Hope

    This year on the cusp of May, I decided to spend a glorious day off visiting the Old Faithful area believing that, at this early date, I could enjoy the space without all of the crowds. 45 minutes into my 1.5 hour drive, having made it only 18 miles, I realized that summer visitation had already arrived, and that traffic was going to make my day much more about driving than seeing majestic features. I promptly chose a familiar trail, got out my day pack, and left my geyser-viewing dreams (and the crowds) behind. Hiking brought time to think and I kept hearing a question people continue to repeat: are we loving these places to death?

    For me, simplistic answers to this question don't exist. There are whole communities of people whose voices and presence are lacking outside. How can we cry “too many,” when many don’t even feel welcomed? The protection and preservation of our public lands and wild spaces, in a democracy like our own, relies on the will of the people.

We must connect to the people: the poor, the rich, the tech-dependent, the every color and every culture. We must continue to awaken, inspire, and embolden others to participate in the natural world.We must think creatively and adjust our expectations to help find a new/old path. I believe the current combination of pressures is a call for assessment, reinvention, and change. We have to reimagine what the outdoors “should” be and to preserve lands with the people rather than protect it from them. We are the land. 

Instead seeing our last remaining wild places fortressed off and heavily guarded, we can ask for inventive help, invite other perspectives, and create a culture of nurturing our Earth. When we manage these places from a system-wide or even global perspective, the largess of the task forces us to welcome help. 

Admit our wrongs. Work with our mistakes.

Openness and honesty will go a long way in creating relationships with land users the world over. When we unite the voices of the millions, if not billions, who desire to protect the land, air, and waters which sustain life, we can realize a promise for those future generations who we preserve these spaces for.

Who am I?

  There are those that prefer communicating beside a campfire, are comforted by the sounds of wildlife outside their tent as they fall asleep, find purpose and meaning in hiking until their feet or knees get weak. They prefer natured over cultured and hold that the most beautiful things are wild. Many of those people will do anything to spend their days outside. 

These are my people. This krewe consists of artists and observers, scientists and explorers, activists and athletes, park rangers and educators, elders, and babies. 

My community recognizes the irony in systems that promise a rich future while mindlessly consuming in the present. This community is called on to support others in celebrating their own power to protect the natural world.

  I have had the honor of becoming a civil servant, entrusted by the public to care for communal lands that contain large, intact and complex ecosystems. My community extends far beyond the uniform or any title and many other park rangers would not feel comfortable in my clan of radical, earth worshippers. My community is more than one job or even one purpose. I feel connected to those who attempt to live with intention, to tread as lightly as possible while learning from the earth. Each separate identity and calling benefits this community.

  For me this passion and wonder began on camping trips with family, summers at summer camp, working as an outdoor educator: time spent outdoors. I began to form a relationship with the earth, finding a wealth of knowledge and wisdom in simply observing and participating in the natural world. As an adult, I moved outside of my native Louisiana and found that there were others who felt these connections with her too. I found a community that was working to preserve land, but which transformed me.