories on the bayou are always changing. This year, the narrative wrestled with a choice the state is making about what the Maurepas Swamp will become — an ecological jewel or a carbon-capture dump. The community is torn.

I was writing in a New Orleans coffee house last spring when another customer noticed the ocean stickers on my laptop and offered me a new one in support of a regional cause: the Rice’s whale, a species that had only recently been identified and is listed as endangered under the Endangered Species Act (ESA). That’s because only about 50 of these creatures exist. And they all live full-time in the Gulf of Mexico. I’ve seen many species of whales, but never this one. I’m told they have very distinct vocalization patterns and a unique diving pattern. Unlike many whales that feed near the surface, Rice's whales make deep dives toward the seafloor during the day to feed on fish and spend their nights sleeping within 50 feet of the surface. The Trump administration apparently wants them gone.

The world’s ecosystems have been subject to an increasingly dangerous cocktail of stressors from land and ocean over-development, invasive species, and pollution. But rather than stem the tide of these harms, the Trump administration has resurrected several regulatory changes to the Endangered Species Act designed to stifle species’ protections and provide land developers even more power to destroy invaluable ecosystems.