THE FIELD GUIDE NO.2 A Conservation Legacy Publication
ISSUE TWO
CONTRIBUTORS Arden Wyaco, Rosa Kirk-Davidoff, Eleanor Trott, Neil Milligan, Andrew Atencia, Bronson Rivera, Santo Pelletier, Kyle Trujillo, Kalani Reyes, Rosie Clements
For inquiries, or to submit artwork or stories to The Field Guide, please contact communications@conservationlegacy.org
♥ DEDICATED TO SANTO ♥
GIFTS &
RESPONSIBILITIES by Rosa Kirk-Davidoff in August, I was working with two other members of my crew to spread sand Onoveran afternoon a recently finished campsite. As we carefully smoothed out the sand, my crewmate Emily made a startling discovery. A turtle had laid its eggs in the pile, and Emily’s rake had accidentally broken the soft shell of one of the eggs. The tiny baby turtle was revealed inside, its shell already formed, waiting to hatch into the world. Emily is a zoologist, and she knew it was too late for the turtle. Once its egg has been disturbed, a turtle will not survive. We put the broken egg at the base of a tree by the campsite and returned to our work spreading sand. When we left, I placed a jewelweed flower on the broken egg to commemorate the loss.
For the past month, my crew (a Women’s Conservation Crew with Southeast Conservation Corps) had been constructing campsites at Bee Rock campground in Kentucky’s Daniel Boone National Forest. At the time, I was reading Braiding Sweetgrass, a beautiful book by Robin Wall Kimmerer about the teachings of plants in both scientific and Indigenous knowledge systems. I enjoyed reading the book while on hitch because I could spend the workday thinking about the chapters I had read the night before. Braiding Sweetgrass gave me a heightened sense of responsibility. As we worked to fit together the timbers that frame the campsites, Kimmerer’s words about birch baskets returned to me: “It’s thirty years of a tree’s life you’ve got in your hands there. Don’t you owe it a few minutes to think about what you’ll do with it?” Reading Braiding Sweetgrass motivated me to think more deeply about the work we were doing. I learned from our Forest Service partners about the popularity of Bee Rock, and we met many people who were impatient to have it reopen, so I understood the value for the community of the campground and our work on it. But as we displaced plants, toads, newts, and baby turtles as we worked, I could not help trying to balance the value of what we were creating against that of what we were destroying. Kimmerer has the same dilemma in Braiding Sweetgrass as she tries to clean out the pond behind her house so her daughters can swim in it. As she pulls algae from the pond, she is aware of the insects and other small creatures she is killing in her efforts. The section of Braiding Sweetgrass that shifted my perspective on Bee Rock the most was the chapter on maple syrup. Kimmerer explains the process of boiling sap to sweeten it and then explains, “The responsibility does not lie with the maples alone. The other half belongs to us; we participate in its transformation. It is our work, and our gratitude, that distills the sweetness.” After reading these words, I began to wonder if we were completing this place rather than destroying it. The river formed the valley with its gently sloping sides and beautiful views, but without access to it, people would not be able to appreciate it. With our labor, we took the gift of the valley and sweetened it into something that countless people can enjoy. Making the valley accessible to other people was one way to recognize the land’s gift and make our disturbances worthwhile. Another way was gratitude. I was left thinking about the gifts we had received from Bee Rock and how we could acknowledge them. On days spent drilling holes through compacted rock under the hot sun, I did not feel very appreciative of the place we were working. But when I took a moment to walk in the shade and cool down, I would be suddenly struck by the beauty and growing familiarity of the plants and hillsides around me. On the last afternoon, after so many cloudless, burning-hot days, it started to rain, and it felt like a gift.
Planting the Seeds by Arden Wyaco
needed to take on the crew leader role, which I eventually achieved. The friendships I’ve made have kept me coming back year after year. Their passion for caring for the land still inspires me to this day. I always appreciate the opportunity to meet other Natives and see so many people working hard to accomplish their goals.
KESHI! (HELLO) I’M ARDEN WYACO from the Pueblo of Zuni in New Mexico. I’d like to share about my experience with Ancestral Lands Conservation Corps (ALCC), which has been a major step for me as I entered into adulthood. I hope that sharing my story can inspire others to take on the challenge of joining a conservation crew. Your experience may plant the seeds to cultivate a future in the conservation world. After searching around my community endlessly for a job back in 2016, I stumbled upon recruitment flyers for Ancestral Lands’ pilot Zuni program. The tasks listed included working in National Parks and Forests across the Southwest, constructing trails, and preserving historic sites. This would be a totally new experience for me—the camping, the ‘hitch’ schedule and just exploring in general outside of my pueblo—but I did have some familiarity with conservation work, and the promise of traveling the Southwest was enticing. So, I applied until I secured my spot in a crew. After my first season, I decided to continue with the program and develop the skills
Each season has been transformational for me, but one that really stands out was back in 2019. That year, I set a goal for myself to live in the city with minimal support. I accepted a position as crew leader without secure housing. I lived with my colleagues at one point until eventually finding an apartment. I know that many worried about me during that time of instability. Finally looking inward, I realized I had to put my pride aside, reach out, and accept the help I was offered. That season allowed me the space to isolate and reflect, but I also had the chance to become more extroverted, meet new people, and bond with my crew. Those memories truly remind me of why I started this journey in the first place. Since I’ve started working with ALCC, I’ve begun to appreciate and learn how to properly take care of the Earth. I’ve discovered a purpose I am dedicated and indebted to. I joined ALCC because I wanted to push beyond my comfort zone, challenge myself, and begin to forge my own path as I entered adulthood. My experience has taught me so much, built up my confidence, and helped me to establish connections which will help me continue a career in the conservation field. I am truly blessed to have been a part of Ancestral Lands for so long, and to continue on now as one of the many voices striving to tell its stories.
The Missing (cutter) Link BY APPALACHIAN CONSERVATION CORPS CREW PROGRAM COORDINATOR ELEANOR TROTT
IN MY CREW LEADING DAYS, I told anyone who would listen that the one kind of crew I never wanted to lead was a women’s saw crew. I thought it would be catty and fractious, and the one kind of first aid that I never want to have to do is chainsaw first aid. Don’t get me wrong, I love running a saw, but there was something about this crew model that put me off. Every job that I’ve had has been in a maledominated field, from working as a reenactor starting at age 11 to restaurant kitchen jobs after college, so it’s safe to say that in order to fit in, I picked up some notso-healthy attitudes. I’m independent to a fault and hate asking for help. Competence is the metric by which I judge myself and others. If I’m not good at something, it’s hard for me to a) enjoy it, and b) keep at it. All of these characteristics served me pretty well in leading my first crew: an allmale youth crew (by an application pool fluke, not by design). We had a great time, from learning to cook together to tossing logs into the woods and yelling about doing “Man Things!” but I came out of that crew even more convinced that a women’s crew was not for me. I continued to lead crews for two more years, but I started to soften up, see things better from others’ perspectives, and realize how important the non-work aspects of crew life are. Yes, we work hard and want to be proud of our work but having fun lightens the load and brings the crew together, ultimately
improving their work. By the time ACC ran our first Women’s Saw Crew, I was on staff and the crew leader was a former member of mine who had once told me she never wanted to run a saw. I was so proud of her growth, and so proud of the crew as they worked in the hardest, hottest, and most tick-infested conditions of the summer. Far from being catty, the crew bonded over a seemingly endless parade of activities from baking pies with foraged berries, to tiedying, to painting tree cookies, to designing and printing crew t-shirts. After that crew, I was determined to spend more time with our future women’s crews. While I’ve always dealt with anxiety under my outward front of independence and confidence, things came to a tipping point the next year, summer of 2021. I got so anxious that I was barely able to be in the field for a day trip, let alone camp with a crew or run a chainsaw. After almost five years of corps work, I felt like I was losing my identity. If I couldn’t be in the outdoors, who was I? I retreated into office work: recruiting, paperwork, anything that didn’t require what my brain had classified as “dangerous tasks,” even though I had been doing those tasks for years. At the same time, I was working on myself through therapy, meditation, and medication. Finally, by the fall, I was able to get out in the field again, easing myself in with day trips and frontcountry visits, before eventually returning to multi-day backpacking trips.
This fall was also when we ran our second Women’s & Non-Binary Saw Crew. I had recruited these folks and was committed to being part of their training. As it transpired, I ended up spending several weeks with this crew throughout the season, and while they were their own unique group, their vibe reminded me strongly of our first Women’s Saw Crew. It was a supportive, kind environment, but they pushed and challenged each other to grow. They had a dance party, a triple-birthday celebration (complete with piñata), painted their nails, and hung an eclectic collection of flags around every campsite where they
stayed. They identified almost every plant and animal they came across, and came back from one hitch with “FULL REVV” knuckle tattoos in sharpie. They shared their inside jokes, and I brought them new colors of nail polish. In short, this crew helped me get comfortable in the outdoors again. Plus, the knuckle tats gave me an idea, so now I have a little cutter link tattooed on my pinkie, to remind me that I’m competent even when I may not feel like it, that I don’t always have to be independent, that I don’t need to be the best at something to enjoy it, and that the corps world will always be part of my identity.
‘tree cookie’ (cross section of a tree) painted by Appalachian Conservation Corps’ Women’s and Nonbinary crew to commemorate their season together.
SKETCHY (in a good way)
As the desert air grew chillier in late November, Conservation Corps New Mexico Crew 540 headed out for a hitch in The Santa Theresa Wilderness. The area had recently been burned in a wildfire, making the trails more prone to flash flooding. Crew 540 installed 14 signs throughout the wilderness to warn hikers and backpackers of the potential hazards in the area. They cut 10 foot long posts for each sign, and wound up with some leftover pieces of wood. Rather than let them go to waste, crew member Emilia (pictured far right) drew these awesome caricatures of everyone on their crew.
Artwork by Conservation Corps New Mexico crew member Tess
THUNDER RIVER I believe in less to more: The earth loses unity At a mattock’s slightest touch. Automatic is abandon. I drink of Thunder River: The rise, the fall, The water breathing easy; Her lead is all there is to take: Look upstream and face the world When crossing. I see myself much clearer under Grey and gathering clouds With eager promises to sing, but Whispering into my ringing ears: “Do not fear. You have forgotten much, But to forget is to have acted Once, and you better get going Now!” I believe the tree cannot be seen, Cannot be felled nor felt, Unless we fall a little bit ourselves. A little bit of us is falling: On a cloudless, restless day, With a gentle tremble from A sudden breath and an Abert’s ritual, Ponderous branches loose Their morning sleeves of snow. And I believe in nothing When I am only one. Hope Chases clouds away, across The night, from within A tent made for two.
The earth regains a unity At a spirit’s slightest touch. Automatic is abandoned For the chance to dwell Within the unconformity As Thunder River swells.
- Kyle Trujillo Ancestral Lands Associate Director
MISSING THE MOUNTAINS Hearing that we were coming back to the Mogollon Rim for a second hitch was the best news we could have hoped for. It’s amazing how starkly the White Mountains contrast to our desert home in Tucson. Up here, massive ponderosa pine and Douglass firs are tinseled with moss. It rains several times a week, and—as we found out this hitch—it gets very cold. We’ve been building teardrop drains on the Cabin Loop Trails to prevent them from eroding away. Our project partner, Brady, told us that these historic trails were originally built to connect a series of cabins. Drain building is by far the most mentally strenuous work we’ve done this season. It involves applying a relatively complex ideal shape and using creative problem solving and amateur engineering to design a drain that will effectively channel water down slopes and away from the tread. We’ve been waking up to frost on the ground and fighting chills to get going in the mornings. Our meadow campsite first gets rays around 7:30. We’ve been standing on the far side of the meadow to sip coffee and bask in the yellow-orange light across the field as it slowly creeps over the trees. Once the sun is fully up its pleasantly warm in the sun and cool in the shade. These trails dip through remarkably beautiful gullies and crest on wind swept hills where the trees softly whisper in the breeze and the clouds roll and speed overhead. I’m going to miss these mountains, but I’ll be sure to find my way back before long.
— By Arizona Conservation Corps Crew Member Neil Milligan
WHAT’S IN YOUR PACK?
FAVORITE ITEM & WHY
FAVORITE ITEM & WHY
WHAT’S IN YOUR PACK?
PRESERVING PRINCEVILLE BY CONSERVATION LEGACY COMMUNICATIONS STAFF
Floods are the most common (and among the most deadly) natural disasters in the United States. As global warming continues to exacerbate sea level rise and extreme weather events, the risk of destructive flooding increases. Princeville, a historic town in North Carolina, knows the impacts of climate change all too well. Settled by newly freed slaves just after the Civil War, the town is situated on swamp lands near the Tar River. Its location and elevation make it extremely susceptible to damage from storms and flooding. Princeville is predominantly Black, and is the oldest town chartered by Black folks in America. This past year, Conservation Corps North Carolina partnered with the Conservation Trust for North Carolina to recruit two crews to work in the town of Princeville. The crews built a ‘heritage trail’ to connect the Princeville Elementary school and the Princeville History Museum, which aims to educate the public about nature and the role of water in the community. The crews also established rain gardens to help protect the school by absorbing floodwater during heavy rainfall, and to illustrate some of the benefits of stormwater to minimize the fear that students feel during big storms.
“[The crews] dedicated several weeks of their summer to be here to make this happen,” said Rydedrick Porter, Princeville’s Public Works Director. “It just shows the commitment they had to this project.” Princeville is on the front lines of the fight for environmental justice. Bobby Jones, the current mayor, explains that it holds “sacred grounds” for the community that resides there. It holds Black family legacies and monuments to Black freedom struggles. It is critical to preserve Princeville— not only because of its rich history, but also for its community, which holds deep roots and connection to the land. We are grateful that Conservation Corps North Carolina could contribute to preserving this historic town. As we continue our work in the conservation industry, we envision a future where inclusivity and equity are the norm. We honor the past while acknowledging our responsibility to actively build a better future. James Baldwin said: “If you don’t know what happened behind you, you’ve no idea of what is happening around you.” We are accountable for challenging the racial injustice ingrained in societal structures and institutions, and perpetuated within conservation itself. We strive not to shy away from this accountability.
ELEVATION 13,345’ BY SOUTHWEST CONSERVATION CORPS LOS VALLES MEMBER ANDREW ATENCIA OUR TASK: Clear corridor, clean tread, and reinforce rock drains on 4 miles of subalpine trail in the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness of Southern Colorado. Dubbed the Medano Lake Trail for its proximity to Medano Lake, the trail is a foot-accessible path which leads the hiker deep into the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness within in the Great Sand Dunes National Preserve. Driving there was a trip in itself. We navigated 10 or so miles of loose 4×4 roads as we ascended to 9600’. The unmaintained road required careful tire
placement, well-treaded tires, four wheel drive and locked hubs. Wash-outs and loose dirt as a result of a long winter consistently showed each mile we climbed. One wrong turn, a “scenic” detour later, and we made it to camp unscathed – save for a ripped trailer wiring harness. The Medano Lake Trail grants visitors access to sub-alpine forest, traversing grand Aspen stacks and roaring Medano Creek. Navigating the trail starts off easily with defined tread, but as you ascend closer to tree line, snowpack can make navigation impossible without an eye for
the trail. At the terminus, Medano Lake sits beautifully at the base of Mount Herald (elevation 13,345’), surrounded by rugged mountain peaks and delicate flora. You can’t help but gasp and be silent. Our crew started at the top of the trail— at Medano Lake, four miles up—and worked downward past knee-deep snow fields and steep gullies. Crosscut saws were deployed to buck three feet diameter pine logs, while axes were utilized to buck smaller aspens out and away from the tread. We also worked to redefine the tread of the trail where the long winter had taken its toll, leaving only slivers of a rutted-out path to follow. Drains were cleared and reinforced with rock to ensure longevity after strong rainstorms. The sun shone in the morning and clouds set in by noon. Every day at around 2PM, snow or rain would douse both us and the parched landscape. The last full day of work even showed us thick, moody fog reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest. At the end of each workday, tools were cached at the last spot worked on for the day, then reclaimed in the morning. This allowed for energy preservation— hiking up to the job site was laborious in itself. As we hiked in to our worksite each day, we passed through portions of the trail we had not yet worked on, which was an added bonus and allowed us to envision the tasks to come. There are several problems facing this part of the Wilderness. Unfortunately, ‘beetle kill’ has ravaged the area, leaving many dead and dying trees.
Spruce beetles have killed roughly 1.9 million acres of trees since 2000, impacting about 41% of the state’s spruce and fir forests. It isn’t uncommon to see mighty conifers, dead and leafless, just off of the trail waiting to fall from wind. Most trees on the trail have fallen as a result of this, requiring near-constant maintenance of the trail to make it passable. Our crew gained experience using crosscut saws and ‘bucking’ (the process of cutting a felled and de-limbed tree into logs) with axes in order to clear these fallen trees. Traversing during high wind days around the south Sangres is ill-advised, because of the danger of unstable trees falling. Snowpack is rapidly decreasing due to climate change and a constant warming trend. Representatives from several government agencies came around while we worked on trail. Colorado Parks and Wildlife fish surveyors carrying pack rafts, nets, paddles, pH testers and measuring
apparatuses—all on top of camping gear—hiked past us to track the fish population and their habitat. Turns out, there’s some 12-to-14-inch trout up there weighing around 10 pounds! Our National Parks Service project partner, Jessica, came up to check on our progress and share her life experience leading up to working in the outdoors. Her story reflected mine and outlined an appealing pathway to someone who is undecided about continuing college. As I advance down this path and build my career— hopefully working outside with the land—I will attribute my decision to her sharing her story. Places like this make me fall more and more in love with this state and the work that we do. That’s what draws folks from all over the country to Southwest Conservation Corps: building trail in beautiful places with others that share the same passion. I am completely in awe of the places this job has taken me and I can’t wait to see what else is in store.
LIK E Working for a conservation nonprofit during the COVID-19 pandemic has shown me how much we are like water. Like water, our society has had to adapt to fill the container we put ourselves in. We are in the midst of a pandemic, so we adapt by changing how we work, and changing how we view work too. We have adopted better systems for showing up, doing what we can with the resources we have, and changing plans to keep ourselves and our volunteers safe. Like water, my expectations for myself in this position and in these times have had to be fluid. They have changed throughout the pandemic because like water, people are precious, and not a renewable resource. I have had to cancel large volunteer events after pouring my heart into their planning, in order to keep my volunteers safe.
WAT E R In the face of a changing climate, I am reminded that the work I do is just a drop in an ocean of people working to form waves to mitigate the effects of a warming planet. Waves of cleanup efforts, of anti-racism trainings, of climatefriendly programs, of social justice allyship in National Parks. Waves of learning—learning that being better stewards for the environment means being better stewards for each other. Because this learning never stops. Whenever I feel like things are too much and I’m going under, I reminded myself it is ok to just tread water, breathe, and rest. I liken waves to what we do because waves are endless cycles, and for as long as the clock keeps ticking, there will be new people beginning positions like mine and learning and building upon our work, just as we will keep learning and building upon what others have done before us, in an endless, connected cycle, like a wave in an ocean of conservation.
Kalani (she/her) is a Chamorro woman from the island of Saipan in the Commonwealth of the Northern Marianas Islands, which is a Commonwealth of the US. She is currently a senior undergraduate biology student living on Guam and attending school at the University while serving as a Community Volunteer Ambassador with the Stewards Program. She is pursuing her deep interest in studying the connectivity of the coral reefs of her home islands. She draws inspiration from great women pioneers such as the “Shark Lady” Eugenie Clark and CNMI Refaluwasch Senator Felicidad Ogumoro. Kalani has always wanted to set a good example for young girls like her, who didn’t grow up seeing strong women in environmental science positions.
by Kalani Reyes, Stewards Community Volunteer Ambassador
TOO MUCH
by Southwest Conservation Corps Los Valles member Bronson Rivera Written during disaster relief response in New Jersey following Hurricane Ida
The Law of Diminishing Returns states: ‘Incrementally adding a factor of production results in smaller outputs.’ In other words, too much of something turns it vile. Water does a body good, but too much of it can drown you from the inside. But what about giving? Is it possible to continuously spread oceans and sky and not die from being bone-dry of kind notions? Will we have enough potion for every token in need of annealing? Reeling in our fish hooks to find the worms eaten with nothing else on the end. To lend a hand, but no one ever talks about lending an entire body. Or a mind, or the electrolytes expending themselves estranged. Our feet are pin cushions our necks are stale. Backs are temporary hands are frail. The sweat could compete with monsoons. The communication must not be lampooned. And there are no lazy afternoons for us. Consistency is key. Balance is key. For every action there is an opposite or equal reaction and we may not know what that reaction always is, but know, wishes are not just the blowing of a dandelion. They are not just comets or asteroids. Some say why give when you can get? Why be charitable when you can be the charity? And by all means, it is not always easy to give. Some days will feel like Venus others will feel like Neptune. The basements will pull you under with it Bog your bodies and break spirits.
Lyrics are nothing more than silence. Hard hats will protect you from fall damage but not bawl damage The heat will get to you before you can acknowledge it Wouldn’t it be easier to lay behind innocent eyes?
Yet here we stay. And come as it may, we are levers to worn down shoulders. Colder are the nights, a reminder of our duration But we warm the city with our careful ablation. Leave carnations and hydrangeas at the cessation. Adoration for the work. Ask nothing in return, but in return are lifted hearts. Torn apart are the remedies until we ready them for a new face.
They can never replace the lost valleys but we can prepare them for a new river to forge it’s path. To carve out something resembling a home. And maybe, this is not what we all signed up for, but signing and sealing is not always what is delivered.
What is asked of us is not entirely transparent, But we are apparent with the love we have to offer. I see it,
Every morning in the breakfast line, Our minds may not be inclined, But our hearts are not heavy. They are magnets They are paintings And they are picture frames Old coins and artifacts.
They are laundry and circumstance. They are half empty and half full, but there’s always something in them. And what we chose to use it on is bliss From the bliss comes gentle exhalations No more sucking on razor air winds. From the bliss appear seeds Of new vines and binds.
A new moulding, One of folding our sheet in half and ripping it for another’s use. Acting out of instinct—not out of character. I see the love between confectionery and celebratory. When there is fire in all of us and not just in the ground. Even after a week full of removal and dust Rust trying to creep it’s way onto our skin, That love is an endless well which brings relief. And the relief is a hurricane in it’s own right. One where diminishing returns are non-existent. One that brings a storm full of people who care.