My siblings and I grew up on our great-grandfather's farm

in California.

It was a landscape of our family and our home.

When it was clear that nobody in our generation

wanted to take on the heavy burden of ranching,

the ranch was sold to a neighbor.

The anchor of our lives was cut,

and we felt adrift in the absence of that land.

For the first time, I came to understand

that something valuable can be best understood

not by its presence,

but by its absence.

It was impossible to know then

just how powerful the absence of those things we love

would have an impact far into my future.

For 23 years, my working life was with Yvon Chouinard.

I started when he was designing and manufacturing

technical rock and ice climbing equipment

in a tin shed near the railroad tracks in Ventura.

And when Yvon decided to start making clothes for climbers

and call this business Patagonia,

I became one of the first six employees,

later becoming CEO

and helping build a company

where creating the best products and doing good by the world

was more than just a tagline.

Doug Tompkins, who would become my husband years later,

was an old friend and climbing companion of Yvon's

and also an entrepreneur.

He cofounded The North Face and Esprit company.

All three of these businesses

were created by people who had grown up through the '60s,

shaped by the civil rights, antiwar, feminist and peace movements.

And those values were picked up in those years

and carried throughout the values of these companies.

By the end of the 1980s,

Doug decided to leave business altogether

and commit the last third of his life to what he called

"paying his rent for living on the planet."

At nearly the same time, when I hit 40,

I was ready to do something completely new with my life.

The day after retiring from the Patagonia company,

I flew 6,000 miles to Patagonia the place

and joined Doug as he started what was the first conservation project

of that third of his life.

There we were, refugees from the corporate world,

holed up in a cabin on the coast in southern Chile,

surrounded by primaeval rainforest

where alerce trees can live for thousands of years.

We were in the middle of a great wilderness

that forms one of the only two gaps in the Pan-American highway,

between Fairbanks, Alaska, and Cape Horn.

A radical change to our daily lives

spurred on as we had begun to recognize

how beauty and diversity were being destroyed

pretty much everywhere.

The last wild protected places on earth

were still wild

mostly because the relentless front lines of development

simply hadn't arrived there yet.

Doug and I were in one of the most remote parts on earth,

and still around the edges of Pumalín Park,

our first conservation effort,

industrial aquaculture was growing like a malignancy.

Before too long, other threats arrived to the Patagonia region.

Gold mining, dam projects on pristine rivers

and other growing conflicts.

The vibration of stampeding economic growth worldwide

could be heard even in the highest latitudes of the Southern Cone.

I know that progress is viewed, generally, in very positive terms,

as some sort of hopeful evolution.

But from where we sat,

we saw the dark side of industrial growth.

And when industrial worldviews are applied to natural systems

that support all life,

we begin to treat the Earth

as a factory that produces all the things that we think we need.

As we're all painfully aware,

the consequences of that worldview are destructive to human welfare,

our climate systems and to wildlife.

Doug called it the price of progress.

That's how we saw things,

and we wanted to be a part of the resistance,

pushing up against all of those trends.

The idea of buying private land and then donating it

to create national parks

isn't really new.

Anyone who has ever enjoyed the views of Teton National Park in Wyoming

or camped in Acadia National Park in Maine

has benefited from this big idea.

Through our family foundation,

we began to acquire wildlife habitat in Chile and Argentina.

Being believers in conservation biology,

we were going for big, wild and connected.

Areas that were pristine, in some cases,

and others that would need time to heal,

that needed to be rewild.

Eventually, we bought more than two million acres

from willing sellers,

assembling them into privately managed protected areas,

while building park infrastructure as camp grounds and trails

for future use by the general public.

All were welcome.

Our goal was to donate all of this land in the form of new national parks.

You might describe this as a kind of capitalist jujitsu move.

We deployed private wealth from our business lives

and deployed it to protect nature

from being devoured by the hand of the global economy.

It sounded good,

but in the early '90s in Chile,

where wildlands philanthropy, which is what we called it,

was completely unknown,

we faced tremendous suspicion,

and from many quarters, downright hostility.

Over time, largely by doing what we said we were doing,

we began to win people over.

Over the last 27 years,

we've permanently protected nearly 15 million acres

of temperate rainforest,

Patagonian step grasslands,

coastal areas,

freshwater wetlands,

and created 13 new national parks.

All comprised of our land donations

and federal lands adjoining those territories.

After Doug's death following a kayaking accident

four years ago,

the power of absence hit home again.

But we at Tompkins Conservation leaned in to our loss

and accelerated our efforts.

Among them, in 2018,

creating new marine national parks covering roughly 25 million acres

in the southern Atlantic Ocean.

No commercial fishing or extraction of any kind.

In 2019, we finalized the largest private land gift in history,

when our last million acres of conservation land in Chile

passed to the government.

A public-private partnership

that created five new national parks and expanded three others.

This ended up being an area larger than Switzerland.

All of our projects are the results of partnerships.

First and foremost with the governments of Chile and Argentina.

And this requires leadership

who understands the value of protecting the jewels of their countries,

not just for today, but long into the future.

Partnerships with like-minded conservation philanthropists as well

played a role in everything we've done.

Fifteen years ago,

we asked ourselves,

"Beyond protecting landscape,

what do we really have to do to create fully functioning ecosystems?"

And we began to ask ourselves, wherever we were working,

who's missing,

what species had disappeared

or whose numbers were low and fragile.

We also had to ask,

"How do we eliminate the very reason

that these species went extinct in the first place?"

What seems so obvious now

was a complete thunderbolt for us.

And it changed the nature of everything we do,

completely.

Unless all the members of the community are present and flourishing,

it's impossible for us to leave behind fully functioning ecosystems.

Since then, we've successfully reintroduced several native species

to the Iberá Wetlands:

giant anteaters,

pampas deer,

peccaries

and finally, one of the most difficult, the green-winged macaws,

who've gone missing for over 100 years in that ecosystem.

And today, they're back, flying free, dispensing seeds,

playing out their lives as they should be.

The capstone of these efforts in Iberá

is to return the apex carnivores to their rightful place.

Jaguars on the land, giant otters in the water.

Several years of trial and error produced young cubs

who will be released

for the first time in over half a century

into Iberá wetlands,

and now, the 1.7-million-acre Iberá Park will provide enough space

for recovering jaguar populations with low risk of conflict

with neighboring ranchers.

Our rewilding projects in Chile

are gaining ground on low numbers of several key species

in the Patagonia region.

The huemul deer that is truly nearly extinct,

the lesser rheas

and building the puma and fox populations back up.

You know, the power of the absent can't help us

if it just leads to nostalgia or despair.

To the contrary,

it's only useful if it motivates us

toward working to bring back what's gone missing.

Of course, the first step in rewilding

is to be able to imagine that it's possible in the first place.

That wildlife abundance recorded in journals

aren't just stories from some old dusty books.

Can you imagine that?

Do you believe the world could be more beautiful,

more equitable?

I do.

Because I've seen it.

Here's an example.

When we purchased one of the largest ranches

in Chile and Patagonia, in 2004,

it looked like this.

For a century, this land had been overgrazed by livestock,

like most grasslands around the world.

Soil erosion was rampant,

hundreds of miles of fencing

kept wildlife and its flow corralled.

And that was with the little wildlife that was left.

The local mountain lions and foxes had been persecuted for decades,

leaving their numbers very low.

Today, those lands are the 763,000-acre Patagonian National Park,

and it looks like this.

And Arcelio, the former gaucho,

whose job was to first find and kill mountain lions in the years past,

today is the head tracker for the park's wildlife team,

and his story captures the imagination of people around the world.

What is possible.

I share these thoughts and images with you not for self-congratulations,

but to make a simple point

and propose an urgent challenge.

If the question is survival,

survival of life's diversity and human dignity

and healthy human communities,

then the answer must include rewilding the Earth.

As much and as quickly as possible.

Everyone has a role to play in this,

but especially those of us with privilege,

with political power,

wealth,

where, let's face it, for better, for worse,

that's where the chess game of our future is played out.

And this gets to the core of the question.

Are we prepared to do what it takes to change the end of this story?

The changes the world has made in the past few months

to stop the spread of COVID-19

are so promising to me,

because it shows we can join forces under desperate circumstances.

What we're going through now could be a precursor

to the broader potential damage as a result of the climate crisis.

But without warning,

globally, we're learning to work together in ways we could never have imagined.

Having watched young people from around the world

rising up and going out into the streets

to remind us of our culpability and chastising us for our inaction