When was the last time you looked at the map of your favorite park?
The first time I was really lost was in the fall of 2016. I was surveying Oscar Scherer State Park’s invasive plants for almost 10 months, and I split from my partner to cover more ground. I was confident and jovial, wading through the saw palmetto among the slash pine looming in the eastern section of the park. Even State Road 681 seemed a distant concept, drowned out by the sound of the fall breeze through the palmetto and wiregrass. 40 minutes in, I realized my radio was gone. I kept my head down to look for it, and when I looked up next, I gazed anew at a verdant sea of saw palmetto in the mid-morning light. I turned around, and for a moment, I thought, wow, it looks like this view could go on forever. I turned around again, and I realized that this view was 360 degrees of—you guessed it—slash pine, wire grass, and saw palmetto. I refused to admit it at the time, but I was lost.
Today, I’m a stickler about maps. When I take groups kayaking, I attach a route map as part of our paddle plan that I review with participants and carry in my dry bag. When I show our properties to others, I come with a map. When discussing programs outside of Bay Preserve, I’m almost always looking to show where something is, and I take time to explain a place’s orientation in relation to familiar places. On every weekly hike I lead for Easter Seals’ high schoolers, we stop at one to three stationary park maps on our journey, and I ask the group, “Hey, where are we? And where are we going?” It’s such a familiar part of the process that one of the students keeps his phone out to snap a photo of the first map of the day. In fostering a sense of self-responsibility, I lean heavily into understanding the lay of the land in our programs. It’s not only about wildlife and instilling an ethic of stewardship; it’s about making sure teenagers are keenly aware of where their lunch is!
Sometimes, my hike plans are dashed, and what is originally a 1.5-mile trek to see some white pelicans turns into a 4-mile walk to a far-off observation platform and back. At every point in the journey, we consult a map together to make sure the new plan is agreed upon and understood. These random and often lengthy changes almost always pay off. We’ve run into rangers in the wild, we’ve seen a Bald Eagle bullying an Osprey, and we’ve had to learn how to report sea turtle fatalities to Fish and Wildlife. Each extra quarter mile brings new experiences and chances to talk and reflect on those experiences. Every week, they grow more confident and jovially saunter towards new paths and crossroads, both in the park and in their lives.
A huge part of my job is being an advocate for adventure at any age. I want everyone to feel empowered not only to explore new parks and preserves but to deepen their relationship with their favorite places. Sometimes reviewing a map is the quickest way to do just that! Whether you find a new trail, revisit one that you haven’t taken in a few years, or challenge yourself by tacking another mile onto your regular hike, I urge you to stride joyously (and safely) into the sea of green. But please, bring a map!
