Should We Abandon Air Travel to Protect the Planet? A Climate Reporter Explores

My first memory of flying is of a metal tray smeared with the syrup from my pancakes. I was just eight years old, traveling with my parents between New York City, our starting point, and Port-au-Prince, Haiti, our destination. The sky was a brilliant blue, and we floated over thick, white clouds. I imagined jumping from the plane and playing among them like characters from Care Bears, a cartoon I cherished. From the outset, I relished every moment of flying.

By February 2020—when I boarded my last flight before the pandemic, returning home from a conference in San Diego to New York City—flying had lost its charm. My memories of that journey blurred with years of flights across North America, Europe, Africa, and the Arctic. As I stepped onto the jet bridge in San Diego, the dreams of cloud play had faded; flying felt like an obligation to endure. Of that trip, my final before lockdown, I can hardly recall anything, not even the airline.

Three years later, leisure travel in the U.S. has rebounded to pre-pandemic levels, yet instead of seeking flight deals, I'm unsubscribing from newsletters that tempt me with bargain tickets to Nairobi, appealing fares to the Yucatán, and enticing offers for the Seychelles. It's not that I don't want to travel; rather, I've come to understand the environmental impact of flying.

Around the same time I took that flight to NYC, a colleague published an article about frequent fliers in the U.S. She noted that, per the International Council on Clean Transportation, anyone taking more than six round-trip flights a year qualifies as a frequent flier. This exclusive group—just 12 percent of whom are Americans—accounts for two-thirds of all flights and produces over three times the emissions of infrequent fliers. After mocking their excess, I counted the flights I had taken that year. I stopped laughing when the total reached double digits. I was part of the problem, and I resolved to change that.

Globally, aviation accounts for 2 percent of carbon dioxide emissions produced by humans, contributing to the greenhouse gases that drive climate change. Due to the nature of this pollution—particularly that planes emit these particles at higher altitudes—flying exacerbates its detrimental effects on the climate. Aircraft contribute to 4 percent of what scientists refer to as “radiative forcing,” a measure of how much heat is trapped in the atmosphere by specific activities like flying. This heat, resulting from human actions, is what scientists mean when discussing global warming and climate change.

While this figure isn’t massive—in the U.S., sectors like electricity generation, combustion-engine vehicles, and heating our homes emit more greenhouse gases—aviation is the hardest sector to decarbonize. Simply put, engineers have yet to find a way to operate commercial planes without negatively impacting the planet. This is why, in 2021, the Biden administration proposed up to $4.3 billion to assist companies like Neste and World Energy in developing and scaling sustainable aviation fuels. Every reduction in carbon emissions is crucial at this juncture.

The technical term for our global challenge is “representative concentration pathways,” but I prefer the analogy of the Earth as a speeding car racing towards a brick wall. At present, we are on a collision course, but our decisions influence whether we crash at 300 miles per hour or 30 miles per hour. One scenario would be catastrophic, while the other, though terrible, might be survivable. Continuing to emit greenhouse gases at current or higher levels is akin to staring at that impending wall while pressing down on the accelerator. Reducing emissions is like applying the brakes. To ensure we collide at speeds closer to 30 miles per hour, according to the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), we must cut global emissions nearly in half by 2030 and aim for effectively zero by 2050. (This aligns with the objectives of the 2016 Paris Agreement.)

To achieve this, we must keep reducing emissions now, as there is a delay between applying the brakes and the vehicle coming to a stop. Slowing down an engine of this magnitude takes time. As an American, I bear a heavier burden than many. The United States has been the largest historical emitter of greenhouse gases, and on a per capita basis, we still rank among the highest emitters today, alongside Canada, Australia, and several Gulf states. More than half of global carbon emissions have occurred since 1990, the year the IPCC issued its first alarming report.

Understanding this compelled me to examine not only my flying habits but also the role of travel in my life. One positive aspect of the pandemic was the opportunity to pledge not to fly while reflecting on my relationship with air travel. I realized that while I had taken a few leisure trips, my profession as a climate reporter—traveling to locations as varied as Iceland’s Westfjords and Georgia’s Brawley Mountain—was primarily responsible for my rising number of annual flights. As I began to grapple with these challenges, I contacted Lenore Fahrig, a Chancellor’s Professor of biology at Carleton University in Ottawa, Canada. I had been following Dr. Fahrig since 2015, when she made the decision to stop flying—ironically, during a flight home from a workshop in Spain. She had been reading articles and calculated that air travel constituted the largest part of her carbon footprint, producing four times the emissions from heating her home with gas and ten times that from her minimal driving.

“The most significant factor I could control was my flying,” Dr. Fahrig explained. “If I wanted to lower my carbon footprint, that was where I needed to begin.”

Initially, she attempted to reduce the number of flights. “I found myself constantly weighing whether a specific meeting or trip was worth the carbon emissions it would generate,” she noted.

However, she stopped flying altogether without giving up travel. For Dr. Fahrig, the answer lay in trains (which are 34 percent more energy efficient than flying, according to U.S. Department of Energy data) and cargo ships. There is a whole community of travelers who use cargo ships—vessels that would head to their destinations regardless of passengers. Typically, traveling by cargo ship is a basic experience: meals are simple, Wi-Fi and cell service are minimal or nonexistent, and the crew primarily ensures the safety of the cargo, not the passengers. Yet, along with trains, these options can be a solution for climate-conscious travelers: By avoiding flights, Dr. Fahrig estimates she has saved nearly 40,000 pounds of carbon dioxide over the past five and a half years.

Yet, the most significant advantage of air travel is its speed. I can fly the 2,451 miles from New York City to Los Angeles in just six hours. However, achieving this requires a substantial amount of fuel. A Boeing 737-800, one of the most widely used commercial aircraft, consumes about 850 gallons of jet fuel every hour. (Around a quarter of a plane's greenhouse gas emissions stem from take-offs and landings, making short-haul flights—those under 500 miles—particularly emissions-heavy.) To transport me from New York to L.A., the plane will use over 5,000 gallons of fuel, resulting in more than 110,000 pounds of harmful emissions. If the flight accommodates 200 passengers, my share of those emissions is approximately 550 pounds.

Traveling the same distance by train, however, would require at least 67 hours and 20 minutes. I could fly to Los Angeles, enjoy my weekend, and return home before the train even arrives at its destination. As I conversed with Dr. Fahrig, I began to consider the advantages of slower travel. She pointed out that by avoiding flights, she was more inclined to participate in smaller, lesser-known conferences closer to home. Quitting flying didn’t limit her viewpoint—it transformed it.

This sentiment is echoed by Torbjørn C. Pedersen, a 43-year-old Dane who is close to achieving his goal of visiting every country in the world without taking a flight. I first encountered him in Reykjavík, Iceland, in January 2014, just three months into his journey. Back then, he anticipated completing his travels by 2018. When I last checked in with him in early 2022, he had only nine countries left to visit and expected to finish by 2023.

During our conversation, he shared that there are at least two advantages to avoiding flights. The first is the absence of jet lag. "You travel so slowly that you naturally adapt to the daylight as it gradually shifts," he explained.

The second point was more lyrical: You witness the world unfold before your eyes. He recounted a moment in Mauritania: “You start with a few rocks, and then those rocks begin to accumulate. Next, you spot a small bush, and eventually a tree appears. As you continue, those rocks transform into a hill, which evolves into a mountain, and suddenly you find yourself surrounded by a forest,” he described. “You observe the gradual changes in the landscape, unlike flying, where you’re suddenly somewhere else, akin to stepping through a closet and finding yourself in Narnia.”

Yet, despite all these years of avoiding flights, Pedersen acknowledged that once his journey concludes, he might resume flying because, quite simply, it’s extremely difficult to resist. “I believe people are unwilling to sacrifice their conveniences,” he stated. “I think society needs a fundamental restructuring.”

Pedersen’s perspective reminded me of insights shared by Nick Pidgeon, a professor of environmental psychology and risk at Cardiff University in Wales. Environmental psychologists explore how people interact with their environments, suggesting that behaviors are often constrained by systems that individuals can’t alter on their own. For instance, people are less likely to bike if they live in areas lacking bike paths and sharing programs, and they’re disinclined to use trains if those trains don’t serve their destinations. Dr. Pidgeon points out that this is why initiatives to ban short-haul flights when alternatives (like trains and buses) are available, as well as efforts to enhance train infrastructure and increase train speeds, are crucial. His research even indicates that our behaviors are influenced by our social circles and commitments.

“If my mother is unwell and resides in Arizona, naturally I will have to fly frequently to assist her—regardless of any guilt I may feel about [my environmental impact],” he clarified.

Many propose a solution: encouraging reduced air travel. Several countries are already moving to eliminate carbon-heavy short-haul flights, as these distances can often be adequately covered by trains and buses. In the U.S., investing in high-speed rail could yield climate benefits: it’s faster and emits less carbon dioxide compared to flying. Additionally, more flexible leave policies and remote work options could enable us to take fewer flights by allowing for longer vacations.

There’s also merit in discovering local attractions. Like many, I realized during the pandemic that I had explored some foreign countries more than my own region. For the first time in years, I began to appreciate nearby places with the same wonder I had previously reserved for distant locales. I spent a significant portion of 2021 in a small coastal town in New England. With no other destinations in sight and daily views of the same stretch of ocean, I learned to quickly identify whether the sea was at high or low tide, and whether it was a spring tide—where the difference is extreme—or a neap tide—where the difference is minimal. This was the first time since childhood that I was compelled to slow down, to traverse the same paths repeatedly, and to cultivate a deep familiarity with a place without feeling bored.

My aim during this exploration was to steer clear of the six-times-a-year “frequent flier” label. Thanks to the pandemic, I accomplished this in 2020: I only flew once before COVID restrictions began, and not at all in 2021. However, 2022 brought its own challenges. I took one work-related flight—on a military plane that would have departed regardless of my presence. Later that year, I booked a last-minute flight to Florida after a close family member passed away. Despite my climate concerns, I felt it was important to attend the funeral. As Dr. Pidgeon noted, our social connections influence our mobility in the world.

Around the same time as the funeral, I received an invitation for an all-expenses-paid weekend getaway to Puerto Rico, a destination I had never visited. According to a carbon calculator I checked, the emissions from that flight alone would roughly equal the total annual emissions of an individual in Pakistan. In 2022, a third of Pakistan experienced severe flooding strongly attributed to climate change driven by emissions from individuals like myself. I declined the trip—choosing to skip it felt like the right decision.

While it may be tempting to view climate issues in stark black-and-white—where our actions either contribute to saving the planet or lead to its destruction—climate change is actually a spectrum. Most of us can't completely avoid air travel like Torbjørn Pedersen and Dr. Fahrig do. However, every single one of us can be more deliberate about how, when, and, crucially, why we choose to travel.