I recently learned that Washington State has a grant called No Child Left Inside. It funds programs to get kids outside.

Wait. What?! A grant to fund programs to get kids outside?!

The irony of that hit my Gen X sensibilities square in the chest. A full head-tilt moment. I, and most of my generation, lived outside. Sometimes by choice, sometimes by parent command: “Go outside and play, it’s a nice day.” You didn’t have to tell me twice. Now, apparently, we have a grant for it.

Let me tell you about my childhood, and then I’ll tell you about the day I found out not everyone had one like mine.

I grew up on a bike. If it was ten miles away, I rode there. I sold Girl Scout cookies door-to-door by myself, no parent, no cell phone (there were no cell phones), and nobody worried, because there was nothing to worry about that a “be back by dark” couldn’t cover. I picked wild blackberries. I went fishing. I walked through fields on the way to a friend’s house, keeping half an eye out for rattlesnakes I never once actually saw.

Then there was the creek behind our house. I spent entire summers in it. That creek was the source of some of my best childhood memories, full stop. As an adult, I’ll admit it’s probably about ankle deep. At seven, though, it was an entirely different creek. Any hole over my knees was Deep, capital D, full of unknown things, and my imagination filled in the rest. Same creek, same water, every single day, yet somehow a completely different adventure depending on what I’d decided lived down there that afternoon.

Before the creek in Oregon, in Lake Tahoe, it was mud pies. Hose on the dirt, the best gooiest mud puddle imaginable, full commitment. My mother’s policy was simple: mud time ended, and I got hosed off in the yard before one pinky toe touched the inside of the house.

My parents and grandparents knew all of this was good for me. Not in a “here’s a study” way. In a much older way, the kind of knowing that gets handed down without anyone explaining it, the same way you just know to come in when the streetlights turn on.

Fast forward a few decades. My then-husband and I brought our adopted twin boys home from Bulgaria, and pretty early on, they went outside and got gloriously, thoroughly muddy.

I thought it was wonderful. I have never been prouder.

He was horrified. “Yell at them,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“They’re getting their clothes dirty!”

This from a man who grew up in Los Angeles.

“Didn’t you ever play in the mud?” I asked, genuinely confused. “Make mud pies?”

“NO,” he said, like I’d asked if he used to juggle knives. Like the very idea was absurd.

There it is. That’s the whole article, really. Two people, same generation, one of whom spent her childhood knee deep in creek water inventing sea monsters, the other who apparently never got dirty at all. Somewhere between his childhood and mine, and definitely between mine and today’s, we lost the thing my mother and grandmother never had to think twice about. It stopped being instinctive. It became something you have to teach, encourage, and, apparently, fund.

This is not a knock down on the grant. Far from it. If a program helps a kid find a version of my creek, I am 1000% all for it. If you have been following my work, this is the core of just about every story I write and preach; we need to get kids outside and connected to nature. So, I’m glad it exists. However, here’s the irony I can’t get over: my generation, and the one before it, lived the exact childhood that decades of research now insists is good for kids, and somehow we still needed the research to say so. My parents didn’t. They just watched me come home exhausted and filthy and figured that was evidence enough.

So, here’s my actual pitch, no grant required: find a kid, and let them get muddy. If you’ve got a creek, use it. If you don’t, find whatever your town’s version is, a park, a ditch, or a patch of dirt somebody hasn’t paved yet. Skip the lecture about germs. Hose them off after, like my mother did to me.

It’s still the best program there is, and it’s still free.

I grew up outside. Not because someone declared that “fresh air builds character,” but because the outdoors was simply where life happened. There were no curated childhood enrichment programs. No electronics. No “forest school” (unless you count a pack of kids building dubious forts out of downed branches). Just dirt, curiosity, and adults who somehow knew that wonder doesn’t bloom under a roof.

In Lake Tahoe, my earliest empire was mud—glorious, sticky, unapologetic mud. If you turned a hose on a patch of dirt just right, you could create an entire world: mountains, valleys, rivers, and culinary masterpieces, as long as you didn’t mind the grit. The neighbor kid and I would sculpt and splash until our fingers wrinkled and the earth dyed our knees, and the rest of us, a permanent shade of brown. Mud time ended only when Disney’s Animal Kingdom came on. Then the hose got pointed directly at me, because my mother—wise woman that she is—had a strict “no sediment in the living room” policy.

Southern Oregon expanded my kingdom into something wilder. Behind the house ran a small creek—mid-shin deep to me, which may as well have been the Amazon. We crossed it like we were explorers, each step a test of balance and courage. The boys swore a monster lived in the deeper hollow where the bottom disappeared, and despite the theatrics, I checked that dark patch every time. The polliwogs, and our constant fascination with trying to catch them, thrived. So did our imaginations.

But the outdoors wasn’t just my playground; it was my classroom. My dad, a science teacher, had a way of explaining the world that made even the “boring” things alive. Rocks were never just rocks; they were stories. Trees weren’t background scenery; they were ancient companions. He turned every walk into a lesson and every lesson into an adventure. Safety, respect, curiosity—all taught in real time, where learning sticks.

So when I took Hunter’s Ed at ten, it wasn’t a stretch. It also wasn’t a classroom. It was practical, lived, responsibility-heavy education: how to carry a rifle safely, how to cross a fence, and how to treat a firearm like the serious tool it is. No slideshows, just adults teaching kids the things that matter because those things kept you alive and kept others safe.

Then there were my grandparents.

My grandfather could identify bird calls through closed windows. My grandmother treated every plant like an old friend. They passed knowledge of the outdoors down the way some families pass down heirlooms—with reverence, humor, and the unspoken promise that if you love something, you take care of it.

They were never heavy-handed about it. They didn’t preach “conservation” because they didn’t need the word. They lived it. They picked up trash before anyone invented hashtags for it. They taught me to fish with patience instead of pressure. They showed me how to look at a landscape and actually see it.

And then there was forestry camp—the week that solidified everything I instinctively knew. Tree identification, stream ecology, compass reading, and night skies so wide they made me feel like the world was both infinite and intensely personal. I still identify Douglas fir by its “bacon bark,” a skill I use more often than algebra.

Growing up outdoors didn’t just shape me.
It rooted me.
It made me curious.
It made me resilient.
It made me believe in stewardship before I ever heard the word.

And most importantly:
It showed me what mentorship in the outdoors really looks like.

It’s not a lecture.
It’s a hand reaching out over a log.
It’s someone saying, “Here, try this.”
It’s a grandparent showing you how to bait a hook.
It’s a parent kneeling down to identify a track.
It’s an adult trusting a kid enough to hand them responsibility—and sticking around to guide them.

That’s the thread that ties every good outdoor memory together.
And it’s the thread that’s fraying for a lot of kids today.

Why I’m Telling You This Now

Because childhoods like mine aren’t automatic anymore.

A lot of kids don’t have a creek to explore or a forest to camp in.
A lot of parents don’t have the time, energy, or resources to teach outdoor skills the way previous generations did.
And a lot of families simply don’t know where to start.

That’s where organizations like the Inland Northwest Wildlife Council (INWC) matter—whether you live in Washington or not.

They’re the bridge between “I wish my kid had outdoor experiences like that” and “Hey, look, they actually do.”

Here’s what INWC does, in real human terms:

• Kids Fishing Day: 1,000+ kids learning to cast, catching their first fish, building confidence, and connecting with nature.

• Camp Reed education: wildlife skulls, skins, tracks, questions, curiosity—the messy, tactile kind of learning that sticks forever.

• Mentorship: connecting experienced outdoorspeople with kids and teens who want to learn.

• Hands-on stewardship: habitat restoration, field education, real involvement—not just theory.

None of this is abstract. None of it is corporate.
It’s volunteers giving kids the kind of experiences that shaped me and maybe shaped you too.

And Yes, This Ties Into Giving Tuesday—it’s important.

Giving Tuesday is a day about generosity in all its forms.
Not pressure.
Not urgent.
Not guilt.

Just a moment to ask:
What do we want to pass on?

If you feel connected to the idea of kids discovering mud, creeks, wildlife, and responsibility…
If you believe the next generation deserves more than screens and schedules…
If you know firsthand what mentorship outdoors can do…

Then supporting organizations that make that possible is one way to pass it forward.

The INWC is the one I work with, believe in, and see making a real impact for real families.

If you want to learn more about us or support our youth education efforts, you can do that here on Giving Tuesday:

Give Today

But whether you donate or not, here’s something simple you can do this week:

Take a kid outside.
Show them something small—a track, a leaf, a bird call.
Tell them a story about your childhood.
Let them get muddy.
Let them wander.
Let them find that spark.

Because the wild things still grow—as long as someone shows them where to look.

Morning Mayhem and the Bird-Feeder Circus

It’s early morning, and the world outside my window is wrapped in frost. From the porch, I can see the maple tree in my front yard, its bare branches holding a line of bird feeders like ornaments of motion and life. A mug of coffee warms my hands as I settle into my blanket and wait for the regulars to arrive.

They never disappoint. The chickadees always come first, polite and quick, darting in and out like they have somewhere more important to be. Then come the flickers, loud and confident, followed by the Steller’s Jays—the noisy bullies of the group—who announce their arrival like a brass band. The magpies sweep in not long after, less aggressive but utterly shameless, scooping up as much as they can carry. And down below, on the snow-packed ground, the quail and mourning doves gather patiently, waiting for the feeders to spill their bounty.

Sometimes I think the birds up above are dropping seed on purpose, tossing breakfast to their ground-dwelling friends like generous hosts at a dinner party. Even the turkeys show up some mornings, big and awkward and endearing, scratching at the snow in search of the seeds that fall from above. On days when the weather turns rough, I’ll scatter extra seed for them, just enough to make sure everyone gets fed.

It’s my version of country entertainment. The cats, self-proclaimed predators of the porch, watch with laser focus, tails twitching in anticipation. Time after time they stalk, crouch, and wiggle in anticipation of their morning snack only to end up empty-pawed. Those birds are no fools. I swear you can almost hear the cats cussing under their breath as the birds lift off just in time. The birds laugh at the cats. I laugh at the daily routine, knowing that in all the years I have never seen a cat succeed.

Seeds, Surprises, and a Little Accidental Gardening

A few winters back, I started noticing a soft patch of green sprouting beneath the feeders when the snow melted. For weeks I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then it hit me—the birds had planted it. The seed that never got eaten had taken root, growing into a patch of accidental life. I hadn’t planned it, but the birds and the land had conspired to make something new. It was one of those small, quiet lessons nature offers when you’re paying attention.

I never really thought about conservation before I became the executive director for the Inland Northwest Wildlife Council. I just liked the birds and the rhythm of their visits, the color they brought to the gray days of winter. But over time, as I watched the way they moved through the seasons, I started to understand that this small ritual was its own kind of conservation. Feeding them wasn’t about saving the world; it was about showing up for it.

When people hear the word conservation, they often imagine big, dramatic things like replanting forests, restoring rivers, saving endangered species. And yes, those things matter deeply. But conservation also lives in the smaller, quieter spaces, like a maple tree full of feeders, a patch of seed-grown grass, or a morning cup of coffee shared with the wild things that trust you enough to land nearby.

For me, this is what I’ve come to think of as homegrown conservation: how small changes grow big results. It’s not about perfection or politics. It’s about the everyday choices that quietly add up. Planting native vegetation, using less water, and letting the wild things find a place in our yards. It’s about learning to see our homes not as separate from nature, but as part of it.

And the birds? They remind me of that every day. They don’t care about labels or slogans; they just live in the branches, in the snow, in the spaces we leave for them. They’re proof that when we make room for life, life finds a way to fill it.

Why I Keep Filling the Feeders (Even When the Cats Complain)

So I keep filling the feeders. The chickadees still come, the jays still squawk, and the turkeys still wobble through the yard like they own the place. The maple stands as a little outpost of life through the winter, and I get a front-row seat to the wildness that still hums around us, even here at home.

Maybe that’s the heart of conservation—not a grand mission, but a quiet partnership. A little seed, a little care, and a willingness to notice.

Reflection

There’s something quietly humbling about realizing how much life depends on the smallest of gestures, whether a handful of seed, a patch of shelter, or a bit of attention. I used to think conservation was about doing big things, but I’ve learned that the smallest things often hold the most meaning.

The birds at my feeders don’t need me to save them; they just need me to notice. To care enough to fill the feeders when the snow falls. To keep a space open for what’s wild. Maybe that’s what real conservation looks like; not control, not grandeur, but partnership.

So this winter, I’ll keep showing up, coffee in hand, blanket on my lap, watching as the world outside my window stirs to life again. The chickadees will come, the turkeys will scratch, and somewhere under the snow, new seeds are already waiting to grow.

💬 I’d love to hear from you
Do you feed birds in your yard or have your own version of homegrown conservation?
Share your stories, photos, or thoughts in the comments, I’d love to know what wild things make themselves at home in your corner of the world.

Leave a comment

When I was about twelve, my little brother and I used to spend part of the summer with our grandparents in rural northern California. They lived on a hill, not a big one by adult standards, but to us it felt like Everest. A stream trickled along the bottom, more of a glorified ditch really, but in the grand tradition of childhood exaggeration, we called it the creek.

My grandmother decided it needed to be “more like a pond.” So naturally, she enlisted her two small, dirt-streaked engineers…us. With rocks, mud, and unearned confidence, we built a dam. It wasn’t exactly Army Corps of Engineers material, but it did the job. The stream backed up, widened, and, voilà, Grandma had her pond.

Most of our adventures revolved around that hill and creek. My grandparents firmly believed that kids belonged outside. Inside was for eating and sleeping. There was no iPad to clutch, no “screen time” to negotiate unless you counted the static snow on the TV when Grandpa forgot the antenna again.

One summer, we discovered that the neighbor’s pond was teeming with tiny bluegill. Now, these were not what you’d call “eating fish.” They were about as long as a Pop-Tart is wide. But to us, they were perfect. We’d grab our poles, a bucket, and march down there like we were on a mission from Jacques Cousteau.

Here’s the best part: we didn’t even use bait. You could drop an empty hook in and bam! a fish. I handled the unhooking because my brother wasn’t touching anything that had a sharp point at the end and certainly not anything slimy, and into the water bucket they’d go. Then came the grand relocation project: the fish were carefully (and proudly) carried home and released into Grandma’s creek-turned-pond.

And wouldn’t you know it, they stayed! My grandmother, who fed anyone showing up, started feeding them every day. I have no idea what she fed them, but it worked. They learned her schedule. You could see them waiting for her, splashing and swirling like tiny, eager dogs. Sometimes, if we’d behaved and not thrown mud at each other, we got to feed them too.

Why did we do all this? Honestly, I don’t think we had a clue. It was just fun. But looking back, maybe we were budding conservationists without even knowing it. We were learning the rhythms of nature, how small actions ripple through a little ecosystem, one rock, one bucket of fish at a time.

Every spring, when the creek flooded and broke through our little dam, our bluegill swam off to the big pond downstream. And every summer, we’d rebuild, repopulate, and start over. We didn’t call it “stewardship” or “habitat enhancement.” We called it playing outside.

Now vs. Then

Today, most kids don’t get that kind of wild classroom. Between screens, schedules, and safety concerns, we’ve quietly traded curiosity for convenience. And that’s a loss, not just for kids, but for the world they’ll inherit.

Because those messy, muddy afternoons were more than entertainment. They were the foundation of care. Kids who learn to watch fish jump for Grandma’s feed grow into adults who care when the water’s too low or too dirty for them to jump at all.

So maybe the moral isn’t about bluegill or childhood ingenuity. Maybe the best way to teach conservation is to let kids fall in love with the outdoors first, to let them play, experiment, and yes, occasionally flood Grandma’s backyard in the process.

If we want future generations to protect nature, they’ve got to have their own creeks to build dams in.

How to Get Kids Back Outside

You don’t need a creek or a bucket of fish to help kids rediscover wonder. What they really need is space, the kind of unstructured, hands-on space where they can explore, imagine, and get gloriously dirty.

Here are a few ways to start:

• Start small. Nature doesn’t have to be epic. Let kids dig in the garden, follow a bug trail, or make “potions” out of leaves and mud. Wonder grows best in small patches.

• Make room for boredom. When kids have “nothing to do,” their creativity wakes up. Give them unscheduled time outside and see what they invent.

• Let them lead. Follow their curiosity, even if it means catching tadpoles or building a fort that collapses five times. Failure is half the adventure.

• Find community. Look for outdoor or wildlife groups in your area. Organizations like the Inland Northwest Wildlife Council here in Spokane, or youth mentoring programs that get families into nature. They’re great gateways for kids (and adults) who want to learn, explore, and connect.

• Keep it fun. Don’t turn every outing into a lesson. Let nature do the teaching, it’s much better at it than we are.

The truth is, kids don’t need to be taught to care about nature; they just need the chance to know it. Give them that, and they’ll find their own version of a bluegill brigade soon enough.

It started when I got invited on an all-girls fishing trip for sockeye salmon. Yum. I love salmon. I’d been fishing before, mostly with my grandparents as a kid. My brother and I used to catch tiny bluegills in the local pond and toss them back. (My grandma considered them family. Eating one would’ve been like roasting the neighbor’s cat.) So yeah, I figured this would be fun. Low stress. Some laughs, some sunshine, and maybe a cooler full of fillets.

Then I found out I didn’t have to clean the fish, our guide would do that and even bag them up for us at the end. Jackpot! This was getting better by the minute.

Still clinging to my optimism, I called our guide to confirm the plan.

“Josh,” I asked, “what time do we need to be at the dock? Like 6? 7?”

He laughed. “If you show up at 6, you’ll be watching us from the parking lot. Be at the dock by 4:00 a.m. The fish bite early.”

I stared at my phone like it had betrayed me. My alarm usually goes off at 5:30 a.m., and even that feels like a crime. A little math told me I’d have to get up at 2:30 a.m. That’s not morning. That’s a dare.

Fine. I could do this. With coffee. Probably.

We found the dock in the pitch-black stillness of predawn. I stepped onto the boat, looked around and asked what I thought was a very reasonable question:

“Josh, is there a potty on board?”

Another laugh. “Nope.”

Suddenly, all my plans for a highly caffeinated morning dissolved. If I wanted to avoid being the one who made us go back early, hydration would have to be carefully rationed. Coffee was out. Water: limited.

Josh tried to be reassuring. “If you really have to go, I can bring the boat back and then head out again.”

Absolutely not. No way was I going to be that person.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. A bold and entirely unsubstantiated claim.

We headed out toward the fishing grounds, and Josh pointed to a horizon glittering with lights. “Welcome to the floating city,” he said.

At first glance, it looked like a lakeside town waking up. But no, it was nearly a hundred boats, tightly packed, rods bristling in every direction, each one trying to claim a patch of water in the Brewster Pool at the confluence of the Columbia and Okanogan Rivers.

“Do we drop anchor and fish?”

“Oh no,” Josh said. “Not here.”

I must’ve looked confused, so he added, “Anchoring’s not illegal, but with this many boats packed into a small area, it’s pretty much frowned upon. Makes it hard to maneuver without someone’s anchor line getting in the way.”

Trolling it was.

Trolling, as it turns out, involves lowering multiple lines (usually six or more), all decked out with colorful jigs, flashy plates, and extra-fragrant shrimp bait, then slowly moving the boat so the shiny stuff and stinky bait create motion that attracts the fish.

Now imagine a hundred boats all doing that. At once. Some were guide boats like ours. Some were small family skiffs. I even saw a couple of kayak anglers—what I can only assume were either very brave or very confused people. And everyone was moving. Constantly. In no discernible pattern. With lines sticking out like porcupines.

“Josh, this is chaos. How do you not run into each other?”

He shrugged. “It happens.”

A boat cruised by close enough that we could’ve shared snacks.

“And how do the lines not get tangled?”

He smiled. “The day’s not over yet.”

I tried to find logic in the madness. It reminded me of high school cruising, up one side of town and down the other, chatting from car windows. At least on Main Street you had lanes. Here, boats were cutting across each other, stopping randomly (no brake lights on boats, in case you’re wondering), and basically playing a game of high-stakes bumper cars with fishing lines. Then Josh shouted, “Fish on!”

Three pairs of eyes widened in panic. The ten minutes of “Fishing 101” we’d received at 4:00 a.m. evaporated like fog. My only internal monologue was: Don’t let go of the rod. Don’t let go of the rod.

Luckily, Josh was both patient and talented. He coached us through the chaos, talking us into our first catch like a fish-whisperer-slash-therapist. One salmon down, several to go.

Between strikes, we were introduced to what I now call Fish TV. (Josh calls it livescope, but let’s be honest… Fish TV is what it really is.).

It’s a screen mounted on the boat that shows real-time underwater activity—lines, bait, fish. Little yellow blips appear as the fish move through. Bigger blip? Bigger fish. We were instantly glued to it. “Look at all those fish!” someone shouted. It was better than Netflix.

“Josh,” I asked, “why is everyone packed into this exact spot? Why not spread out?”

“This is where the sockeye gathers before heading up the Okanogan River,” he explained. “The water here is cooler and more oxygenated than what they’re heading into, so they pause and stage here. If you're going to catch them, this is your window.”

Sockeye salmon are born in freshwater streams like the Okanogan, migrate to the ocean to mature, and then return, sometimes hundreds of miles upstream, to spawn and die. Their journey is timed and tuned to specific environmental cues. When water conditions or ocean survival rates are off, the entire run can be affected.

Translation: It’s fish central. But only for a little while.

And that’s what happened this year. The 2025 sockeye return was significantly below average. In response, the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife reduced the daily limit from four to two and closed fishing from Sunday to Tuesday to help more fish reach the spawning grounds. These restrictions hit local guides and fishing-dependent families hard. For some full-time guides, the reduction could mean losing up to a third of their seasonal income. But at the same time, conserving the fishery now helps ensure there’s still a fishery next year for everyone.

“Fish on!” someone yelled again.

This time it was me. Sort of.

The rod bent hard at the front of the boat, right where there’s enough space to kneel, but standing without falling in becomes a challenge. I scrambled to the bow like a woman on a mission, dropped to my knees, and grabbed the rod like it was a lifeline. My knees were instantly regretting this. But I reeled. Braced. Repeated.

Josh moved into position with the net. “Hang on, you’ve got it…”

And we landed it! Success!

“You can get up now,” Josh said.

I couldn’t.

“My knees don’t unfold that fast,” I muttered.

I was stuck. A victorious, slightly cramping statue with a fish.

Mid-morning, the salmon turned moody. Fish TV still showed them swimming around, but they ignored our lines like bored toddlers ignoring vegetables. We tried everything; fresh stinky bait, different colored gear, but nothing worked.

Tensions rose along the floating city. We passed three boats untangling their lines like bad spaghetti. Another guide hastily reeled in as a boat veered too close.

A group of grumpy guys gave Josh the stink eye as we cruised past.

“Jesus loves you!” Josh yelled cheerfully.

I raised an eyebrow.

“They don’t know how to respond,” he said. “Takes the steam out of it.”

After six hours of trolling, giggling, learning, sweating, and dehydrating, I finally cracked. The porta potty back on shore was calling my name. Loudly.

“Josh, I need to go back.”

Luckily, the others were ready to tap out, too. It was hot, the fish were done with us, and I was now more salt than human.

We motored back with six beautiful sockeye in the cooler and a handful of new fishing skills I didn’t know I needed. I also walked away with a few hard-earned truths:

• If you’re fishing Brewster, go with a guide who knows what he’s doing and knows how to laugh. (Thank you, Josh.)

• Do not drink anything before getting on the boat. Seriously. Not a drop.

• Ask questions. Learn things. The fish aren’t the only ones who come away changed.

On the drive home, I decided I’d had a great time, but maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t built for 2:30 a.m. wake-up calls. The fish market sounded like a perfectly reasonable alternative.

As I was writing this story, my phone rang.

“Hey, it’s Josh. I’ve got a couple spots open for King salmon in September. Supposed to be an above-average year. You in?”

“…Yeah.”

Most people don't ask. They assume the path is already laid out, cut clean through the brush, and they just need to follow the markers. But every so often, someone stops, squints at the horizon, and wonders if there’s another way through. Another way to serve, to show up, to do good.

Last fall, a local teen preparing for a rite of passage; getting his Eagle Scout rank & badge, asked that question.

“Is that the only option?”

The usual path would’ve been to build another wheelchair-accessible platform. The Inland Northwest Wildlife Council (INWC) has become known for these: solid, simple structures set in the forest or near water for anyone who wants to fish, birdwatch, or just be part of the world without having to hike into it. A good project to give back.

But this time, something else was in the wind.

At the same time the question was being asked, INWC had been in quiet conversation with folks who knew the river better than most—biologists who work along the Pend Oreille River. They spoke of an opportunity: wood ducks, and the lack of places for them to nest.

Wood ducks are cavity nesters, the wild equivalents of renters with very specific needs: mature trees near water, soft bottoms, safe entries, and no raccoons crashing the party. Trouble is, the neighborhoods they like best have been bulldozed, drained, or simply aged out of the system. So, when those homes disappear, the ducks don’t nest. And when they don’t nest, they don’t stay. And when they don’t stay, you start losing more than just a bird.

Easy choice, we said yes.

Yes, to a different kind of project. Yes, to nesting boxes. Yes, to kids building things for birds they may never see. Yes, to giving a species a hand, even when there’s no ribbon-cutting ceremony at the end.

A crew came together; teens, parents, old hands, and folks who knew how to use a drill without cracking the plywood. Twenty-five boxes were cut, sanded, screwed together, and stacked like promises waiting for a weather break. That break didn’t come easy. Hunting seasons started, then ended. Snow fell. School got busy. Plans shuffled. Months passed.

Then finally, on a warm July morning, a small team headed out along the river. The air was fresh with a light fog coming off the river. The sun just rising to bring the heat and mosquitos big enough to carry away a small dog. With ladders and sweat, each nest box was placed about six to eight feet up, one per tree, strung along a quarter mile of quiet bank. No fanfare. Just good work.

Why does this matter?

Because wood ducks don’t need fanfare. They need holes in trees. Or boxes, built by strangers who care enough to improvise. They need places to lay eggs where snakes and raccoons can’t reach. They need stable temperatures and dry nests. They need us to notice when the old ways of nesting disappear, and lend a hand to quietly build new ones.

And maybe we do, too.

Maybe we need to be reminded that not every worthy act has a nameplate. That sometimes conservation isn’t a campaign, it’s just paying attention. And that legacy doesn’t always look like a monument. Sometimes it looks like a box on a tree beside a river, placed by people who showed up on a hot day with bug spray and a ladder.

This wasn’t the biggest project INWC has ever supported. No one will write a headline about it. But somewhere next spring, a wood duck hen will peek inside a cedar box, nod in approval, and lay the future down, one egg at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, another kid will come along and ask the same question:

Is that the only option?

And maybe we’ll say again:

Not if you’re paying attention.

So, like most people in that situation, I signed up for all the job boards. I was applying left and right, sifting through openings that barely matched my background or felt vaguely tolerable. Some were promising. Some were, let’s just say, creatively mismatched. Then I saw one listing: Executive Director of the Inland Northwest Wildlife Council.

I paused. I read it. Then I moved on.

It was for a nonprofit. I’d never worked in one.
It involved leading a massive, long-running annual event. Never done that either.
I was coming from the corporate world — for-profit, traditional, Internet and communications-based.
In my head, I checked a very neat little box labeled “Not Qualified.”

A week or two later, I got an email for this same job. “Are you interested in learning more about this position?”

Sure, I thought. Maybe there’s more to it than the posting showed.

I clicked “Yes.”
A pop-up appeared: “Thank you for applying. Your resume has been submitted.”

…Oops.

At that point, I shrugged. Surely, they'd take one look at my resume and quietly move on. But a few weeks later, a new email arrived — with follow-up questions.

And not the easy kind.

• How would you change the public perception of hunters and fishermen?

• How would you increase attendance at a major community event?

• What would you do to bridge the gap between conservation and the public?

And a few others that sent my brain straight into a minor panic spiral.

I started to hear that old voice — the one that says, “You’re not qualified. You’ve never done this. Who do you think you are?”

I stared at the questions for a long time. I opened the email, I closed the email.
I even Googled “strategic nonprofit leadership response,” hoping for divine inspiration or at least some clever phrasing.

But nothing felt real. It all felt like a version of someone else — someone I thought they wanted, not the someone I actually was.

And then, quietly, I remembered who I am.

I grew up surrounded by hunters and fishermen. My dad. My uncles. My grandparents.

I didn’t hunt or fish myself, but I listened to their stories and followed them into the outdoors. I watched them dig for clams on the coast — well, they dug while my grandfather stood over them like a foreman with commentary. I watched catfish pulled from muddy canals, and I understood that fishing wasn’t always about the fish. It was about gathering, about time, about rhythm.

We always ate what we caught.
Nothing was wasted.
You respected the animal, the land, and the season.

I didn’t grow up calling it “conservation,” but that’s exactly what it was.

So that’s what I wrote in the answers to those questions.

I explained what I’d change at a big event — not from experience in event planning, but from understanding what it feels like to show up and not feel like it’s for you. I said that signage matters. That experience matters. That people need a way in.

I answered every question as myself.

Then I hit “send.”
And once again, I figured that was the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

They invited me in for an interview.
Now it was real.

I reminded myself of the same promise I’d made before: Be honest. Be yourself. Let them see exactly who they’re hiring.

During the interview, someone asked, “Have you ever been to our event?”

And I paused.
Then I said, “Yes. Once. But I didn’t go back.”

(Might as well start with the truth.)

I told them what I saw: lodges, guided hunting trips, fishing gear — great for many people, just not for me. I told them I didn’t know there were hands-on activities or interactive displays. There were no signs, no clear welcome. That was the first thing I’d change.

Apparently, that was the right answer.

Because a few weeks later, they offered me the job.

Even after I accepted, I still carried this strange belief that I wasn’t truly qualified. That there were probably a dozen better candidates. That eventually someone would notice.

But now, more than a year in, I’ve come to realize: this job was made for me.

I get to combine my love of the outdoors, my passion for education, my business experience, and my stubborn belief that authenticity still matters. I get to be part of a community that cares deeply about stewardship, conservation, and passing on tradition with integrity.

I get to speak honestly about hunting and fishing — not just as activities, but as part of a relationship with the land.
I get to listen. To learn. To lead. And to grow — as me.

If I’d let fear take the wheel…
If I’d tried to say what I thought they wanted to hear…
If I’d pretended to be someone else…

I wouldn’t be here.

And maybe you’ve felt that too — like the version of yourself that’s good enough is the one you have to edit or filter.
But here’s what I’ve learned:

You don’t have to fake it.
You don’t have to be the loudest or the smartest in the room.
You just have to show up — and keep showing up.

Because sometimes the compass wobbles.
Sometimes it feels like you’re lost.

But that doesn’t mean you’re going the wrong way.

Welcome to The Misguided Compass.
This is where I’ll share stories like this — stories about caring for the land, about finding direction even when you don’t feel fully ready, and about the quiet work of showing up with your whole self.

If this resonates with you, I hope you’ll subscribe.
I’ve got a lot more stories to tell.

And I have a feeling you’ve got some too.

From ethical hunting and fishing to the small triumphs of youth events and habitat projects, each entry explores the ways we find our direction — even when the compass doesn’t point exactly where we expected. Sometimes direction isn’t about bearings and degrees — it’s about showing up, asking better questions, and being willing to get your boots a little muddy.

I grew up on stories told at the edge of rivers and lakes, where my grandparents first taught me to notice, to listen, and to care. Now, as Executive Director of the Inland Northwest Wildlife Council, I write this journal to explore what it means to care for the land — and why that care doesn’t always follow a straight line.

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