How a Channel Islands excursion brought environmental humanities vividly to life

Anatoli Ulyanov | March 20, 2025

Anatoli Ulyanov is a UCLA doctoral fellow in Slavic, East European and Eurasian Languages and Cultures. His research explores how media construct identity, power and social relations in post-Soviet and global contexts, and his work bridges critical theory, visual anthropology and environmental humanities. In March, he was among a group of graduate students who traveled to the Channel Islands as part of an environmental humanities course.

We boarded a boat to Wi’ma — the Chumash name for Santa Rosa Island — as part of Professor Vetri Nathan’s multispecies humanities course.

“Multi … what?”

That’s what the camper standing next to me asks as we leaned on the railing, watching the waves. We both yell “Wow!” when a dolphin leaps from the water. Then a whale’s fin breaks the surface, like Poseidon waving back.

Standing there, breathing in the salty air, I realize I’m not sure how to explain what multispecies humanities means.

In academia, we’re used to speaking in twisted tongues, forgetting how distant it can be from daily life. That’s why, after returning from our trip, we gathered for a salon in Royce Hall, where 11 UCLA graduate students, including me, presented our research in creative and experimental forms. But it was on Santa Rosa Island where we put our ideas to the test in a living ecosystem. The weekend expedition was a way to bring theory and practice together — and to experience research physically and emotionally.

“But still. What are multispecies humanities?” The camper isn’t letting it go.

A dynamic, multidisciplinary field

Behind the phrase is a simple idea: to move beyond human-centered thinking and to recognize the vast diversity of life — animals, plants, fungi, microbes — as a world that shapes us, and that we shape in return.

This perspective isn’t just a response to climate change. It’s about seeking more harmonious relationships — with ourselves, each other, and all life forms.

“So, you’re tree huggers?” The camper smirks over his second beer.

I used to think the same. For me, the phrase “environmental humanities” once conjured images of people dancing barefoot around campfires, playing flutes and tracking Mercury in retrograde.

 

In fact, environmental humanities is one of today’s most dynamic fields, bridging the life sciences — including biology, ecology and environmental science — with political philosophy, postcolonial theory, gender studies and queer theory. These disciplines don’t simply coexist; they reshape one another. The familiar divisions blur: human and animal, nature and culture.

In this sense, environmental humanities offer one of the most forward-thinking and inclusive platforms for seeking emancipatory knowledge.

After greeting a seagull who approves of our snack-visas, our group steps ashore, ready to see how our two-day adventure would play out.

For all to flourish

California’s Channel Islands — homeland of the Chumash people and the site of what may be the oldest human remains in the Americas — have long been isolated from the mainland, allowing species to evolve independently. The result is a unique ecosystem, home to hundreds of plants and animals found nowhere else. Take the island fox, for example — leaping out from the tall grass to show off its feline grace, complete with fashionista eyeliner and a tail like a puff of cotton candy.

It’s no wonder the Channel Islands are often called the “Galápagos of North America.” Passing a sea lion basking on beaches so white they seem glazed with stardust, we spot the sleek bald heads of seals bobbing in the kelp. We wave at them and, to our surprise, they swim closer. Humans aren’t the only curious ones. Later, as we follow the tracks of foxes, we turn to find them following right behind — tracking us.

As we lie on the pier, gazing at the stars, I realize that connection with the environment isn’t just a link between separate beings; it’s the act of existing together, of becoming with one another. The softness of the wind, the shimmer of the stars, the scent of the Pacific: They shape who I am in this moment.

 

Time slows down here. You become more attentive to everything around and within. The song of a Western meadowlark, the whisper of the Torrey pines and the quiet resilience of waxy succulents called dudleyas (more commonly known as liveforevers) — everything comes alive. More importantly, it stays with you. It becomes your inner ocean, your inner tree, your inner island. Or rather, you begin to see yourself as all of these beings.

As I turn to the people lying beside me, I realize: Like the morning fog that nourishes these pines and the soil that feeds their roots, it’s the delicate interplay of many elements that makes love possible.

This awareness frees me from the illusion of the self-made man, the fantasy that we can separate ourselves from the world and ride out a global crisis alone. Our individual flourishing depends on the flourishing of all.

Back in the metallic hum of Los Angeles, I hear birdsong I had never noticed before. A squirrel on campus seems to be listening, too. We sit together on the lawn, watching the honey-colored sun melt across the sky, sharing a walnut.

Maybe there’s some tree-hugging after all. But that’s not the point. The point is: Nature is the ultimate professor. It teaches resilience in the face of change — and change driven by resilience. In the turmoil of our time, there’s no better companion, no wiser guide, than the living world that has seen it all and endured. We just have to care.