1. Introduction – Why This Matters

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Growing up in rural Ohio, I was lucky. As a kid, the outdoors wasn’t a destination—it was the backdrop of my everyday life. I could hike, hunt, and explore on open farm fields and wooded patches within a mile of home. I wandered creeks where snapping turtles lurked under logs, watched groundhogs pop up from burrows like fuzzy sentinels, and discovered beaver dams built with a kind of patient genius I didn’t yet understand. I romped through forests, alert to every birdcall and squirrel rustle, and traced the field edges hoping to catch a glimpse of rabbits, pheasants, or quail.

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In my own wide-eyed, eleven-year-old way, I was a discoverer—a young Daniel Boone forging my own path through the wild. I went on countless fishing trips with my family. I learned to watch, to wait, to listen. Because of those experiences, I didn’t just grow up around nature—I grew up with it. And in doing so, I grew to cherish it.

Not everyone is that fortunate.

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The outdoors is more than just scenery. It’s a classroom, a playground, a place of peace and personal growth. It teaches us not only about forests, rivers, and wildlife, but also about ourselves—and how we fit into something much bigger. It shapes the way we see the world, often in ways we don’t fully realize until much later.

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That’s why it’s critical to protect and preserve our public lands and waters. Whether it’s a city park, a state forest, or a vast national wildlife refuge, these places offer opportunities to learn, to connect, and to grow. For some people, a simple walk through a park is their first step toward a deeper appreciation of the natural world. Others might paddle a quiet lake or hike a remote trail and feel something awaken in them they never knew was there. That connection—however it begins—is the seed from which stewardship grows.

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Our fish, wildlife, and natural resources offer unique recreational and learning opportunities that can’t be replicated. Public access to those experiences matters—because when people lose access, they lose connection. And without that connection, there’s little reason to care.

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Conservation starts with appreciation—and appreciation begins with experience. For many, these early experiences are the first steps toward truly valuing the natural world. It's through this appreciation that a desire to protect and preserve our natural resources takes root. These individuals become the next vital link in the chain that safeguards the outdoors for future generations. Let’s keep that chain strong!

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2. What Are Public Lands and Waters?

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When we hear “public lands,” it might conjure up images of sweeping mountain ranges, dusty BLM roads, or iconic national parks like Yellowstone or Yosemite. And yes, those are part of it—but the term covers far more than just postcard places.

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Public lands and waters are areas owned collectively by all Americans and managed by federal, state, or local governments. They exist for our shared benefit—whether that means hiking, hunting, fishing, wildlife watching, or simply sitting quietly beside a stream. They’re forests, grasslands, deserts, swamps, lakes, rivers, and coastlines. Some are wild and remote. Others are tucked between towns and suburbs, offering an escape without ever leaving your zip code.

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The federal government alone manages around 640 million acres of public land—nearly 28% of the entire U.S. landscape. These are overseen by four main agencies:

• The Bureau of Land Management (BLM), which manages the most land—about 245 million acres—mostly in the West, often for multiple uses like grazing, mining, and recreation.

• The U.S. Forest Service, with about 193 million acres of national forests and grasslands, emphasizing sustainable forestry and public use.

• The National Park Service (NPS), which protects around 84 million acres in national parks, monuments, and historical sites—places set aside specifically for preservation and public enjoyment.

• The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, responsible for over 150 million acres in the National Wildlife Refuge System, aimed at protecting critical habitat for wildlife. 

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State and local governments manage millions more acres across state parks, game lands, forests, and city green spaces. And while they may not always grab national headlines, these local areas are often the first—and most frequent—point of connection for many Americans.

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Then there are the waters. From the vast marine reserves along our coasts to inland lakes, rivers, and wetlands, public waters provide habitat for fish and wildlife, drinking water for communities, and recreation for paddlers, anglers, and nature lovers. Healthy water systems are the lifeblood of our public lands—and vice versa.

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The beauty of public lands and waters is simple: they belong to all of us. But with that privilege comes the responsibility to care for them, use them wisely, and ensure they remain open, wild, and thriving—not just for us, but for the generations that follow.

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3. From Exploitation to Conservation: A 150-Year Arc

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Before conservation was a cause, it was a consequence—of watching too much vanish too fast.

In the 1800s, America’s lands and waters were seen largely as an endless supply of resources. Forests were felled without a second thought. Bison were slaughtered by the millions, often for their hides or simply left to rot. Rivers served as dumping grounds. The idea of “running out” of nature seemed impossible—until it wasn’t.

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The turning point came when a few voices started sounding the alarm. Explorers, hunters, scientists, and even presidents began to realize that something irreplaceable was being lost. One of the earliest and most visible victories came in 1872, when Yellowstone National Park was established as the world’s first national park—an unheard-of idea at the time: to protect land not for profit, but for posterity.

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By the early 1900s, President Theodore Roosevelt became one of the most vocal champions of conservation, setting aside over 230 million acres of public land during his time in office. Under his leadership—and with guidance from pioneering conservationists like Gifford Pinchot and John Muir—the U.S. Forest Service was born, and a national ethic of stewardship started to take root.

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The decades that followed brought a cascade of landmark legislation:

• The Wilderness Act of 1964, which ensured that millions of acres would remain untouched and undeveloped.

• The Endangered Species Act of 1973, which gave threatened wildlife a fighting chance to recover.

• The Clean Water Act, Clean Air Act, and others that followed the growing awareness sparked by Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring.

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What began as a reaction to abuse slowly evolved into a proactive vision for sustainable use, restoration, and protection. These weren’t just rules on paper—they represented a cultural shift. We moved from seeing the land as something to conquer to something we are part of—and something we must protect.

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It’s a history full of hard-won victories and cautionary tales. And while we've come a long way, history reminds us that progress is never permanent—and that the conservation of our public lands and waters must be an ongoing, collective effort.

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4. The Health of Our Forests and Waters Today

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Public lands aren’t static. They breathe, burn, flood, erode, regrow, and sometimes struggle under the weight of the very world they’re meant to endure. Forests and waters are living systems—and their health tells us a lot about how we’re doing as caretakers.

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Let’s start with the forests.

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Across the U.S., our forests face both promise and peril. In many areas—especially the Northeast—forests have rebounded significantly since the heavy logging of the early 20th century. Tree cover has returned, and in some places, mature forests are reclaiming land that was once farmland. But in the West, the story is more complicated. A century of fire suppression, combined with drought and insect infestations, has turned many forests into tinderboxes. Mega-fires are becoming more common, more destructive, and harder to manage.

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We’ve learned that fire isn’t always the enemy—it's a natural part of many forest ecosystems. Agencies now use prescribed burns to mimic natural cycles and reduce fuel loads, helping forests become more resilient. But climate change is adding new layers of unpredictability, drying out soils, stressing tree species, and shifting entire ecosystems uphill or northward.

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And then there’s water.

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Rivers, lakes, wetlands, and aquifers are all interconnected—and many are under strain. Agricultural runoff, overuse, drought, and development have degraded water quality in key areas. The Colorado River, once mighty enough to carve the Grand Canyon, now often dries up before reaching the sea. Wetlands, which serve as nature’s kidneys and nurseries for wildlife, have been reduced by more than half since colonial times.

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Still, there’s hope. Restoration efforts in places like the Everglades, the Chesapeake Bay, and the Great Lakes have shown that recovery is possible—when science, funding, and political will align. Beaver reintroduction, riparian planting, and dam removals are restoring natural water flows and helping fish species like salmon and trout make a comeback in some regions.

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Forest and water health are not just ecological issues—they’re national ones. These systems affect our air, drinking water, flood control, agriculture, and outdoor recreation. When we protect them, we protect ourselves.

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5. Wildlife: The Good, the Struggling, and the Forgotten

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If you want proof that conservation works, look no further than the wild things that walk, fly, and swim across our public lands. Some of America’s greatest wildlife comebacks were made possible because we protected their habitat, gave them space, and let nature heal.

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Once nearly wiped out, species like whitetail deer, wild turkey, elk, and bison have bounced back in remarkable ways—thanks to regulated hunting, habitat restoration, and the steady hand of wildlife management. The Bald Eagle, once on the brink from DDT poisoning, now nests coast to coast. Even gray wolves, long vilified and eradicated from the Lower 48, have returned to places like Yellowstone, where their reintroduction set off a cascade of ecological benefits—from healthier elk herds to more stable riverbanks.

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But not all stories have happy endings—yet.

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Salmon runs in the Pacific Northwest are dwindling, blocked by dams and choked by warming waters. Amphibians, like frogs and salamanders, are disappearing quietly, their absence signaling trouble in the water systems. The Sage Grouse, a quirky bird of the high desert, faces slow habitat loss from energy development and invasive grasses. And many grassland songbirds, once common, are slipping away—barely noticed by the public.

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Then there are species we rarely talk about—the forgotten ones. Creatures that don’t make headlines or tote antlers but are just as important: freshwater mussels filtering rivers, pollinators like native bees, or keystone predators like cougars that help keep ecosystems in balance. Many of these species exist in the quiet corners of public lands and rely on undisturbed space to survive.

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Conservation isn’t just about protecting the charismatic megafauna. It’s about maintaining the full web of life. Every animal, from the flashy to the forgotten, plays a role in the health of our lands and waters. Lose enough threads, and eventually, the whole system unravels.

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6. Poaching, Overuse, and Modern Threats

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Not all threats to public lands wear a villain’s mask—some arrive disguised as recreation, progress, or even good intentions. Others, like poaching, have simply evolved with the times.

Let’s start with poaching.

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Gone are the days of spotlighting deer from a pickup as the dominant method—today’s poachers often use drones, night vision, thermal optics, and encrypted apps to track, kill, and sell wildlife illegally. Black markets still thrive, not just for antlers or hides, but for meat, exotic pets, and even plants. And it’s not always about profit—some poach for “thrills,” defying limits and land laws for sport.

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But while poaching grabs headlines, overuse may be the more silent and systemic threat. In recent years, America has seen a boom in outdoor recreation—more people hitting the trails, floating rivers, off-roading, and setting up camp. That connection to nature is a good thing—until it becomes too much of a good thing. Overcrowded trails lead to soil erosion. Popular campsites become littered or compacted. Off-trail travel tramples sensitive plants and wildlife nests. Social media “hotspots” turn once-secluded locations into overrun destinations.

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Add to that the growing list of modern stressors:

• Climate change is reshaping habitats, altering migration patterns, and pushing species to the brink.

• Habitat fragmentation from roads, pipelines, and energy development slices ecosystems into isolated patches.

• Invasive species like cheatgrass or zebra mussels sneak in and disrupt delicate ecological balances.

• And then there’s the looming threat of privatization—gates locked, access denied, and public land slowly sold or traded away under the radar.​

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These aren’t distant threats. They’re already happening—in quiet ways and loud ones.

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Protecting public lands and waters in the 21st century means adapting. It means smarter enforcement, better education, stronger partnerships, and clearer boundaries between use and abuse. The challenge isn’t just stopping the bad—it’s managing the good in a way that doesn’t love our wild places to death.

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7. Who’s Protecting What?

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Conservation isn’t a one-agency job—it’s a patchwork effort, stitched together by federal and state governments, nonprofit organizations, private landowners, Indigenous nations, and everyday citizens. Each brings a different tool to the table, and together they form the backbone of our public land and water protection.

At the federal level, we’ve got the big four:

• The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) balances recreation, grazing, energy development, and habitat on vast swaths of the West.

• The U.S. Forest Service (USFS) manages national forests for multiple uses—logging, recreation, wildlife, and watershed protection.

• The National Park Service (NPS) protects the crown jewels—parks, monuments, and historic places—for preservation and public enjoyment.

• The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (FWS) focuses on wildlife conservation through national refuges and species recovery programs.

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Each agency has a different mission, and sometimes they even bump heads. But their combined efforts cover everything from wilderness protection to wildfire response to reintroducing endangered species.

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At the state level, fish and game agencies oversee millions of acres and play a critical role in managing wildlife populations, issuing hunting and fishing licenses, and enforcing local conservation laws. In many cases, state agencies are quicker to act and more familiar with the boots-on-the-ground issues than their federal counterparts.

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Then there are the nonprofit powerhouses—groups like:

• Ducks Unlimited, restoring wetlands one project at a time.

• Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation, opening access and protecting elk habitat.

• The Nature Conservancy, buying land outright to preserve key ecosystems.

• Backcountry Hunters & Anglers, fighting for public access and responsible use.

• Audubon, defending birds and the ecosystems they rely on.

• And dozens of others, working at national, regional, and local levels.

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Indigenous communities have also played—and continue to play—a powerful conservation role, often grounded in stewardship philosophies that predate our laws by centuries. Increasingly, tribes are co-managing lands, restoring species, and leading watershed restoration efforts with deep ecological and cultural understanding.

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And don’t overlook the most underappreciated force of all: regular citizens. Volunteers plant trees, clean rivers, build trails, and attend public meetings. They file comments on management plans and show up to protect what matters.

Conservation works best when it’s collaborative. When the scientists, the landowners, the agencies, the nonprofits, and the guy cleaning up beer cans on a trail all see themselves as part of something bigger—that’s when we win.

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8. Hunters, Anglers, and the Funding Backbone

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When folks think about conservation, they often picture scientists in waders, park rangers in Smokey hats, or maybe the occasional nature documentary host. What they don’t picture—at least not often enough—is the camo-clad hunter buying a tag or the angler stocking up on gear at the local bait shop. But they should.

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Hunters and anglers have been the quiet financial backbone of wildlife conservation in the U.S. for nearly a century. It all started with the Pittman-Robertson Act of 1937, which placed an excise tax on firearms, ammunition, and later archery equipment. That money—hundreds of millions of dollars annually—goes straight back to the states for wildlife habitat restoration, research, and public access.

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A few years later came the Dingell-Johnson Act (1950), which did the same for fishing gear, boat fuel, and tackle. Buy a rod or a box of lures, and you’re contributing to fish habitat, hatcheries, and boat ramps—even if you never knew it.

These funds aren’t donations. They’re mandatory reinvestments from sportsmen and women who use the resource and pay to sustain it. And it's not just excise taxes. State-issued hunting and fishing licenses, stamps, and tags also generate millions more, directly supporting wildlife agencies and habitat programs.

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But the hunter’s role goes deeper than dollars.

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The North American Model of Wildlife Conservation, a philosophy that guides most wildlife management in the U.S., is built around public ownership of wildlife, regulated hunting as a tool for population balance, and science-based management. It recognizes that ethical, regulated harvest—guided by seasons, limits, and fair chase—is not a threat to wildlife, but a cornerstone of conservation.

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It’s a paradox that surprises many: The people who pursue wildlife are often the ones who protect it most fiercely. They fund the work. They follow the science. They show up to meetings. They mentor others. And they know, perhaps better than most, what we stand to lose if we don’t get it right.

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Conservation isn’t free. And for nearly a hundred years, hunters and anglers have helped foot the bill.

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9. Public Access: Use It or Lose It

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You can’t care about something you’ve never experienced. That’s why access isn’t just a convenience—it’s a cornerstone of conservation.

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Public lands and waters are only as valuable as our ability to reach them. For many Americans, a short drive to a state park, a national forest trailhead, or a boat launch on a public lake is the entry point into a lifetime of outdoor connection. But across the country, access is quietly slipping away.

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Locked gates, land swaps, no-trespassing signs, and private land blocking public entry are all chipping away at our shared spaces. In some areas, large tracts of public land are technically “ours,” but practically off-limits—landlocked behind private holdings with no legal route in. It's like owning a house with no front door.

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The loss of access doesn’t just affect hunters, anglers, hikers, and paddlers. It breaks the chain of connection. When people can’t spend time outdoors—can’t fish that stream with their kid, can’t hike that ridge with their aging father, can’t walk that trail to clear their head—they don’t form a bond with the land. And when there’s no bond, there’s no buy-in. No future stewards. No defenders when it’s threatened.

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That’s why groups like Backcountry Hunters & Anglers, TRCP, and many state agencies are fighting not just to conserve habitat, but to secure and expand access. Whether it's negotiating easements, opening landlocked parcels, or defending public-use rights, their work ensures that these places stay open to all—not just the well-connected or wealthy.

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Public lands must stay public. But they must also stay reachable, walkable, fishable, and huntable.

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Because the kid who climbs a tree in a city park today might be the wildlife biologist or game warden tomorrow. The couple that discovers their first hiking trail might go on to plant milkweed for monarchs. And the family that camps under a big, starry sky might raise a new generation that refuses to let those skies go dark.

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Access is the spark. Without it, the fire dies.

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10. Where Do We Go From Here?

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We’ve come a long way since the days of unchecked destruction, market hunting, and polluted rivers running through industrial cities. But conservation is not a finish line—it’s a relay. The baton gets passed with every generation. The question is: Are we preparing the next runners?

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The good news is, we know what works. We’ve seen species brought back from the brink. We’ve watched forests regrow, wetlands return, and rivers begin to run clear. We’ve built a model where science, recreation, funding, and stewardship can coexist—and even thrive.

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But the road ahead is not without challenges.

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Climate change is reshaping everything we thought we knew about seasons, migrations, and ecological balance. Development pressures are intensifying. Land-use debates are becoming more politically charged. Budgets are stretched. And in many communities, kids are growing up without ever skipping a rock, catching a frog, or watching a deer slip through the trees.

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So what do we do?

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We fight for access. We defend and expand public lands. We invest in youth programs, community outreach, and inclusive recreation. We vote for leaders who understand that clean water, thriving wildlife, and open space aren’t luxuries—they’re legacies. We fund what matters. And we tell the stories—of the hunts, the hikes, the family fishing trips, and the quiet moments that tie us to the land.

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But more than anything, we get people out there. Because when someone feels the tug of a trout on the line, watches an eagle soar, or stands alone on a ridgeline with nothing but wind and time, something changes in them. That’s the connection. And connection leads to care.

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The future of conservation won’t be written in policy papers or grant proposals alone. It’ll be written on trailheads, in duck blinds, along riverbanks, and under star-filled skies.

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So take someone outside. Show them what you love. Pass the baton.

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Let’s keep the chain strong.

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Closing Reflection

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I’ve walked the edges of cornfields with a rabbit in sight and hope in my heart. I’ve stood knee-deep in creeks catching trout and life lessons at the same time. I’ve sat by smoky campfires, laughing with friends and listening to them spin stories that blurred the line between wisdom and tall tales. I’ve tracked elk through snow, listened to silence that wasn’t empty, and fumbled with frozen zippers in the middle of nowhere—and I wouldn’t trade a minute of it.

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Those moments shaped me. They taught me patience, humility, awe—and just enough self-deprecating humor to survive a few hunting misadventures. But more than anything, they built a bond between me and the land. That bond isn’t something you inherit—it’s something you earn, one muddy boot print and misty morning at a time.

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If we want future generations to fight for these places, we’ve got to let them feel them. Not read about them. Not stream them in high-def. Feel them. We’ve got to give them access, give them space to roam, and give them the chance to make their own memories, mistakes, and discoveries.

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Because when that connection is made, everything changes.

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And if enough of us stay connected—we just might save it all.

 

Lee R. Davis – 2025