Crystal Chen, Galen Oettel, Michelle Lettenmair, Tess Hankey, Mary Prachthauser, Chioma Uruakpa, Rosie Clements, Sam Parker, Brenna McBride, Kaitlin Murphy, Sierra Bingham, Natalia Muglia
For inquiries or to submit artwork or stories to The Field Guide, please contact communications@conservationlegacy.org. We are always accepting submissions. Read along online at www.thefieldguide.blog.
We’ve been working for hours when I glance up to see a fox across the canyon, gracefully walking the ridgeline. I freeze, hold my breath, and watch as she slinks away. I continue toiling on this backcountry trail, so forgotten it’s slowly being taken back by nature.
We reclaim this path from earthy tendrils and spiky inhabitants. Fallen giants need to be cut away. We’re so tired and out of breath that we can only mouth the words “lunch?”
We scramble up to our packs, chat, and eat as our sweat slowly stops pouring.
We look around, take stock of all the work we’ve done, and instantly notice our phenomenal setting. This vista takes my breath away in its still, silent beauty.
Just as I catch my breath again, lunch is over and it’s back to work.
Chainsaws rawr, boots shuffle in dirt,
pulaskis fly, instructions are yelled out and metal clicks against rock.
I get back into the rhythm of being winded. Someday, I’ll breathe deep in this fresh mountain air.
But not today.
— By Danielle Herzner (she/her) Stewards Individual Placements Recreation Technician in the Tonto National Forest.Igrew up thinking of forests as relaxing places to hike. I’m surrounded by trees reaching to the sky to shade the sun and logs perfectly placed to take a break on. What could possibly harm me? I was blissfully ignorant until I spent this past summer doing vegetation monitoring as a Scientist in Parks intern for the National Capital Region Network of the National Park Service.
The forests of the D.C. metropolitan area gave me a rude awakening. Possibly the least relaxing place we monitored was a forest along a highway leading out of the city. Entering the woods through a vine thicket, I immediately brushed up against a plant with the telltale three leaves. As we set up our equipment, my entire hand went into a huge swath of poison ivy. All I could focus on was how much discomfort I would be in for the next few weeks, but suddenly, my teammmate told me to look up at the sky. Through the tree line we saw a bird with a white head and brown body swoop over our heads. This bald eagle had no problem making its home in a place most people would steer clear of.
Later in the week, I found myself crawling on the forest floor to avoid rose thorns filling the understory as far as the eye could see. Any upward motion and I’d be snagged by the thorns. Attending social events after days like this, the scratches on my arms would prompt people to ask if I was attacked by a cat. As I pushed to get through as quickly as possible, I heard a team member call: “watch where you’re stepping!” I wanted to respond with something snappy. How could they expect me to think about anything other than not getting impaled on thorns? Then I saw it: a small creature with a painted shell and brilliant orange eyes. It was right in front of me. We were making eye contact. The box turtle wasn’t complaining about the uncomfortable conditions—in fact, it was probably happy to have cover from predators.
These were the two hardest days of the field season, but they taught me that even though these forests probably wouldn’t make it onto a postcard, they are still worth protecting.
D — By Galen Oettel, Stewards Individual Placements Scientists in Park Ecology Assistant at National Capital Region Network, D.C.
The box turtle that surprised Galen in the forest. photo by Galen Oettel
Illustration submitted by Stewards Individual Placements
Community Volunteer Ambassador (CVA) Mary Prachthauser (they/them). Mary served at Mammoth Cave National Park and created this illustration to commemorate their time there.
“Life is a patchwork of events, experiences, and people you meet,” Mary said. “My time at Mammoth Cave National Park has been no different. This illustration captures some of my memories, all stitched together in a quilt.”
Growing up, my family spent a lot of time visiting the National Parks. It was a way for us to connect with each other and the natural world. I’ve now explored and worked for National Parks all across the country — most recently as an intern with the Appalachian Conservation Corps.
In this position I worked alongside the National Park Service (NPS) as a Science Communicator, creating digital content about scientific findings to support eleven National Parks. One of my favorite parts about my position was the community built upon NPS Inclusive Science Communication circles, where we would analyze NPS and other articles through the lens of diversity, equity, and inclusion. I seek to use what I learned in these conversations in my work and in my everyday interactions.
Despite my long history with National Parks, I didn’t realize that I was missing a core personal connection with our public lands— learning about Chinese American history. While I learned a lot about white American history (from the battles of the Civil War to colonial settlement) it was rare that I came across exhibits featuring my own cultural identity or history. I didn’t really question it—I just thought there weren’t that many stories to tell. Or perhaps the stories would fall on deaf ears.
heritage in this setting. To my utter dismay (and disappointment, sadness, anger, etc.), the stories lacked representation. They also contained instances of harmful language that perpetuates negative stereotypes.
Some of it was blatant. One statement claimed that an unfair wage gap allowed Chinese railroad workers to have a healthier diet because they had to cook their meals for themselves. Back then, Chinese railroad workers received less pay than their white counterparts, and had to pay for their own food, housing, and clothing.
Some of it was missing an opportunity to be inclusive. Over 90% of the transcontinental railroad workforce were Chinese. but not a single Chinese person was shown in any of the exhibits. There weren’t even any translations for park visitors, including the descendants of the workers.
When I visited with my parents, my mom expressed that she wished she could read the original poems that Chinese workers wrote about homesickness. Sadly, the exhibit only displayed English-translated poems, omitting the original versions. This was a missed opportunity to connect with a broader audience, and it directly impacted my own family’s experience and connection with the park’s history.
In May, I visited a National Park featuring Chinese American history—my first time hearing stories that connected me to my
This experience solidified my desire to share the tales of those who have been historically excluded from the storytelling spotlight.
Photos and story by Appalachian Conservation Corps alumni Crystal Chen (she/her)
With dogged persistence, I spearheaded a movement to make the park’s content more inclusive. Throughout this process, I’ve learned a lot about how to institutionalize non-dominant narratives. I seek to center the voices of the people whose stories are being shared. It’s important to question, “Whose stories do we hear? Who is telling them? What voices have been removed? How can we expand the dominant narrative, which is often isolating and exclusionary?”
Stories are so powerful. They can shape people’s identity and help them to feel connected. Stories can also capture a world where anything is possible. If someone that you can relate to has a role in a story, you can put yourself in their shoes. When your stories are continuously excluded, it gives
the impression that you don’t belong, that there’s no precedent for someone like you in that space. Learning about the contributions of people before me—that these stories had existed all along—made me feel like parts of myself were kept from me. Over time, I’ve learned some key lessons that I’d like to share for our readers of this zine, which you can find on the next page. I’ve also learned that we must challenge what stories we commonly hear, and always question who gets to tell them. Looking back on these stories can serve as an important catalyst for the more inclusive future we can create.
My hope is that when I next visit the park these issues will be fixed, and the stories of these people will be told through their own lens, with their language, their humor, and their personal testimonies. D
Perseverance is Critical
Make Stories Accessible
Center the Appropriate Voice
Expand Beyond the Written Word
Inequality is not Inherent in Identity
Empower People First (Be Mindful of Language!)
Who has access to the stories you are telling? Hopefully, the people whose stories they are!
People often told me to rest and take a break...But in practice, I found this difficult!
Include narratives that go beyond the white, male perspective. Don’t underestimate the power of visual storytelling. Seeing representation through a photograph can sometimes feel more tangible.
Don’t discredit the personal relevance of the main character, as well as the knowledge passed from generation to generation. Center the voice of the people who the stories belong to.
For example, Chinese railroad workers were portrayed as passive and helpless—even receptive—in the face of unfair wages (which remains a harmful stereotype to this day). In reality, they led the largest nationwide labor strike to date.
Sometimes, these untold stories contain elements of racism, injustice, and inequality. Of course, it’s important to be truthful about the unfairness of these situations, but it is equally important to empower people and give them a voice in your story.
Photos shared by Southwest Conservation Corps alumni Chioma Uruakpa (they/them), taken on film on their Minolta X-570.
Chioma was a member of Southwest Conservation Corps Leaders of Color crew out of Salida, Colorado in 2022. These photos feature their fellow crew members and leaders at work in the Weminuche Wilderness.
One member’s insight into the future of volunteer programs—and their relationship to our nation’s public lands.
Sam is a queer nonbinary trans woman, 26 years old, and a Taurus Rising. They are a white settler on occupied Wintu ancestral and current territory, colonially named Redding, California. She served with the California Conservation Corps from 2017-2019, and served seasonally from 2019-2021 in the Eastern Sierra Conservation Corps WILDlands Technical Crew program.
Sam is currently based at Whiskeytown National Recreation Area as a Community Volunteer Ambassador with Stewards Individual Placement Program. She is an enthusiast of planets, plants, and harmony. They hope to encourage heightened awareness, engagement, and compassion within the many systems we inhabit and propel in our daily lives.
Photos and story by Sam Parker (they/them/she/her)In my position as a Community Volunteer Ambassador with the Stewards Individual Placements program of Conservation Legacy, I had the privilege of joining the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area’s Interpretive Division for a three-day work trip. We visited several California State Park sites to hear how they described the California Gold Rush. In particular, we wanted to hear how they interpreted connections between the Gold Rush and local Indigenous histories. Our ultimate goal was to improve interpretive programs at our own park. I was able to join at no cost to myself using professional development funds provided to me by Conservation Legacy, and the trip was well worth the perspective I gained.
I was interested to find that only at a few of these sites were we led by paid staff. Most of the interactions we had with the park was through volunteers. They were knowledgeable and passionate, graciously sharing their experience and time as they led tours. The most effective interpretation I experienced came from volunteers who shared personal stories through the lens of the experiences and knowledge they had collected during their time at the park and throughout their own lives. For
example, our volunteer guide at James Marshall Gold Discovery was referred to us as ‘the park historian’. He shared with us his profound, deeply nuanced understanding of the many different cultural systems at play—not only at his site, but across the state of California.
Indian Grinding Rock State Park includes a museum curated with the direction of local Indigenous Miwok volunteers. It includes informative, honest accounts of the experiences of Indigenous peoples before Europeans invaded, as well as the terror and genocide that white Europeans brought to this land during the Gold Rush. The park also features multiple U’macha conical bark houses as well as a ceremonial roundhouse, which were constructed by Miwok volunteers.
Park management once intended to put up a structure to prevent the erosion of the Grinding Rock itself, the largest known example of such a site in the U.S. The tribe felt that the Rock should be allowed to run its natural course and wear with time. In the end, park management respected the tribe’s decision, and the obtrusive structure wasn’t created. This outcome directly resulted from park management first consulting with the tribe.
A replica of an Indigenous dwelling at one of the California State Parks that Sam visited during their work trip. pictured at right:
So, what ingredients make up a healthy volunteer program? What is necessary for productive, meaningful relationships between organizations like the National Parks and the communities they serve? There are many answers to these questions, but the factors I observed most were communication and respect. The parks I felt had the most effective interpretation maintained both regular communication and respectful relationships with local Indigenous people, other parks and agencies, and with their local communities.
Some sites really struggled in connecting with their communities. Some had gift shops or entire sections of the park that were closed down—sections that had been historically run by volunteers, or that were built by volunteers in the first place. Typically, justification for these closures was cited as simply the desire for ease:
the more involved parties, the more time required to finish a project. More help from outside of the park staff means more necessary communication, more factors to consider, more compromise, and more adjustment. I feel that this extra consideration is critically important to long-term success. The parks whose staff had either cloistered themselves from their communities or had actively ended relationships with other groups in favor of streamlining processes were also the parks with unusable exhibits, outdated programs with no adequate replacements, or gift shops unable to open more than a day or two a week. The problem may appear at first to be a lack of staff or volunteers, but I feel that instead, this was indicative of a bigger issue: poor communication and difficulty maintaining relationships.
At Whiskeytown National Recreation Area, our volunteer program is still very much in its developing stages. Often, the questions I ask myself fall into a self-
starting line of thinking: “How can I make this better?” This is definitely an important question! But one of my takeaways from my trip is that none of these successful efforts were done by just one person, and rarely by park staff alone. Community involvement is not optional for volunteer or interpretive programs. It is a fundamental principle.
So, I ask myself again: “How can I make this better?” The answer is through communication and respect. Through the willingness to relinquish some control and sacrifice some speed by opening up the decision-making body to a wider group. Through community involvement and engagement. Through recognition of all the talents and inspiration that comes to the parks through our volunteers and partners.
I know now that I can’t fix any of these issues alone. They require a foundational willingness to communicate and cooperate with the communities that we as the parks serve. D
I’ve never known what I wanted to do for a career, but I do know what I like do: being active outside, teaching, learning about the natural world, and helping others to value and exist in awe of the beauty around us.
When I graduated in 2020, nothing seemed possible. For me, finishing school meant moving back in with my parents and unemployment that stretched on for months. The same day passed over and over again, repetitive and unfulfilling.
As the weeks wore into months, I accepted a geocontractor position with a geospatial company I didn’t really want to work for. GIS (geographic information systems) wasn’t my passion, but at least it was a job... Until it wasn’t. Two months into the position, I was laid off again due to uncertainties around COVID-19. Back to unemployment. Eventually, I applied for a program that a friend had mentioned in a Zoom hangout: the Scientists in Parks program.
I was rejected from all five positions I originally applied to with Scientists in Parks. But then one day, I got an
email. An ‘interest check’ for an Education Assistant position at the Oregon Caves National Monument and Preserve. I emailed right back, saying “yes, yes, yes! I’m still interested!” One interview later, I received that coveted email: “come work at the Oregon Caves.”
That was the beginning of something new. I felt it in the air the day I pulled my car up to the snow-covered, cedar-sided lodges in the forests of the Siskiyou Mountains of Southern Oregon—this was something new and wonderful.
I will never be able to speak highly enough of my time at the Oregon Caves. I relished every time I got to venture into those dark limestone caverns, hearing the heavy gate swing shut behind me but knowing I’d just passed through a door to a world of strange geology, animals, and history. The opportunity to talk about the many geologic wonders of my home state brought out a new person in me. I was more invested each day. After struggling for so long to find a way to channel my passions into an actual paid job, I wasn’t taking anything for granted.
The cave wasn’t the only gift that I received from my internship. Other opportunities for growth kept coming. I co-led a workshop for teachers from all over the nation about climate change and its impacts on the caves. I got to shadow researchers from the Klamath Bird Observatory as they banded songbirds, surveyed bats with the Resource Management staff, and helped prepare an astronomy program for a night sky event. For my final project, I streamlined the geology trainings – helping to explain how our caves work to future guides, hoping they would find it all as fascinating as I did.
The five months I spent at the Oregon Caves were some of the happiest in my life. I experienced such a sense of camaraderie and belonging. I hadn’t realized how rich and full every day can feel when you are surrounded by work and people that you love.
My Scientists in Parks term at the Oregon Caves put me on a new path. Growing up, I never considered working for the National Park Service (NPS) as a career. I was never the kid who went to the National Parks on road trips. But after my term at the Oregon Caves, I recognized that there was potential for me in the NPS. Because of my Scientists in Parks internship, I am now the Community Volunteer Ambassador at Zion National Park in Utah —another Conservation Legacy position. I hope to continue my NPS career and become an official ranger. Conservation Legacy and its programs opened up a new world—one where I can feel pride and joy in the work I’m doing. D
It was our last night of hitch. We had decided to cowboy camp all together, since the weather permitted it. Looking up at the stars, my friends asked me to sing them to sleep. I was honored to oblige and in no time, we were waking up to hike out the next day. The nighttime serenade reminded me of my previous season, where we’d wrapped ourselves into a tarp with our sleeping gear and asked our crew leaders to tell us a bedtime story. They told us a beautiful story about how the stars came to be. Before falling asleep in our sleeping bags and tarp, we pointed out all the constellations we knew and made little jokes about how they were all friends
living out their own stories in the night sky. My co-member reminded us of the gorgeous blue moon we saw the last time we cowboy camped altogether. Our crisp, frosty fingers begged to be warmed up in the down sleeping bags…Alas, they had to make do with the warmth of our laughter as we pointed at all the things making our imaginations stir.
Working on a trail crew is the adventure that quells the needs of all your inner people. You get sleepovers and games for your inner child. You get the feeling of being SO cool, which your inner teenager is stoked about. You get to pick up skills that your adult self pulls together to get through life. On top of all of that, you develop a relationship with living beings
that might otherwise go unnoticed. Looking back on all the stories from all of my seasons, the question that stands out the most for me is: ‘How...the heck...did I get here?’
In 2014, I was hiking with my family in the Front Range area of Colorado when we came across a group of people digging check steps into a hillside. The soil was sandy, and the trail was slowly sliding into nonexistence. My mom asked the first person she saw, “Is this a volunteer group? What are you doing out here?” The leader of their crew explained, and as we thanked them for their hard work and continued our hike, my mom said to me, “you should do that.” I nodded and offered a slightly curious, mostly sarcastic: “yeah.”
I should explain, my friends, the nature of my lack of enthusiasm. The experiences that carried me through my young adult and teenage years made it perfectly clear to me that the chances of survival were slim. At 16 years old, I witnessed an event in which 7 people lost their lives. By the age of 21, I had attended 3 ceremonies to celebrate the lives of classmates and friends who are no longer with us. My attempts at making plans for my life were lackluster at best. Anytime anyone asked about a five-year plan, my answer was different. I connected my future to the plans of others, much like you'd tie a life boat to a barge when you’re lost out at sea. Many loved ones recommended career options, and I tried a good many of them out as I struggled to figure out what I needed. I had no real sense of where I was going. When you lose sight of The Point, it’s tough to calibrate your compass to any kind of direction. The moment I showed up at my first member season, there was a spark. Not enough to light a flame yet, but
the brief shot of light was exciting to me. The sense of camaraderie I felt mere moments after meeting people seemed out of a novel. A novel where you know the characters are destined to become friends because otherwise, you wouldn’t know so much about them right off the bat. We had finished our first week of work and another crew was spending their weekend in the park we were working at. We saw the van parked at the trailhead as we were driving, and immediately decided that we would sprint at them and hug them. I remember someone asking, “How do we know who to hug?” to which someone replied, “Just hug the first person you see!” The Point, it seemed to me, was to love.
This silliness continued in my second season when we painted our faces with charcoal from our campfire mixed with water. More sparks flew as I made more and more friendships with people who, like me, were devout fantasy fans. One of my crew leaders encountered a wooden sword, so we stacked rocks around the base and made a sign that said: “Whosoever pulleths this sword from the stone is the one true king and ruler of Camelot.” (When you don’t have internet, you do the best you can with literary quotes from the 15th century, accepting that they will not be correct.) Over the years, I have been a Lost Boy, a desert survivor, a hobbit walking a thin trail on a steep canyon wall, an elf singing to the trees, a Jedi lifting rocks with my mind, a knight of any shaped table, and so many other characters. Fueled with silly games to pass the time, the stories we invented grew to new heights. The Point must be to play.
By now, the sparks had all conjoined into a flame. I was hungry for the inner workings
of nature. My first seasons introduced me to podcasts, which led to nonfiction books, then taking a turn at documentaries, I was reintroduced to my love for museums. I found myself building a library of knowledge in my inner world. Collecting facts and figures, cleaning them up real nice, and putting them in my brain became as easy as breathing. Stored with such care, they were ready at a moment’s notice to take out and admire with people who would appreciate them. In finding new flowers, I was observing their shape and color, trying to deduce the pollinators that would be attracted to it. When we came across a strange bug, we would try to figure out what those unbelievably large pinchers were used for. The Point, definitively: to learn. It’s not too big of a jump from learning to
Conservation Corps North Carolina Vegetation Monitoring Crew members taking a break on the beach during a project in the Croatan National Forest.
previous page: Arizona Conservation Corps crew 350 at lunch in Oak Creek Canyon.
teaching. I rejoined the Corps a few years back and took up a role in a supervisory position. I still find myself laying in the grass, looking up at the stars, and pointing at things. There’s a lot more pointing involved in teaching than I initially thought: pointing out the hinge of a trail. Pointing out the systems that oppress. Others pointing out things that I need to change. Pointing out bias. Pointing out a beautiful owl that just landed on the cottonwood tree near camp. So many points. And I still haven’t quite put my finger on the one thing. ‘The Point’ of everything continues to grow, change, and evolve for me. Occasionally, I still get some sparks that turn into new flames of new passions, and I think to myself: “Ah....THIS is the point.” But who knows? We’re all still figuring it out. D
By Ancestral Lands Conservation Corps Individual Placement Kaitlin ‘Murph’ Murphy (she/her)
Yá’át’ ééh, Shí éí Kaitlin Murphy yinishyé. Kiis’áanii nishłį. Kin łichíin’ii bá shíshchíín. Akot’ éégo asdzání nishłį. Tiis’ Tsozi nideeshgiizh dęę’ naashá. Albuquerque kééhast’į. Valle de Oro National Wildlife Refuge naashnish.
Hello folx, I’m Kaitlin “Murph” Murphy. I’m Hopi-Diné and I’m from Crownpoint, New Mexico.
I am a Biological Technician Individual Placement Intern with Ancestral Lands Conservation Corps (ALCC) currently stationed at Valle de Oro National Wildlife Refuge in Albuquerque, NM.
I spend most of my days as a member of the biology team at the refuge caring for trees and hanging out with birds while restoring native semi-arid grasslands and riparian forest habitat within the Middle Rio Grande Valley. When started here a year and a half ago, I had no idea just how far this position would take me.
Back in December of 2022, I was asked to participate in a pilot study to survey a potentially threatened plant species at Grand Canyon National Park. I didn’t realize in that moment what a once-in a-lifetime chance it was to take a river trip down
the Colorado, but for five days in March 2023, I got to do just that. I tagged along with partners from the National Park Service, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, the Hualapai Tribe, Grand Canyon Youth and more. We teamed up to search for the Las Vegas Bearpoppy (Arctomecon califonica) species. Traveling by both water and land, I saw over 50 river miles in the lower basin of the Canyon, including portions of ancestral and traditional lands of Hualapai nation.
Before my position with ALCC, I had never done an overnight camping trip, let alone spent a whole week backcountry camping in the Grand Canyon. This trip definitely tested my limits and literally put me right at the edge of my comfort zone. But traversing the Canyon and spending time with friendly strangers who shared good laughs and good food made the experience all the more memorable. Even now, knowing how uncomfortably cold I was that first night and how sore I was on the last day from scaling the steep canyon walls, I would wholeheartedly go back and do it all over again. If not for me, then definitely for science, and for the cute, fuzzy plant along the way. D
It’s 5 a.m., August 2017.
I’m loading up my beat-up car with the gear I’ve been packing and unpacking for weeks. The two-hour drive from Knoxville to Chattanooga is dark, and I’m full of nerves. I was a college dropout who had embraced a life of service industry chaos and antics. For years, the work and social circles I was involved in were destructive and self-deprecating. I decided to join Southeast Conservation Corps (SECC) when I hit a low point in my life, one of those “there’s nothing left to lose,” moments.
A few days later, I was pulling a crosscut saw through fresh poplar, cooking dinner for eight on the camp stove, and trying to eat my pasta with hands shaking from swinging tools all day. Hiking, hauling rocks, and carrying tools was exhausting, but my sore muscles felt good. I listened to my crew chat in a circle in the grass and remember feeling distinctly like that was the first time in my adult life that I was around people who were laughing and enjoying each other’s company in such a wholesome way.
Four short months after that first hitch, I finished my season with SECC and said goodbye to my crew, wondering what was next. On the recommendation of my former crew leader I hesitantly applied for a leader position the following spring. To my surprise, I was hired and led crews consecutively through the spring, summer, and fall of 2018. I truthfully struggled through that year. The work was so much fun, and the
Photos and story by Southeast Conservation Corps alumni Natalia Muglia (she/her)
humor and beauty in each day helped me through some significant grief in my personal life, but it seemed there was always a new obstacle. I often stayed up past midnight with my coleaders to discuss problematic crew dynamics, occasionally wondered if I should quit, and cried in my tent at night more than once. Nevertheless, support and encouragement were revealed to me in unexpected ways. I knew I was growing and learning, and with each change of seasons I was more certain that my decision to stick around was the right one.
The following year brought an even bigger surprise when I was offered a position as Field Supervisor with SECC. Just a year and a half prior, I had thought to myself: “that’s the dream job,” and figured it was unattainable or at best a very long-term goal. I was still processing the previous year. I also wasn’t getting along with my immediate supervisor, and was going through another tumultuous time outside of work. Eventually, things started to shift. That supervisor slowly turned into a much-appreciated mentor. Meanwhile, I was loving the rest of the job: ownership of the shop and tools, getting my hands dirty alongside crews, and laying out new trail. Experiences I had collected from leading my own crews became tools I used to coach new leaders. This lent me the opportunity to reflect and learn from my past mistakes as I tried to help others find direction. While in this position I worked with 29 crews. They all taught me incredible lessons, but I missed moving rocks and swinging a pick all day. So, I sold pretty much everything I owned, packed up my car, and eventually landed a job with the US Forest Service on the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest in Washington.
As expected: we cut trees, built steps, made bridges. But I felt like I wasn’t being challenged. So in the Spring of 2022, when I received a phone call about a position as the Forest Service foreman for a California Conservation Corps Backcountry Trails crew,
my heart knew immediately that I wanted to give it a try. I packed up yet again and moved into my crusty barracks on the Inyo National Forest. In this position, I was able to advance in my federal career while contributing to a legendary program. All of our work had to be set in pumice (which, although technically rock is pretty much just a liquid). It needed to be suitable for dozens of mules to walk over daily and withstand feet of snow and continuous snowmelt in the spring. Finally, I was challenged again.
I was constantly sunburnt and breathing in pumice dust, but the ability to laugh and cohabitate with my crew, construct large-scale structures, and build relationshipsintentionally again was beautiful to me. I loved the intensity of the work. What I did not love was where I was living, and the constant upheaval of my life and daily routine. I was tired of roaming around out West. I missed the South. I missed the warm creeks, humid, 90-degree afternoons, watching the light filter through deciduous trees. I longed for the days of being up to my elbows in soil teeming with biodiver-
sity. I missed my family and friends. While in California, I had also applied for a permanent position with the U.S. Forest Service. I was hesitant about it because I knew that it would put me farther from daily fieldwork, but when a Recreation Management position on the Pisgah National Forest was offered to me, I knew I couldn’t pass it up. The rocks and dirt would be there for me to come back to.
That’s how I ended up where I am now: managing dispersed recreation and trails in the Appalachian Ranger District. The work is very different. The tasks at hand are often daunting, but I remind myself of the lessons I learned at SECC: to be patient with myself as I adjust, to practice grace and humility, and to allow space for mistakes from myself and others. To retain my passion for affecting positive change—both on the landscape and in people’s lives. To work hard, have grit, and to laugh. Most of all, I think of the people I’ve had the privilege to work alongside, and I am deeply thankful for that 5 a.m. drive to Chattanooga that changed the trajectory of my life. D
Conservation Legacy’s Western Region Operations Assistant weighs in on a few of the trials and tribulations of being a newbie corpsmember.
There are two pieces of advice a seasoned trail worker will offer a beginner. First, get comfortable wiping your most sensitive parts with toilet paper alternatives in the field (likely behind a bush) and practice your aim. And second, make sure your boots are broken in before hiking in them.
Maybe it’s counter-intuitive, but I have found that the first piece of advice is easier to incorporate into your daily routine than the second. Using stones in the place of toilet paper is much more comfortable than you might think, but I’d spring for a patch of moss if given the choice. However, hiking in brand-new boots is a punishment I’d never wish on anyone. What these pieces of seemingly random advice have in common is that I’ve learned and suffered both firsthand in the field. These are lessons I still
carry with me. Using the “facilitrees” in the woods is, in my opinion, one of life’s greatest simple pleasures. I can’t think of anything more relaxing than secluding yourself in an alcove of trees, digging a tiny grave for your dinner from the night prior, and potentially staring over a nice ledge with a view if your time management skills are advanced enough. It’s cathartic, and I feel as though it resets whatever chakra is closest to my gut, leaving me at peace with myself and the environment. I’ve come to realize that most people aren’t nearly as comfortable with this ritual, and I’d love to see more of them embrace the call of the wild.
My first crew season (out of 12 before joining staff in 2018), I assumed I was prepared to work in the woods, an activity I didn’t much enjoy until I did it for a living. I camped quite a bit growing up (a
privilege I had assumed would give me a leg up in my new-found career) but was unprepared for the rigors of living AND working outside. I was unknowingly hurtling towards a life-changing experience full of challenges and rewards. “You’ll get used to it,” I thought, trying to convince myself on the 83-hour long Greyhound ride to my first orientation. I snagged a fleeting glance of a person on the side of the freeway utilizing a cardboard box for a toilet on the way out of
Houston, and whispered to myself with a wobbly conviction: “If he can do it, so can I.” I wasn’t afraid, just apprehensive. Modern comforts of the two-ply variety are a tempting siren, and anyone who says otherwise is either a liar or has rejected the joys of spending hours on their porcelain throne just for the heck of it. I dreaded it the way you dread a dentist appointment; you never look forward to it, but once it’s over, you feel significantly cleaner and you vow, (in vain) to change your habits to make the next time easier on yourself. The following is a non-comprehensive list of the lies I whispered to myself to make my outdoor bathroom experience better.
“I’ll never forget toilet paper again.”
“A cold baby wipe first thing in the morning is awesome.”
“I’ll always check for pine sap on rocks before using them to wipe again.”
“No one saw me….” (what the crew overheard as they could most definitely see me.)
Once I got used to it, this method was undoubtedly better for my health and my spirits, especially during a challenging time in my life. my first season was all backcountry trail work in a corner of the United States I had never been to. I was 17 years old and was convinced this season was going to be incredibly simple. I was a labrador in a suburban backyard who discovered the latch hadn’t been locked on the gate—I took off to chase the mailman down the street and never looked back. My bathroom journey was a mountain made out of a molehill. The reality was far less daunting than my
imagination made it out to be. However, I arrived for my first trail crew season without broken-in footwear. I laced up the cheapest steel-toe work boots I could find for the very first time as we headed out on our six-mile hike to camp. To add insult to injury, this choice was made out of arrogance, not ignorance. Everyone knows to break in your boots before a big hike, yet somehow, I convinced myself that I was above all of that—that I was not a beginner and that I had superior foot genes. Y’all, “Superior foot genes” do not run in my family...That was simply extreme hubris.
After that first hike, instead of a validated superiority complex, I had open, oozing sores on my ankles and toes barely one month into a four month season. Scars still remain on said feet even as I write this now. Every day we hiked at least four miles, mostly uphill, and with every excruciating step I cursed myself. “You’ll never do this again,” I hissed in my own ear amidst all my huffing and puffing, and every time I had to peel bloody hiking socks off of my feet, I added: “You did this to yourself”. If one good thing came out of this experience, I’ve never made the same mistake again. If two good things came out of this experience, I now know which rocks wipe the cleanest.
Those instances of overwhelming ego— the moments when you forgo basic common sense in favor of convenience or arrogance—can be pivot points for disaster in some areas of life. These moments could be as small as forgetting toilet paper while hiking and sheepishly returning to camp with only one sock on, or as damning as going for a hike in Phoenix in June without water and being rescued barely an inch from death. In
nature, the consequences can be hilarious or deadly. When you’re on a trail crew, it’s all about riding the thin line between those two possibilities into the sunset on de-rig day.
As I approach my nine-year mark of conservation field work, I reflect on those early days and the conflicts I had in the field. Not only with the environment and my crew, but with myself. It’s one thing to learn a lesson in life and for that lesson to be hard: falling off of a bike, saying something to a loved one you can’t take back, etc. Those lessons hurt. Nobody likes to beg the crew for spare toilet paper like a child in a Dicken’s novel (please sir, may I have another square?) But it’s another thing to think you’ve learned something and be proven wrong. My blistered feet were the result of gambling on a choice I assumed had very little importance, and I lost that gamble. I see this happen in the field all the time: the new member who doesn’t want help setting up their tent and so it fills with water after 25 seconds in a storm, the person who defaults to using the tools “the way they always have” even if it’s unsafe, the person who should never be allowed to cook rice for eight people ever again.
I’ve found that you don’t get to pick your lessons in life—especially not in the field. You can study for the “catholes in the woods” test as much as you want, but it’s not going to be much help if “break in your boots” is the lesson that you’re destined for. Now, instead of trying to anticipate the next challenge I’ll experience in the field, I just try to be open to the inevitability of it and work to find the light at the end of the tunnel. Usually, that light is a perfect place to dig a latrine. And I’ve made my peace with that. D
