I read Ecotopia in the kind of phase where I also thought Illusions was profound and spent too much time browsing for the perfect incense. It was an earnest time, and the book fit. Washington, Oregon, Northern California—seceding, rewilding, thriving on local everything. It felt bold. Slightly goofy. But mostly—possible.
I live in Washington now. I did then too, just with less rent and better posture. Over time, the story started to feel less like a utopia and more like a draft. Something the region might actually grow into if it weren’t so tangled in everything else.
Because here’s the thing: Cascadia kind of already exists.
It’s not on a map, but it’s in the water we drink, the mountains we shamble up, and the way we all collectively shrug when someone mentions California traffic. It’s in the rhythms of salmon runs and power outages, in ferry lines and rain forecasts and the soft panic that sets in when we run out of coffee creamer. It’s not a country. But it’s a place. A real one.
And every now and then I think: why not a country?
The Pacific Northwest has natural borders, distinct culture, shared environmental stakes. The Columbia Basin feeds the power grid. The forests are still standing, mostly. We export tech, timber, and a particular kind of chill that doesn’t quite translate east of Boise. We vote differently. We plan differently. We apologize differently.
That last one’s not nothing.
Of course, it’s easy to romanticize. The idea of secession has all the appeal of a snow day—fresh start, local control, maybe a flag with a pine tree on it. But once you move past the vibe, things get complicated. Defense, for one. Trade, for another. And money. Always money.
Still.
There’s something about the idea that sticks. Cascadia feels like it could be more than just a bioregional hashtag. Not a rebellion, exactly. But a realignment. A way of structuring life around what’s already here, instead of always outsourcing needs and importing problems.
And maybe it wouldn’t even require a revolution. Maybe it starts with cooperation. British Columbia, Washington, Oregon—deeper integration around transit, energy, climate response. Shared infrastructure. Shared goals. Maybe even shared identity, loose but present.
Because when the rest of the country heats up, floods out, or locks down, this region will need to rely on itself more anyway. Might as well get good at it.
There’s a quiet kind of nationalism that emerges when you start seeing your home not as a state, but as a system. Ecosystem. Culture system. Resource system. Not perfect. But distinct enough to ask: what if this was the primary unit of care?
I’m not campaigning. Just noticing.
Noticing how often conversations around here drift toward water rights and forest management and the fragility of the grid. Noticing the way local farms and small utilities quietly become lifelines. Noticing that when people talk about the future, they don’t mention Washington, D.C.—they talk about the Columbia River, the Puget Sound, the fires.
And I don’t know. Maybe it’s not about forming a new country. Maybe it’s just about thinking like one.
That’s a slower revolution. Less flags, more planning commissions.
But still—it matters.
Because if this place is going to thrive, it won’t be because we wait for permission. It’ll be because we recognize what we already are.
And build from there.