In beloved national parks, summer crowds throng despite budget cuts

Weeks into summer, millions of tourists are again streaming by car, camper, boat and hiking boot to America’s national parks. The 63 sites, spanning deserts and peaks, swamps and beaches, are among the most visited and most revered spots on the continent, postcard-ready emblems of a vast country proud of its public lands and awe-igniting scenery.

But the summer of 2025 is unlike any before. The National Park Service, like other federal agencies, has been hit hard by President Donald Trump’s government reorganization. Firings, early retirements and job freezes have diminished the long-underfunded system’s permanent employees by nearly a quarter, according to the National Parks Conservation Association. As of July, the advocacy group tallied, just over half of the target number of seasonal workers had been hired to help manage the crowds.

Ominous signs of the impact surfaced this spring. Some visitor centers and campgrounds were temporarily closed because of staffing shortages, as was Arches National Park’s famed Fiery Furnace trail in Utah; ranger-led tours and programs in other parks were curtailed. The superintendent resigned at Crater Lake National Park in Oregon, citing frustration with the cuts and what he called the agency’s “dismantlement.” Park employees warned of long-term consequences, including hamstrung search-and-rescue operations and the demise of behind-the-scenes scientific research.

Interior Secretary Doug Burgum, who oversees the agency, has said he is focused on reducing bureaucracy – cutting workers who labor at desks, not on the ground. He ordered all sites to remain “open and accessible” and promised they would have the staffing to ensure visitors “enjoy our nation’s most treasured places.”

To see how the parks are faring amid the turmoil, Washington Post reporters visited four just before peak summer season. We found that changes so far were subtle, though staff cautioned that issues might emerge in coming months. The National Park Service did not respond to a request for comment.

And no matter the location, our reporters found profound affection for America’s “crown jewels” – as the national parks have historically been described – strong support for their protection and vivid concern over what the cuts will mean in the years to come.

Mammoth Cave, Kentucky

747,042 visitors in 2024

The darkness inside Mammoth Cave feels so complete, it’s like being swaddled in an inky black blanket.

I heard myself letting out a breathy “wow” as my eyes slowly adjusted to the lighting installed for human intruders – illumination dim enough to not disturb the cave crickets and thumb-size bats at home in the cave’s vast “rooms.”

And that plunk! of moisture drip-dropping from overhead? A “cave kiss,” Ranger Hillary tells my group when we reach a part of this underground world where stalactites glisten.

This is the essence of the Mammoth Cave National Park experience: novelty and wonder from the natural environment fused with history and storytelling from a corps of enthusiastic rangers. Unlike other places where visitors are free to roam, the only way to explore is through a ticketed tour, nearly all ranger-led.

In April, Burgum came to Mammoth Cave to tout his commitment to maintaining all national parks despite the budget cuts. “America’s best idea was the national park system … beloved by everyone,” he said while on a tour. “We know we have to take care of the parks.”

The secretary’s words drew skepticism from employees systemwide, including here. Several were eager to talk this month, though on the condition of anonymity because of fears of reprisal. “The pretty face of the NPS” – meaning upbeat staff, tidy amenities, well-tended trails – mask low morale, frozen pay and frustrations over having to “do less with less,” a second-year ranger told me.

Mammoth Cave regained at least some of the positions initially cut. Yet with the year’s late start for the hiring of seasonal workers, tour capacity has remained lower. The 2,300 daily ticket spots could be expanded by 400 to 500 more with a full workforce, according to another ranger.

Laurie Foster of Houston suspected as much when she found most tours had sold out in advance.

“I’m sure they didn’t have enough guides to go around,” said Foster, 38, who runs a management consulting business with her husband. They were traveling the country, park after park, in an RV with their three young boys, and she’d had a tough time getting tickets. She ultimately had to settle for a self-guided tour, the only option left for a party their size.

Mammoth Cave was the family’s 12th national park this year, and it was hard to tell who was the most excited to descend hundreds of feet into the earth. Benjamin Foster, 45 and a self-described political moderate, demurred on sharing his stronger opinions on the administration’s funding cuts but – with his sons in mind – stressed the “absolutely imperative” need for the parks to receive more money.

“When I think about how much technology is involved in their life, how much AI is going to be a part of what we do, what’s really going to be unique about the future is the experience that you have in the real world,” he said. “To be able to come and see this and really feel it, breathe it, touch it is really pretty special.”

Mammoth Cave boasts superlatives that other parks can only dream of: world’s longest known cave system, UNESCO World Heritage site. In its otherworldly recesses, parents rejoice over the lack of WiFi, which makes children focus on what’s around them.

Stephen Spencer, 54, who works in environmental waste management, has been coming to Mammoth Cave since he was a kid in Kentucky. I met him on the way to the Historic Entrance – the main access point used by Indigenous Americans seeking shelter millennia ago and, much later, by explorers and saltpeter miners.

“This is where our parents took us, and where we learned a lot,” Spencer said as he chased after a 2-year-old grandson. “I’d hate to see that die.”

Glacier, Montana

3,208,755 visitors in 2024

Technically, it was summer, but Glacier seemed to still be exiting winter. The park’s main artery, Going-to-the-Sun Road, had temporarily closed because of snowfall days before. Patches of ice dotted the landscape as the route climbed 3,500 feet from the west entrance to Logan Pass, and around each bend was another soaring peak, another gushing waterfall, another glimpse of bighorn sheep on slopes of scree.

Glacier felt almost sacred to me, too magnificent to be tainted by political disputes in Washington. But I knew that many people feared the budget cuts there would be felt in the wilderness here, a place where crowds have been managed by a reservation system since 2021.

While current and former staffers said seasonal hiring seemed not much below normal levels, they were braced for calamity with certain scenarios – a missing hiker, for instance, or a wildfire threatening Glacier’s forests.

“There will be delayed response to emergency events,” Gary Moses, a former ranger, told me. “I wouldn’t say if. I would say when.”

Basic services appeared to be running smoothly as the park’s busiest period neared. Bathrooms were open and clean, trails were busy but tidy, and the park’s distinctive red buses were only occasionally slowed by traffic backups.

Differences were more evident between the lines: Park calendars showed that only about two-thirds the number of ranger-led tours were on the schedule compared with the same day the year before.

Their concerns about changes under the Trump administration drew science teacher Heather Holt and her husband from Jupiter, Florida. The couple had flown to Utah and already road-tripped to Capitol Reef, Arches, Canyonlands and Yellowstone national parks, starting hikes before dawn to beat the heat and hordes of tourists.

They then continued north, almost to the Canadian border, to reach this region known as the Crown of the Continent. And now they were watching the sun rise – just past 5:30 a.m. – over glassy Lake McDonald.

“We decided we better come see the national parks before some lunatic destroys them,” the 55-year-old Holt said, a dig aimed specifically at the president.

That same morning found Josh Bekley and Alec Chin fueling up with coffee at the century-old Lake McDonald Lodge. The pair, from Hartford, Connecticut, were on the second day of their “big hike trip” in the West. Day one had featured a trek to the glacier-fed Avalanche Lake.

“Unbelievable,” described Bekley, 24, a software engineer and first-time visitor.

They’d been a bit frustrated, though, by the lack of rangers or guides to answer questions at some of the spots they hit.

“Some people kind of complain that, like, tax dollars go here and here and here,” said Chin, 25. “But this is one of those things where it’s like, I would gladly pay into it.”

Up at Logan Pass, I was admiring fields of yellow glacier lilies when I met Janet and Mike Dihmes, a couple in their late 60s from Frederick, Maryland. Both are “Trumpers,” said Mike, a former safety director, and have faith the president loves the country.

Yet they sounded torn over the administration’s budget targets, bringing up government waste even as they acknowledged they didn’t want the national parks to suffer cuts.

“We love the parks,” stressed Janet, a retired bookkeeper. It’s just that the country needs to “pare down,” she said. “We spend way too much on stupid stuff.”

They were visiting Glacier for the second year in a row, wildfires having interrupted their 2024 adventure. Around them, visitors hooded up given the chilly gusts smiled for selfies. A bold marmot skittered around their feet.

“This is a place people come back to,” Mike said.

Acadia, Maine

3,961,661 visitors in 2024

People sometimes speak about their happy place, where their soul is at peace or their senses come alive. For retired carpenter Jeffrey Wellman, Acadia is that place – and has been since “I had my first diaper on” 70 years ago.

“It’s not just one thing, it’s the whole thing,” explained Wellman, who grew up in Maine but now lives in Marlborough, Massachusetts. “We get the ocean, we get the forests, we get the inland beaches. It’s just a paradise.”

Wellman, for one, thinks he’s found a sliver of silver lining to the national parks’ funding cuts. Word of those budget woes have encouraged visitors here to “have more respect for the park,” he said. “It used to be that people would leave all their trash around, but I’m noticing a lot more people are taking all their waste away.”

But as I drove and hiked around Acadia – which for 25 years has also been my happy place – I found that other tourists and locals couldn’t shake their concerns about the future.

Alyssa Goodstein, communications director for the Illinois AFL-CIO in Chicago, had just completed her first hikes on her first visit when I met her in a parking lot that provides access to Beech Mountain via several trails.

The funding cuts were “the impetus” for her trip, said Goodstein, 37, a “Women in Construction” ball cap atop her head. “I’m really afraid about what’s happening to our national parks.”

Part of the allure of Acadia, which occupies about half of Mount Desert Island, traces to its special history in this coastal region of Maine known as Downeast. In the early 20th century, John Rockefeller Jr. gave thousands of acres and financed and played a key role in the construction of the park’s iconic carriage roads and stone bridges. And the Friends of Acadia, an independent nonprofit, has long supported the park as its official philanthropic partner. (Full disclosure: My husband and I have been donors.)

Eric Stiles, the group’s president and chief executive, reminded me that Acadia’s carriage roads were beset by real neglect that peaked in the ’70s and ’80s. Restoration took the ensuing decades, and he’s worried about what happens in the park during this Trump administration.

Acadia “takes continual care and feeding,” Stiles said, adding that should the current cuts hold and the projected cuts happen, what visitors see and experience would be highly impacted – and visible – in five to 10 years.

“We need the hiring freeze to be lifted,” he said. “That is absolutely essential.”

His worries extend to the small, picturesque towns that share the island with the park. He noted that Acadia brings in $685 million annually for the local economy.

“Downeast Maine rises or falls with Acadia,” he said. “So far, it’s been rising, and there’s too much at stake to not allow the park to operate with certainty.” On a carriage road not far from the Jordan Pond House – a tourist favorite for its popovers, expansive lawn and scenic view – I met Brad Jordan on a bike ride with friends. He’s no relation to the clan for which the pond was named, but he’s still deeply tied to the park through his business, Maine State Kayak & E-Bike. It has two locations in the immediate area that depend on vacationers to Acadia.

When the administration earlier this year was axing thousands of federal workers, including park rangers, and freezing open positions, some of Jordan’s customers delayed committing to their summer plans. That made his own staffing decisions more difficult.

“People were definitely holding off from reserving in advance,” he said.

While his numbers are now slightly ahead of last year’s, he still has longer-term misgivings. “Anytime you’re cutting federal funds to a national park,” he said, “it’s detrimental in terms of safety.”

At the Beech Mountain trailhead, first-time visitor Goodstein offered an even stronger defense.

“Our national parks are the lungs of our country,” she said. “They represent some of the best places.”

Zion, Utah

4,946,592 visitors in 2024

With its jagged red-rock mountains, immense vistas and steep canyons, Zion is a place that reminds you just how vast the American West remains.

It’s among the country’s busiest national parks, famous both for the Narrows, a slot canyon carved by the Virgin River, and Angel’s Landing, an ascent so perilous that climbers grasp chain ropes along the way and so popular that they have to win a lottery space to attempt it.

I was a first-time guest and met others like me, including a Kentucky couple celebrating their 35th anniversary as bighorn sheep bleated below them. But many were repeat visitors, and they were unsure what they’d find given the actions out of Washington – which initially had Zion losing a dozen rangers and 100 seasonal employees.

“I was a little bit concerned: Was there going to be enough services, enough people around to help?” said 54-year-old Katherine Hedrick of Wilmington, North Carolina, a former Zion tour guide, who was on a trip with longtime friends. “What’s going to happen when people get lost or fall?”

Moments later, I noticed a young woman sitting on the ground, her head bloodied. Someone said she’d been bitten by a squirrel. Two rangers and an EMS worker arrived on the scene and soon wheeled her out on a rugged stretcher – underscoring the need for trained staffers in an often harsh environment.

I later watched a ranger show several Mennonite hikers a rare snail, the wet rock physa, as it crawled amid ferns on a canyon wall. Zion is the only place in the world that the tiny creature is found.

“I worry about the things you can’t see,” said Andrew Halloran, 43, a product manager from Littleton, Massachusetts, who was traveling with his wife, Jenn, and two kids, Ella, 8, and Brayden, 9. Fourth-graders like Brayden get free entrance to national parks under the government’s Every Kid Outdoors program, among the reasons for the family’s first vacation to Zion.

Folks like Aaron Rex, 51, an electrical engineer from Columbus, Ohio, didn’t detect signs of the budget cuts – which, as a Trump voter, he supported. Bathrooms at the visitors center and other prime spots were open, Rex noted, and park staff appeared to be clearing trash from trails.

But other visitors told me they noticed empty entrance booths, lax parking enforcement and shuttered bathrooms replaced in places by port-a-potties near the Narrows trailhead.

I started to wonder about staffing after I saw a massive cottonwood tree limb crash into the lodge parking lot. Nobody was injured, but nobody rushed to remove it either. Then one of the packed shuttle buses I rode around the park was delayed entry as we waited for a ranger to open a gate.

Most rangers, and even park volunteers, said they were barred from discussing the federal funding situation, but a few were willing to talk. A still-new ranger pointed to delays in various repairs and planned improvements within Zion. The popular Weeping Rock trail, for instance, was still shuttered because of a rockslide.

Morale also has been damaged, according to Ray Sweigert, 77, a retired history teacher and longtime volunteer who helps track the critically endangered California condors that make their home in Zion. He relishes educating visitors about the birds and this summer was watching a pair that he hoped would soon mate.

In our conversation, with black-streaked canyon walls as the backdrop, Sweigert offered his personal thoughts about the park’s challenges. He had only admiration for its rangers and other workers, calling them “underpaid, underappreciated, understaffed.”

“They certainly deserve far more support than they get,” he said.