From the suites at the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, the view invites contemplation. Through the windows, the Victoria Glacier appears suspended in eternal silence above the turquoise waters of the lake. This is exactly the scene that painter Albert Bierstadt sought to capture on his canvases in the 1880s, long before the site became the heart of Canada’s first national park. Yet, one need only glance toward the shore for the illusion to vanish. Where Bierstadt saw only solitude and wilderness, there is now a sea of people armed with selfie sticks. Early risers who snagged the last parking spots mingle with the crowds spilling out of tour buses, all seeking their own slice of Canadian paradise.
This phenomenon is not new, but it has reached a critical tipping point. Banff National Park has seen visitor numbers surge by 30% over the past decade, peaking at 4.5 million visitors last year. This record-breaking influx owes much to the phenomenal success of the Canada Strong Pass, a government initiative that, for the second consecutive year, offers free admission to national parks from June through September. While the initiative was intended to make nature more accessible to everyone, it has primarily overwhelmed the most prestigious destinations. Today, hiking in certain areas of the park feels like rush hour at a metropolitan train station. So much so that the famous backcountry tea houses—once havens of tranquility—now have wait times exceeding an hour for a simple alpine breakfast.
Unlike Barcelona, Venice, or Kyoto, where residents can protest against overtourism, national parks are home to silent populations. The black rhinos of South Africa’s Kruger National Park or the Iberian lynxes of Spain’s Doñana National Park cannot protest the degradation of their habitat. This situation presents park managers with what Jonathan Jarvis, an international consultant and former director of the U.S. National Park Service, calls the “dual mandate”: protecting biodiversity for future generations while encouraging the public to immerse themselves in the wild. A precarious balance that now requires us to radically reinvent the way we interact with the landscape.
The Invisible Architecture of Conservation
Paradoxically, one of the most concrete ways to preserve fragile ecosystems lies in landscape planning. Rather than letting visitors trample the vegetation and create haphazard networks of secondary trails, parks are investing in the design of footbridges. Far from being mere accessories, these structures serve as silent guides. They physically demarcate the space allocated to humans from that reserved for flora.
Australia has demonstrated this effectiveness with the Snowies Alpine Walk. This 55-kilometer trek through Kosciuszko National Park uses a complex network of steel and wooden grids to cross wetlands and protect rare alpine grasses from hikers’ boots. Similarly, in California, the Salt Creek Boardwalk was recently reopened in Death Valley to allow visitors to observe an extremely rare fish, the pupfish, without disturbing its aquatic habitat through human traffic. These structures demonstrate that technology and design can channel foot traffic without sacrificing the sensory experience of nature.
Shifting the Focus: The Strategy of Taking a Step Aside
Overtourism is often a matter of perspective. Social media has fixed the collective imagination on a few specific viewpoints, creating absurd bottlenecks. Jonathan Jarvis recalls that at Mount Rainier, as soon as the sun rose over the United States’ tallest volcano, the parking lot in the area known as “Paradise” would be full by 10 a.m. Yet this mountain range, which naturalist John Muir described as the most lush of alpine gardens, holds treasures far beyond that overcrowded viewpoint.
To counter this “magnifying glass” effect, some parks are implementing creative redirection strategies. Parks Canada, for example, launched the Red Chairs campaign. The idea, which originated at Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland, involves placing bright red Adirondack chairs in beautiful yet lesser-known spots, far from the most heavily visited UNESCO-listed sites. Today, more than a hundred of these iconic chairs are scattered from coast to coast, encouraging travelers to explore alternative vistas and ease the pressure on iconic sites.
The End of the Private Car’s Reign
Accessibility is the driving force behind overcrowding. If a spectacular location is accessible by car, it will inevitably be overwhelmed. The solution lies in a transition to public transportation systems—sometimes unconventional, but always effective. A pioneer in this field is the Zion Canyon Shuttle System in Utah. Since 2000, these zero-emission electric shuttles have transported more than 100 million passengers, freeing the red sandstone cliffs from pollution and traffic jams.
Other countries are competing to come up with creative ways to turn the journey into an experience in its own right. In Germany, the Bavarian Forest National Park has opted for the Igelbus (the “hedgehog bus”), while in Japan, Fuji-Hakone-Izu National Park offers a memorable journey aboard the Yamanakako no Kaba, an amphibious bus shaped like a hippopotamus that literally plunges into Lake Yamanaka. For those seeking a more luxurious immersion, the train remains an exceptional alternative. While the Swiss travel through the Grisons aboard the canary-yellow National Park Express, travelers heading to Machu Picchu can opt for Belmond’s Hiram Bingham, a true traveling celebration on rails through the Peruvian Andes.
Toward Regulating Spontaneity
The days when one could decide to go hiking on a whim seem to be coming to an end at the most prestigious destinations. Reservations have become the last line of defense against the “tragedy of the commons.” Whether climbing Mount Fuji or swimming in the crystal-clear waters of the Calanques National Park near Marseille, you now have to plan weeks, if not months, in advance. While this bureaucracy may displease those who cherish the freedom of the wilderness, it ensures the quality of the experience and the survival of the environment.
In the United States, trials of time-stamped entry permits showed encouraging results before running into conflicting political decisions. Recently, the administration eliminated these quotas in most parks, with the exception of Rocky Mountain National Park. Jonathan Jarvis laments this step backward, which turns park rangers into traffic cops: “A ranger who should be handling bear-related incidents ends up directing cars and managing crowds on the road.”
The Economics of Privilege and Local Knowledge
Finally, financial and human considerations emerge as essential management tools. In many developing countries, national parks are true economic drivers. To ensure that the benefits truly reach local communities rather than foreign operators, some governments now require the use of local guides and porters. This is the case in Nepal for the Himalayas, in Costa Rica, in Ecuador for the glacial volcanoes and the Galápagos, and in Uganda for safaris to see mountain gorillas. In Indonesia, Komodo dragon viewing is also subject to this rule, transforming tourism into a driver of local development.
At the same time, differential pricing is gaining ground. Paying a higher fee as a foreigner to access Mount Kenya or the Serra dos Órgãos National Park in Brazil is becoming the norm. In many African nations, entrance fees cover more than half of the parks’ operating budgets. In the United States, the debate intensified when the entrance fee for non-residents was raised to $100 for eleven of the most visited parks, such as Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon. While the infrastructure of these natural sanctuaries suffers from chronic neglect, this contribution from 14 million international visitors appears to be a vital resource for maintaining these landscapes in pristine condition.