​Six years ago today—September 7, 2020—we officially launched Expeditions in Education.

I remember how excited we were to finally share this new adventure with the world. We had two challenges ready to go on our website, a lot of ideas, and no way of knowing exactly where the journey would take us.

Today, those first two challenges have grown into hundreds of lessons, videos, activities, publications, design challenges, virtual experiences, and classroom resources. We have traveled to extraordinary places, worked alongside wonderful educators and park rangers, and helped students discover that learning can begin with something as simple as noticing, wondering, and asking a question.

What began as an idea has become a community—and that community continues to remind us why this work matters.

To celebrate our anniversary, we have created a new FREE companion guide for Fat Bear Week, which begins September 22. Fat Bear Week: Feeding Curiosity gives educators ten fun ways to connect the bears of Katmai with observation, math, ecosystems, engineering, evidence, and student wonder. It also includes a student sheet for every activity, classroom voting materials, and links to the official Explore.org and National Park Service resources.

Download the FREE companion guide here:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sNVsFYQxK9jf7iitcaquqjCCD3sCYT5e/view?usp=sharing

Six years later, we are still learning, still creating, and still believing that the world becomes a classroom when we give students permission to be curious.

Thank you to every educator, ranger, partner, supporter, family member, and friend who has helped Expeditions in Education grow from two challenges into more than we ever imagined possible. We could not have taken this expedition without you.

Happy anniversary to Expeditions in Education—and here’s to whatever adventure comes next.

Even while I am on vacation, I still find myself thinking like an educator. Every place we visit holds a story, and I want to share ways teachers can bring some of those stories back to their students.

While visiting the Anne Frank House, I kept thinking about the chestnut tree Anne could see from the attic window.

During more than two years of hiding, Anne often looked outside at the tree, the sky, and the birds. In a life filled with fear and confinement, nature gave her a glimpse of freedom, beauty, and hope. The tree reminded her that a world still existed beyond those walls—a world hatred could not completely take away.

Anne wrote about how nature helped her feel less alone and less afraid. Her words remind us that nature is more than a beautiful backdrop. It can be a refuge, a source of courage, and a quiet reminder that life continues—even during the darkest moments.

The original chestnut tree fell in 2010, but saplings grown from it now live in places around the world. In that way, Anne’s tree continues to grow, carrying her story and reminding each of us to notice beauty, protect hope, speak out against hatred, and never forget what can happen when evil is allowed to prevail.

More than 80 years later, we still need Anne’s courage. We still need her hope. And perhaps we still need the reminder she found outside that attic window: even in darkness, keep looking toward the light.

Inspired by Anne’s connection to the natural world, I created 30 nature prompts for our educators to use with their students. These prompts can open the door to observation, writing, art, reflection, history, and meaningful conversations about hope, freedom, courage, prejudice, and our responsibility to stand up for others.

The official Anne Frank House also offers online and 3D experiences that allow students to explore the Secret Annex and learn more about Anne’s life from anywhere:
https://www.annefrank.org/en/museum/web-and-digital/

Request an online guided school visit

• 30 Nature Prompts Inspired by Anne Frank’s Chestnut Tree
• Look through a window. What part of nature catches your attention first? Why?
• If you looked at the same tree every day, what changes would you begin to notice?
• Draw or describe a tree that makes you feel peaceful.
• What do you think Anne may have felt when she looked at the chestnut tree?
• Find something in nature that reminds you to have hope. Explain your choice.
• Write a journal entry about the sky as if you could see it only through one window.
• How can watching birds help someone feel connected to the world beyond a room?
• Choose one natural object—a leaf, stone, flower, feather, or seed. What message might it carry?
• Write a letter to Anne telling her about a tree or natural place that is important to you.
• Imagine that Anne’s chestnut tree could speak. What might it have said to her?
• Describe a time when being outside helped you feel calmer or happier.
• What can a tree teach us about standing strong during difficult times?
• Observe one tree for five minutes. Record everything you see, hear, and wonder.
• Draw the view from your favorite window. Include every part of nature you can see.
• Complete this sentence: “When I spend time in nature, I feel…”
• How does the natural world remind us that life continues?
• Write a poem titled “Outside the Window.”
• Imagine receiving a sapling from Anne’s chestnut tree. Where would you plant it, and why?
• Design a small garden that could give people hope during difficult times.
• Find an example of nature growing in an unexpected place. What does it teach you about perseverance?
• Compare a tree in winter with the same tree in spring. How might its changes represent hope?
• Write about a bird flying past Anne’s window. Where might it have been going, and what might Anne have imagined?
• Choose a color from nature that represents courage. Explain your choice.
• Create a nature symbol for freedom. It could be a plant, animal, weather pattern, or landscape.
• What is something beautiful in nature that people often overlook?
• Sit quietly outdoors for three minutes. What sounds make you feel connected to the world?
• Write a message of hope that could be placed beside a tree for someone else to discover.
• Anne’s tree lives on through saplings planted around the world. How can one small living thing carry a much larger story?
• What can we do to make sure stories like Anne’s continue to be remembered?
• Finish this thought: “Even in darkness, nature reminds us…”

In our world, STEAM is the intentional integration of ideas, disciplines, people, and experiences to create learning that inspires students, encourages educators, and reminds us that nature is our greatest teacher because everything in it is connected.

When Steve and I chose to use the word STEAM, it wasn't because we believed one acronym was better than another. It wasn't about a four-letter word or a five-letter word. It was about creating a place where every educator felt valued, welcomed, and seen.

Nature has never separated learning into neat categories. A single national park teaches science through ecosystems, mathematics through patterns, engineering through beaver dams, technology through conservation, art through breathtaking landscapes, history through those who came before us, and character through stewardship. The natural world reminds us that the best learning happens when everything is connected.

That belief has shaped every program we've created over the past six years. We've watched educators from every grade level and every content area learn alongside one another in national parks across the country. The magic has never come from the letters. It has always come from the people.

For us, the "A" represents more than art. It represents awe—the sense of wonder that inspires questions, fuels curiosity, and helps us see the connections woven throughout the natural world.

Our intent has always been to use nature as the classroom, connection as the curriculum, and curiosity as the catalyst. We want students to discover that they are part of an interconnected world, and we want every educator to know they have an essential role in helping young people understand it.

Because in our world, STEAM isn't just an acronym. It's a philosophy rooted in the belief that the world's greatest lessons happen when everything—and everyone—is connected.

For years, when people have asked me what STEAM in the PARK is, my answer has been simple: "We're an outdoor education nonprofit." It's an easy answer, and it's true.

This summer has given me the gift of seeing our work through fresh eyes. Seven camps. Seven national parks. Hundreds of educators, families, children, park rangers, volunteers, scientists, and partners sharing trails, meals, campfires, and conversations. As I look back, I don't find myself thinking about lesson plans, schedules, or logistics. I think about people.

​And then I realize this story didn't begin this summer.

Since 2021, we've shared 54 STEAM in the PARK adventures in national parks across the country. Thousands of moments have unfolded on trails, around campfires, in classrooms without walls, and beside rivers, oceans, forests, deserts, and mountains. Looking back across all of those experiences, the pattern is unmistakable.

I don't remember the schedules nearly as much as I remember the people.

I think about the educator who arrived carrying the weight of an entire school year on her shoulders. You could almost see the exhaustion she was trying so hard to hide. Then somewhere between a hike, a conversation with a ranger, and an evening around the campfire, something shifted. She smiled differently. She laughed more freely. She remembered what it felt like to be curious instead of responsible, to ask questions instead of always having the answers. She went home carrying something much more valuable than classroom resources. She went home carrying hope.

I think about the families. Families who spend most of the year rushing from soccer practice to homework, from work meetings to grocery stores, from one obligation to the next. Then suddenly, they're sitting beside a campfire with nowhere else they're supposed to be. There aren't notifications demanding their attention. There are just stories, marshmallows, stars, children asking one more question, and parents answering without looking at a clock. I wonder how many families rediscovered one another simply because nature slowed them down long enough to notice each other again.

I think about the little girl at Rocky Mountain Family Camp. She walked into our opening circle, looked around at fifty-six strangers, and quietly said, "Everyone looks so happy. I hope that's what happens all week." By Friday, those strangers were hugging goodbye. Children were crying because they didn't want camp to end. Adults were exchanging phone numbers. Families were already making plans to meet again. Somehow, in just a few days, a campground had become a community.

I think about our national parks. Some people see breathtaking scenery. We see living classrooms where every trail tells a story, every ecosystem asks another question, and every landscape invites us to slow down and pay attention. These places remind us that science isn't confined to textbooks and history isn't trapped inside museums. They remind us that wonder is still alive if we're willing to look for it.

And then there are the park rangers. I wish everyone could see what we see. Week after week, they step away from overflowing inboxes, resource management meetings, visitor questions, emergency calls, and countless responsibilities to spend time with our campers. They don't simply teach. They invite us into their world. They share why the elk matter, why the forests matter, why the rivers matter, and why every salamander, sea turtle, dragonfly, prairie dog, hoodoo, glacier, marsh, and mountain has a story worth protecting. Their passion is contagious. Their knowledge is remarkable. Their generosity changes lives. I don't think we will ever fully be able to thank them for all they have given to our campers over the years.

The longer I do this work, the more convinced I become that our national parks are one of America's greatest gifts. Not simply because they are beautiful, although they certainly are. They are gifts because they remind us who we are when the noise fades away. They remind us that conservation is deeply personal, that families grow stronger when they share adventures, that communities can still be built around picnic tables and campfires, and that strangers don't always stay strangers.

Maybe that's why STEAM in the PARK has become so difficult to describe. It isn't just about education anymore. Education is still at the heart of everything we do, but it has become the doorway. On the other side of that doorway, we've found something much bigger than we ever imagined. We've found people rediscovering joy. We've found friendships that continue long after camp ends. We've found families creating stories they'll tell for decades. We've found educators who return home believing in themselves again. We've found children who suddenly believe they could become scientists, wildlife biologists, artists, teachers, or park rangers because someone believed in them first.

When I really think about it, STEAM in the PARK isn't just about conservation, although we care deeply about protecting these incredible places. It isn't just about mental wellness, though time outdoors has a remarkable way of healing tired hearts. It isn't just about teacher renewal, family connection, scientific literacy, outdoor recreation, public lands, or building communities where everyone feels welcome.

It's about all of those things, woven together.

Fifty-four camps have taught me that the scenery changes, the ecosystems change, the wildlife changes, and the people change. But what happens in those places never really does. People arrive carrying heavy things they didn't even realize they were carrying. They leave lighter. They leave connected. They leave believing that this world is still full of beauty, goodness, and possibility.

Maybe STEAM in the PARK was never just about teaching people about national parks.
​
Maybe it has always been about helping people find their way back.

A few days ago, I was scrolling and stopped on a post written by a Cherokee man. He used a word I had never heard before: Gadugi. I kept reading, and then I did what I do. I opened another tab. Then another one. I started researching because I wanted to know what the word meant and why it had stopped me in my tracks.

The Cherokee Nation describes Gadugi as “working together for the common good,” and well, that will make you sit with yourself for a minute. I want to say this carefully because the word is rooted in Cherokee culture and I am not a teacher of Cherokee culture. I am not trying to borrow a word and turn it into a cute saying for a T-shirt. I simply read something shared by a Cherokee man, listened, went looking to learn more, and found myself thinking about a word I have used for years: kindness.

We love kindness. I love kindness. We put BE KIND on shirts and school walls and stickers and hashtags. I have typed #BeKind more times than I could ever count, and I meant it every single time. But I have been wondering if sometimes I have made kindness a little too comfortable.

A smile is kind. A compliment is kind. Holding the door for someone is kind. Sending the text, saying the good thing out loud, and checking on a friend are kind. All of it matters. Mercy, it matters. But “working together for the common good” asks more of me. It asks what I do when the work is inconvenient. It asks whether I will help carry something heavy when it isn't mine. It asks whether I will make room before someone has to beg for a seat. It asks what I am willing to give when nobody is going to clap, post a picture, hand me a certificate, or even know I was there.

Maybe I notice this so much because I spend so much of my life outside. Nature is not very interested in slogans. A fallen tree becomes a nurse log and gives what is left of itself to what comes next. Fungi make connections underground that most of us will never see. Roots hold soil. Flowers feed pollinators, and pollinators carry possibility somewhere else. Salmon return nutrients to rivers and forests. Nobody out there is keeping score, but everything is connected and nothing flourishes alone.

I keep coming back to that. Maybe kindness was never supposed to mean just being nice. Maybe kindness needs hands and feet and a strong back every now and then. Maybe kindness notices who is carrying too much and quietly grabs the other end. Maybe kindness looks around the table and realizes someone is missing. Maybe kindness speaks when silence would be much easier. Maybe kindness does some work.

I will never stop believing in #BeKind. I still think those two little words can change a classroom, a family, a community, and a whole lot of days that are hanging on by a thread. But I want my kindness to roll up its sleeves. I want it to carry the heavy thing and make room. I want it to plant trees whose shade I will never sit under. I want to remember that my flourishing should never require someone else to wither.

Gadugi is not my word to redefine, but I can listen to the people whose word it is. I can learn. I can be grateful that a Cherokee man chose to share it in a place where I happened to read it, and I can let the idea of “working together for the common good” ask some hard questions about the way I am living.

So yes, be kind. I will keep saying it and I will keep believing it. But maybe today I need to ask myself one more question: Is my kindness willing to work?

#BeKind #Gadugi

I have loved this song since I was a little girl. My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. I loved the way the words filled a room. I loved standing beside other people and singing something we all somehow knew. I loved the swell of it, the hope of it, the certainty of it. And all these years later, after seeing more of this country than that little girl could have ever imagined, I still love it. Maybe more now. Maybe differently. But goodness, I still love it.

Because now when I sing my country, I see her. I see mountains catching the first light of morning and rivers winding through places no road could ever reach. I see red rock rising out of desert soil and waves beating against a coastline as if they have been keeping time since the beginning of the world. I see forests where fallen trees become the beginning of something new, salmon fighting their way home, and fireflies blinking in the darkness with absolutely no idea how desperately some of us needed to see a little light.

But I also see the humans. Lord, I see the humans. Not the ones screaming at one another from opposite sides of a screen. Not the ones we are told represent all of us because anger makes better television and division keeps us watching. I see the humans carrying an extra water bottle because somebody might need it. I see the one who slows down on the trail without making the person behind feel slow. I see meals cooked for people who were strangers three days ago and chairs scooted closer because there is always room for one more.

I have watched park rangers kneel in the dirt to show a group of teachers something so small most people would walk right past it. I have watched educators stand in forests with tears running down their faces because somewhere between the moss and the mountains they remembered a part of themselves they thought life had taken. I have watched people dance with strangers, share their first s'more, laugh until they could barely breathe, and call across the darkness, “We are family now.” Tell me goodness is gone, and I will tell you that you simply have not been looking in the right places.

Maybe that is what breaks my heart most about where we are right now. We have been convinced that the loudest people are the most plentiful. We have mistaken cruelty for the character of a country and anger for the language of an entire people. We scroll past ten thousand quiet acts of goodness to stare at one terrible thing, and then we go to bed believing the terrible thing is all there is.

But nature knows better. A nurse log does not announce that it is giving the last of itself back to the forest. A river does not demand applause for carrying life downstream. A cedar does not keep count of every creature sheltered beneath its branches. The wildflowers do not refuse to bloom because the flower beside them is a different color. The mountains have never once asked us to agree before allowing all of us to stand in their shadow.

Perhaps this land has been trying to teach us how to belong to one another since long before we ever learned the words sweet land of liberty. Out here, nothing flourishes alone. The salmon need the river. The forest needs the fallen tree. The flowers need the bees, and the bees need the flowers. Life is passed back and forth in a thousand invisible exchanges, each one whispering the same truth we seem determined to forget: your flourishing and mine were never meant to be separate things.

I am not naive about this country. Loving her does not require me to close my eyes to her wounds. I know there are stories we have failed to tell and people we have failed to see. I know liberty has not always felt sweet to everyone who has sung those words. Love that refuses to tell the truth is not love at all. But neither is despair the only honest response to a complicated story.

I have walked too many miles across this country to believe that hatred is the truest thing about us. I have sat at too many tables where someone made room. I have watched too many hands reach backward on a trail. I have seen people give what they had, carry what someone else could not, and stand beside one another when walking away would have been so much easier. I have seen goodness in hiking boots and ranger hats, behind steering wheels and cafeteria counters, around campfires and beside hospital beds. It is everywhere, y'all. It just rarely has a microphone.

So yes, I still love this song. I still feel something rise in me when I hear my country, ’tis of thee. Not because I believe we have become everything those words ask us to be, but because I still believe we can keep becoming. I believe in the land that keeps showing us what connection looks like, and I believe in the good humans who wake up every morning and choose to make their small corner of it kinder.

Maybe freedom ringing does not always sound like a bell from a mountaintop. Maybe sometimes it sounds like a chair scraping across the floor as someone says, “Sit here.” Maybe it sounds like a name being remembered, a meal being shared, a hand reaching back, or a voice crossing the darkness to tell someone they are family now. Maybe the sweetest sound of liberty is another human being looking at you and saying, without hesitation or condition, “You belong here too.”

My country, ’tis of thee. I loved you as a little girl who knew the words but had barely seen the land she was singing about. I love you now as a woman who has stood beneath your trees, walked beside your rivers, crossed your deserts, watched the sun fall behind your mountains, and met your people. You are beautiful. You are bruised. You are complicated. You are still becoming.

And I still believe there is so much goodness here.

I have seen it with my own eyes.

​When I was in college, my Granny Brown used to tell me, "There's a pot for every lid." At the time, I smiled, nodded, and tucked it away with all the other little bits of grandmotherly wisdom I wasn't quite old enough to appreciate. It sounded sweet, but I didn't really understand it. Then this morning, a dear friend reminded me of those words, and I realized Granny Brown has been quietly shaping STEAM in the PARK all along.

Every summer, educators arrive from every corner of the country. Some walk into camp talking to everyone before they've even unpacked. Others quietly slip into the back of the room, hoping no one notices they're wondering if they belong. Some teach preschool. Others teach chemistry, physics, or high school history. Some have attended several camps. Others pull into the parking lot thinking, "What have I gotten myself into?" Every one of them carries a story. Every one of them carries gifts. Every one of them is hoping—whether they'll admit it or not—that they'll find someone who sees them.

By the end of the week, something beautiful begins to unfold. The birder finds another birder. The artist helps the scientist notice beauty in a different way. The introvert discovers someone else who doesn't mind long, quiet walks. The loud ones laugh together. The thoughtful ones linger over coffee. Somewhere between washing dishes, hiking a trail, paddling a canoe, sketching in a journal, or sitting around a campfire, strangers begin to feel like family.

This week, one of our campers pulled me aside and said, "Did you know that the camper I met last summer is now my best friend?" I smiled because I knew they live hundreds of miles apart. Just a year ago, they had never met. Now they talk almost every day. That's when Granny Brown's words came rushing back. There's a pot for every lid.

You know how Jimmy Stewart tells us in It's a Wonderful Life that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings? Well, around STEAM in the PARK, we have our own version. Every time someone finds their people, a pot gets its lid. And if that's true, we've filled an awful lot of kitchen cabinets over the past fifty camps.

The funny thing is, we spend months planning every detail of these weeks. We schedule hikes, organize lessons, prepare journals, gather supplies, coordinate meals, and pray over every camp. But there is one thing we cannot schedule: belonging. That is something that unfolds when people are simply given permission to be themselves. It happens in conversations we never planned, in laughter we couldn't have scripted, and in quiet moments that somehow become sacred. It grows almost like roots beneath a forest floor, unnoticed at first, until one day people look around and realize they've found home in one another.

I've watched those friendships become classroom collaborations, family vacations, prayer partners, wedding invitations, and people who show up for one another when life gets unimaginably hard. They didn't come looking for lifelong friends. They came to learn in a national park. Yet somehow, they leave carrying far more than field journals and photographs. They leave carrying one another.

Granny Brown was right. There really is a pot for every lid. Sometimes we spend so much of our lives trying to fit into places that were never meant for us that we begin to wonder if something is wrong with us. Maybe nothing is wrong at all. Maybe we're simply standing in the wrong kitchen. The right people won't ask you to become someone else before they welcome you. They'll simply be grateful you showed up.

I think that's one of the greatest gifts of STEAM in the PARK. Yes, we learn about glaciers, forests, birds, watersheds, and national parks. But beneath all of that, something even more important is taking place. Educators discover they don't have to perform, impress, or pretend. They don't have to be the funniest, the smartest, or the most experienced person in the room. They simply have to bring the person God created them to be. That has always been enough.

So every summer, I leave another national park believing what my Granny Brown knew all those years ago. Somewhere between the trail and the campfire, another pot found its lid.

Keep being a good human.

​One of the hardest things about being an ADHD creator, inventor, designer, dreamer, or entrepreneur is that rest rarely feels like rest. Our minds are always building something. A new project. A better system. A different way to solve a problem. A camp. A lesson. A book. A business. A dream that doesn't exist yet but somehow already feels real.

For years, I thought rest meant stopping. The problem is that many creative minds don't know how to stop. We are wired to notice possibilities. We see connections where others see separate pieces. We are constantly imagining what could be. Even when we sit still, our minds are often traveling a hundred miles ahead of us.

What I've learned is that rest for creators often looks different than it does for other people. Sometimes rest is taking a walk without a destination. Sometimes it's sitting beside a river, watching clouds move across the sky, or wandering through a national park with no agenda beyond paying attention. Sometimes it's reading a book, planting flowers, taking photographs, doodling in a notebook, or building something simply because it brings joy.

The challenge is that we often turn everything into productivity. We start a hobby and immediately wonder if it could become a side business. We take photos and think about social media posts. We have an idea and immediately begin plans and timelines. Before long, even the things that once brought us peace become another item on our to-do list.

The older I get, the more I realize that not everything has to become something. Not every idea needs to be pursued. Not every photograph needs to be shared. Not every dream needs a business plan. Some things can exist simply because they make us happy.

The truth is that creativity requires fuel. The ideas, inventions, lessons, businesses, books, and programs we create don't come from constantly pushing harder. They come from giving our minds space to wander, wonder, and breathe. They come from laughter, friendship, nature, quiet moments, and experiences that remind us there is more to life than checking the next thing off a list.

If you're an ADHD creator, inventor, designer, educator, or entrepreneur, consider this your reminder that you do not always have to be building. You do not always have to be producing. You do not always have to be solving the next problem. Sometimes the most important work is simply allowing yourself to be present in the moment you are already living.

The next great idea will come. It always does. But today, maybe the gift is allowing yourself to rest long enough to notice the beauty that is already right in front of you.

P.S. As I write this, I'm sitting beside a campfire in the Skagit Valley of Washington. The mourning doves are calling from somewhere beyond the trees, and western tanagers are moving through the evening light. For once, I'm trying not to turn the moment into a project. Although, admittedly, I did just write a blog post about it. Some things never change.

​When people talk about why national parks matter, they usually start with the obvious things: the mountains, the waterfalls, the wildlife, and the breathtaking views that leave us speechless. And they're right. Those things matter. They inspire us. They remind us that there is still beauty in the world and that some places are worth protecting.

But after spending years working with more than 220 National Park Service sites, I've come to believe that the greatest treasure in our national parks isn't found on a trail, in a canyon, or at the top of a mountain. It's the people.

Over the years, Steve and I have been blessed to spend time with park rangers from Alaska to Florida, from Maine to California. We've met them through our Crossing America series with the National Park Foundation. We've learned alongside them during STEAM in the PARK adventures. We've watched them welcome visitors, teach students, answer questions, solve problems, and care for places that millions of people will enjoy but few will truly understand the way they do.

And what strikes me every single time is that they never make it about themselves.

Many of them are scientists, historians, educators, artists, storytellers, researchers, and leaders. They carry extraordinary knowledge and experience. Yet the best rangers always seem more interested in helping someone else discover something than in showing how much they know.

I've watched a ranger kneel beside a child examining a salamander. I've watched a scientist's eyes light up while explaining a dragonfly larvae project. I've watched interpreters bring history to life so vividly that visitors felt as though they had stepped into another time. I've watched educators stay long after a program ended because someone still had questions.

Those moments stay with people.

In fact, through our work with students and educators, we've learned something surprising. Years later, people often don't remember every fact they learned. They remember how someone made them feel. They remember the ranger who encouraged them. They remember the scientist who invited them into the research. They remember the educator who helped them notice something they would have otherwise walked right past.

The person becomes part of the place.

That has certainly been true for us. When I think about Great Smoky Mountains, I think about the people who welcomed us there. When I think about New River Gorge, I think about Ranger Lori. When I think about Voyageurs, Acadia, Olympic, Glacier, Indiana Dunes, and dozens of other places, I don't just remember the landscapes. I remember the people.

The parks are extraordinary, but it is the people who bring them to life.

I've often said that national parks are America's greatest classrooms. What I know now is that every great classroom has great teachers, and our national parks are filled with them.

At a time when it can be easy to focus on what divides us, national parks remind us of something different. They remind us that there are still people who wake up every morning committed to protecting places they love and helping others love them too. They remind us that curiosity still matters. Wonder still matters. Stewardship still matters.

So today, I'm grateful for the mountains and rivers, the forests and deserts, the wildlife and wild places. But more than that, I'm grateful for the people.

The people who have welcomed us into more than 220 National Park Service sites. The people who have partnered with us through Crossing America. The people who have shared their expertise during STEAM in the PARK. The people who have answered questions, shared stories, inspired educators, and helped millions of students see the world with fresh eyes.

It's not just about the mountains but the mountain movers. 

Another guest post by educator Becky Bodenchak.

There’s something powerful that happens when learning stops feeling like an assignment…and starts feeling like an experience.

This year, my 5th graders didn’t just learn about national parks—they became explorers, scientists, historians, and even park rangers. What began as a research project turned into a full-scale National Park Display Night, where our classroom transformed into a living, breathing museum of the natural world.

And honestly? It was one of those moments that reminds you exactly why you teach.

More Than a Project—An Experience

Each group of students chose a national park and dove deep into its story. But this wasn’t just surface level research. They explored their parks through multiple lenses:

• Flora – What plants grow here? How do they survive?
• Fauna – What animals call this place home?
• Geography – What physical features make this park unique?
• Indigenous Perspectives – Who lived here first, and how did they care for the land?
• A Day in the Life of a Ranger – Writing from a real-world perspective
• Invasive Species – Investigating modern environmental challenges

Students didn’t just collect facts—they made meaning. They asked questions, made connections, and began to understand the balance between humans and nature.

Learning You Can See (and Feel)

Every piece of learning came together on vibrant tri-fold display boards, filled with hand drawn illustrations, maps, research, and writing.
You could see:

• Carefully labeled plant classifications
• Animal sketches with habitat explanations
• Maps showing geographic features
• Thoughtful reflections on Indigenous history
• Creative writing that put you inside the boots of a park ranger
• Real-world problem solving around invasive species

These weren’t just posters. They were stories. They were voices. They were evidence of deep thinking.

The Magic of Family Night

The real transformation happened when the doors opened for our school community.

Students stood proudly beside their displays, explaining their learning to families, teachers, and peers. They answered questions, shared insights, and, without even realizing it, became teachers themselves.

Parents didn’t just walk through an event. They experienced:

• A 5th grader explaining how an ecosystem works
• A student passionately describing why invasive species matter
• A young learner honoring the history of Indigenous peoples
• A child confidently saying, “Let me show you what I learned.”

That kind of ownership? You can’t fake it. You build it.

Why This Matters

This project is what happens when education moves beyond worksheets and into the real world.

Students:

• Developed research and critical thinking skills
• Practiced public speaking and communication
• Built empathy and perspective taking
• Engaged in real environmental issues
• Created something meaningful and lasting

They didn’t just learn about national parks—they learned how to care about them.

A Call to Educators and Supporters

To my fellow educators:
This kind of learning is possible. It doesn’t require perfection, it requires purpose. When we give students meaningful work connected to the real world, they rise to meet it every time.

Projects like this thrive on access to materials, printing resources, books, and time to create. This work fuels curiosity, confidence, and connection.

It helps create moments where a child discovers:

“I can do this. My ideas matter.”

Final Thoughts

If you had walked into our classroom that night, you wouldn’t have just seen tri-fold boards.

You would have seen:

• Future scientists
• Thoughtful citizens
• Curious explorers
• Confident communicators

And maybe, just maybe…a few future park rangers.

By: Becky Bodenchak
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