​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
​

This is a guest blog post by one of the educators following Expeditions in Eduction. Many thanks to Becky Bodenchak.

On December 12th, 2025, my classroom became something pretty magical. Instead of four walls and desks, we were suddenly standing in snow covered valleys, coastal cliffs, and icy forests, right alongside park rangers from across the country during the “Crossing America 5.0: Holiday in the Parks” livestream.

More than 15,000 students joined in that day, but in our little corner of the world, something powerful was happening: my 5th graders weren’t just watching, they were thinking, questioning, experimenting, and connecting.

A Front-Row Seat to Winter in the Parks

As rangers guided us through 19 national park sites, students saw firsthand how winter shapes life. They learned how bison push through deep snow, elk conserve energy, owls hunt silently in frozen forests, and bears disappear into hibernation.

But instead of passively observing, we anchored the experience with a focused lesson:

How do animals actually survive winter?

Discover It: Sparking Curiosity

We began with a simple but powerful question:

“What challenges do animals face in winter?”

The responses came quickly: cold, hunger, snow, darkness—but then we pushed deeper:

“How would YOU survive if you had to live outside all winter?”

Students paused. Thought. Imagined.

If I were a wolf, I would stay with my pack to keep warm.
If I were a bear, I would eat a lot before winter so I could sleep.

Right away, they were stepping into the perspective of wildlife, an essential piece of real world, place-based learning. 

Dig Into It: Learning by Doing

Then came the experiment: Students tested how insulation works using ice cubes, wrapping them in materials like cotton, strips of coffee filters, and dough. One cube was left bare as a control.

It was simple. It was hands-on. And it was powerful.

They weren’t just hearing about “blubber” or “fur”—they were seeing insulation in action.

As they observed which ice cube melted slowest, the connections started clicking:

• Cotton = fur
• Coffee filter strips = feathers
• Dough = blubber

Make Sense of It: From Activity to Understanding

We gathered to make sense of what we saw.Students explained, in their own words, why some “animals” stayed colder longer. They began distinguishing between:

• Physical adaptations → fur, feathers, fat
• Behavioral adaptations → migration, hibernation, storing food

Connect It: Making It Personal

We ended by bringing it back to their world.

“How are our winter traditions similar to animal survival strategies?”

Students made connections like:

• Wearing coats = fur and feathers
• Drinking hot cocoa = maintaining body warmth
• Gathering with family = staying safe and supported

One student said:
“Animals and humans both survive winter by finding ways to stay warm and using what they have to help them.”

This wasn’t just a science lesson. It was:

• Place-based learning → connecting students to real national parks
• Real-world application → understanding survival, adaptation, and environment
• Student-centered exploration → questioning, experimenting, reflecting

And maybe most importantly…

It made learning feel real.

And for a moment, thanks to a livestream and a thoughtfully designed lesson, they weren’t just learning about national parks… They were part of them.

By: Becky Bodenchak

​

Ten years ago today, Steve told me he wanted to talk about our future. I was a little nervous. Usually those words can go in a lot of different directions. But within a few minutes, I realized this conversation was something exciting.

Steve had been thinking about what life might look like if we left our jobs, jobs we truly loved and were good at, and took a chance on something completely different. He talked about traveling together, sharing our experiences with others, and building a life centered around adventure, education, and making a difference. At one point, he told me that I had been the backup singer in the band long enough and that it was time for me to be the lead singer.

We talked about how fun it would be to travel together, work together, and spend our days creating something meaningful. We also talked about the uncertainty. We would be leaving stable careers. We didn't know where our money would come from. We weren't in a position to retire. There were plenty of reasons to stay exactly where we were. But for some crazy reason, those things didn't bother us as much as they probably should have.
In fact, the very next morning, I gave my 30-day notice.

And just like that, with a few roadblocks and detours along the way, we began a journey that would eventually become Expeditions in Education.
​
Has it always been easy? Absolutely not. There have been moments of uncertainty and worry. I still wonder sometimes how we're going to pay the bills. We don't have sick days. We don't have the safety net that comes with traditional jobs. But what we do have is so much more.

We've traveled the country together. We've worked side by side every day. We've met incredible people. We've built friendships that will last a lifetime. We've connected millions of students and educators with national parks, scientists, and opportunities they may never have experienced otherwise. Most importantly, we've built a life that feels true to who we are.
​
Today marks ten years of saying yes to adventure, yes to the unknown, and yes to a leap of faith that changed everything. If I could leave you with one piece of encouragement, it would be this: Take the leap. Jump in with both feet. Do something that matters. Be a good human. You never know where that decision might lead. For us, it led to the adventure of a lifetime. Tomorrow we begin Year 11, and I couldn't be more grateful for the journey. Here's to many more years of adventure ahead.

These are photos from those few months before we hit the road the first time.

There was a year when I inherited a 5th grade classroom that had already been through a lot. My students had spent the previous year moving through multiple teachers, substitutes, interruptions, and uncertainty. Many came with behaviors that people noticed before they noticed anything else. Some were angry. Some had shut down. Some had simply learned that school was a place you got through.

And then there was math.

Fifth grade math is no joke. Fractions, decimals, geometry, coordinate planes, volume, measurement, data, problem solving. For many of my students, math meant worksheets, unfinished pages, and another reminder that they were struggling.

I knew I could not teach it from a book alone.

So we turned math into experiences.

We created our own concerts. Students wrote math songs, built beats with pencils and desktops, clapped rhythms, and created performances to help remember concepts. The room was loud. Really loud. But it was the kind of loud where kids were learning without realizing they were learning. Students who usually wanted out of class suddenly wanted extra rehearsal time.

Fractions became bakeries and pizza shops. We designed menus, cut pizzas into slices, worked through equivalent fractions, doubled recipes, divided portions, and argued over who had the bigger piece of cake. I learned quickly that fifth graders will defend mathematical reasoning with great passion when brownies are involved.

Measurement became sewing. I brought in fabric, measuring tapes, rulers, buttons, and patterns. Students measured seams, estimated lengths, planned projects, and discovered that being off by even half an inch mattered. Suddenly precision was important because it was real.

Coordinate planes moved onto the floor. We taped giant grids across the classroom and students became the points. They walked coordinates, built shapes, found vertices, and moved through lessons instead of staring at graph paper.

Volume turned into architecture. We built little houses, stores, towers, and cities from boxes, paper, and recycled materials. Students calculated dimensions, changed measurements, rebuilt designs, and learned quickly that one wrong number changed everything.

One of my favorite projects was opening travel agencies. Students planned dream trips with real budgets. They figured hotel costs, meals, souvenirs, gas, distances, and spending limits. One group planned a huge national park adventure. Another somehow spent half their money on snacks before leaving.

Word problems became skits. If the problem was about shopping, we opened stores. If it was about construction, students became builders. If it involved time, we acted it out.

Math stopped living on worksheets.
It lived in the room.

Looking back now, I realize I was doing more than teaching math. I was trying to rebuild confidence. The student who struggled to sit still became the lead in our concert project. The student everyone worried about became the expert in the bakery. Kids who hated math started asking what we were doing next.

And then came the moment that still follows me.

I was teaching one of those lessons where I had completely committed to the performance. Somehow I ended up standing on a table. I was explaining, gesturing, probably being far more dramatic than necessary, when I lost my balance and fell straight off.

Sprained ankle.
The room went silent.
The same students everyone called difficult stood there completely worried.
I was embarrassed.
They were horrified.
​Eventually we laughed.
​
When I think back on that class, I do not remember the tests first. I remember the songs. I remember pizza fractions. I remember fabric spread across tables and tiny buildings sitting everywhere. I remember students who had every reason to quit deciding to try again. And somewhere in that memory is a teacher with a sprained ankle still planning the next math lesson because the story was never really about math. It was about kids who needed someone to believe they could still shine.

​Have you ever talked to your students about the night sky? It’s funny — we spend so much time teaching about the solar system, yet most of our kids only see it through diagrams and digital models. By the time the real sky puts on its nightly show, they’re usually at home, indoors, surrounded by the glow of streetlights and screens. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if my lessons can ever compete with that.

This year, though, something clicked. Being involved with Expeditions in Education has provided me with meaningful opportunities to connect nature directly to my lessons and deepen student engagement. Through programs like Crossing America, STEAM in the Park, and National Park Expedition Challenges, I have been able to incorporate nature journaling, wildlife gardening projects, an Abraham Lincoln study, and a variety of hands-on STEM activities into my teaching. These experiences have helped me bring learning to life by blending literacy, history, science, and environmental exploration in meaningful and engaging ways. Expeditions in Education was once again the fuel for this successful unit. 

With state testing on the horizon, I was asked to incorporate a writing assignment into my 4th and 5th grade library classes. Instead of reaching for the usual prompts, I decided to use the Boreal Stargazing Week Prerecorded Video 2026 as our launchpad. (Find it here: https://vimeo.com/1159865504?fl=ip&fe=ec )  The visual comparisons in that video — bright sky vs. dark sky, star‑filled vs. star‑washed — were exactly what my students needed to understand light pollution in a real way. 

After watching, we talked about what they noticed, what surprised them, and why the night sky looks so different depending on where you stand. Then I wrote two articles — one for 4th grade and one for 5th — using the information from the video. 
I reviewed the expectations for writing with each grade level.

• 4th grade: three paragraphs — an introduction, a body paragraph with at least two pieces of evidence, and a conclusion
• 5th grade: five paragraphs — intro, conclusion, and three evidence‑based body paragraphs

To help them self‑monitor, each group used a checklist created by our writing teachers.

The best part was how naturally our conversation drifted back to nature. They weren’t just writing about light pollution; they were thinking about how it affects animals, stargazing, migration, sleep, and our connection to the world around us. They were noticing the night in a way many had never done before.

Once the writing was complete, we shifted into a constellation mythology unit to tie everything back to the library. I used two wonderful books:

• Glow in the Dark Constellations: A Field Guide for Young Stargazers by C.E. Thompson
• Stories of the Constellations by Kieron Connolly

We explored four or five myths, talked about why ancient cultures looked to the sky for stories, and discussed how light pollution affects our ability to see those same patterns today. It was the perfect blend of literacy, science, and cultural history.

To wrap it all up, each student received a piece of black construction paper and twenty tiny star stickers. (Mine were a mix of green, silver, gold, and red — use whatever you can find.) They scattered their stars across the page, then used a white crayon to connect some of the dots into an animal or person. They gave their constellations unique names. And of course, they wrote their own constellation myths — some were hilarious. I was truly shocked by the imagination that went into their stories. 

In a world where many children rarely see a truly dark sky, teaching about light pollution isn’t just a science lesson. It’s an invitation to notice, to wonder, to reconnect with something bigger than ourselves. When students realize that their environment shapes what they can see — and what they can’t — they begin to understand their role in caring for it.
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And when writing, mythology, and nature come together, the night sky becomes more than a distant concept. It becomes a classroom.

Wendy Back
Mt. Sterling Elementary Librarian
Mt. Sterling, KY

​This is a stream of consciousness with no real form. No tidy structure. It just needed to be said. When passion intersects with purpose, something beautiful happens. Not flashy. Not loud. Just deeply right. That’s what Expeditions in Education is for us. It started with a love for national parks, for curiosity, for kids who ask big questions, and for educators who show up every day carrying more than most people ever see. But passion alone isn’t enough. Passion burns bright—and then it burns out—unless it’s anchored to purpose. Our purpose is simple and steady: to help students see themselves as capable problem-solvers, to help educators feel supported and seen, and to help young people understand that the places we protect—parks, rivers, coastlines, communities—matter because people matter. When passion meets purpose, learning stops being something you consume and starts being something you live. A livestream becomes a doorway. A field journal becomes a mirror. An engineering challenge becomes a way to say, I can help. We see it when a student realizes their idea could actually protect a turtle nest, when a ranger’s story sparks a classroom halfway across the country, when an educator exhales and says, “This is why I teach.” Expeditions in Education lives in that intersection—where wonder meets responsibility, where science meets empathy, and where learning reaches beyond walls and screens into the real world. This work isn’t about checking boxes or chasing trends. It’s about showing up with intention, designing with nature, and believing—fiercely—that curiosity and kindness still change things. That’s what happens when passion finds its purpose, and we’re so grateful to walk this path with you.

“Purpose doesn’t always arrive with a plan. Sometimes it shows up as a feeling you can’t ignore.”

www.expeditionsineducation.org