Several days ago, during one of those unseasonably nice days here in Albany County, New York, my wife Theresa and I went for a walk down the road where we live.
During our walk, Theresa noticed something lying on the ground, nearly out of sight over an embankment, and said, “I wonder what that is?”
We walked over to take a closer look and discovered a dead coyote that had apparently been hit by a car.
I took note of it.
But it also got me to thinking.
Not just about what we saw…
but about what it might mean.
If you’d like to know what that dead coyote got me thinking about, you can read more on The Nature of Things.
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Today I’ll be making another “shipping run” to the post office.
That’s become a regular part of what I do through The Conservation Company—selling items on eBay, not so much as a business aimed at maximizing income, but as a way to keep useful items out of landfills and give them a second or third life.
At least, that’s the idea.
But over the past few years, something has been changing.
The shipping part of this process has become more expensive, more time-consuming, and increasingly unreliable.
Shipping costs now often rival—or exceed—the value of the item itself. And since those costs must be passed along to the buyer, something interesting happens:
Items that are perfectly useful… Items that someone might genuinely want… …suddenly become “too expensive” to justify purchasing.
Not because of the item itself—but because of the system required to move it.
And then there’s the reliability issue.
We live on a rural route, and it has become increasingly clear that delivery is inconsistent. Some days, it feels like our route is simply skipped. Other days, we receive mail that belongs to our neighbors, while our neighbors receive ours.
I spoke with the manager of our small local post office, and the explanation was straightforward: they can’t find enough people to fill open positions. So they bring in workers from other areas—people who don’t know the routes, the names, or the patterns of the community.
In other words, the system is still operating… …but it’s no longer functioning the way it once did.
And then this morning, I read something that put all of this into a much bigger context.
According to a Reuters report, the new Postmaster General is considering major changes—ending six-day delivery, closing post offices, and raising stamp prices to $1 or more. At the same time, mail volume—the Postal Service’s most profitable segment—continues to decline.
The warning was blunt:
“The failure to do this could lead to the end of the Postal Service as we know it now.”
That’s a powerful statement.
And it made me stop and think.
Because what I’m experiencing locally isn’t just a local issue—it’s a reflection of a system under stress.
A system that many of us still depend on.
A system that, in many ways, has quietly supported everyday life—especially in rural communities like ours.
What Does This Mean?
From a Stewardship Way perspective, this raises an important question:
What happens when the systems we rely on to do the right thing…no longer support the right thing?
Right now, it is often easier—and sometimes cheaper—to throw something away than it is to give it a second life.
Think about that.
We talk a lot about recycling, reuse, and sustainability. But the underlying systems—shipping, logistics, labor—are not necessarily designed to support those goals.
They are designed for efficiency, scale, and volume.
And when those systems begin to strain, the first things to suffer are often the smaller, quieter activities—like one person trying to sell a used item to another person who could use it.
A Thought Moving Forward
I’m not sure what the solution is.
But I am beginning to wonder if part of the answer lies closer to home.
Maybe the future of reuse and conservation isn’t just about national platforms and long-distance shipping.
Maybe it’s about more local connections. More community-based exchanges. More “second lives” happening closer to where things already are.
That’s something I’ll be thinking about today…as I make another trip to the post office.
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The work with Audubon wasn’t just about conservation programs.
The Conservation Company isn’t just a business.
Each one was an attempt to connect dots and create a way of doing things that made sense—at least to me.
The interesting part is…
I’ve never really followed anyone else’s structure.
I’ve always ended up creating my own.
Not because I set out to do that…
…but because I couldn’t find a “recipe” that fit what I was trying to do.
The Tension
Lately, I’ve been telling myself:
“Just be a writer.”
Keep it simple. Observe. Reflect. Share.
But even as I’ve been doing that, I’ve felt this pull…
to organize things.
To connect them.
To give them a framework.
At times, I’ve wondered if that’s something I should resist.
Maybe it complicates things.
Maybe it turns writing into something heavier than it needs to be.
What I Realized
But going through those old files made something clear.
This isn’t something I need to fix.
It’s something I need to understand—and use.
Creating structure is not a distraction from my writing.
It is part of how I think.
It’s how I’ve always made sense of the world.
What I’m Going to Do About It
So instead of fighting that instinct…
I’m going to give it a place to live.
I’m calling it:
The Stewardship Way
Not as a program.
Not as something to launch.
But as a way to describe what I’ve been doing all along.
A way of connecting:
how we think,
what we value,
and how we act,
in the places where we live and work.
Moving Forward
Going forward, I’m going to let things happen a bit more naturally.
Field Notes will stay what they are—observations, reflections, things that catch my attention.
Some of those ideas will grow into something more structured.
And when they do, I’ll explore them more deeply through what I’m calling The Stewardship Way.
I’m not trying to build another program.
I’m trying to better understand—and share—the method behind what I’ve already been doing.
Final Thought
It’s interesting how sometimes you have to look backward…
to understand what you’ve been doing all along.
I guess that’s part of the process.
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Yesterday, I sold a signed, (by me) first edition copy of a book I wrote years ago.
That, in itself, isn’t all that remarkable. I sell things all the time now as part of what I’m doing through The Conservation Company. Old items, forgotten items, things that still have value if someone is willing to see it.
But this one made me pause. Because it wasn’t just something I found in a box.
It was something I created.
The book was Sustainable Golf Courses: A Guide to Environmental Stewardship.
At the time, it represented a very specific effort—to help people see golf courses differently. Not just as places to play, but as landscapes that could support wildlife, conserve water, and demonstrate what stewardship could look like in a very practical way.
I spent a lot of time working on those ideas.
Explaining them.
Defending them.
Trying to get people to see something beyond what was right in front of them.
Like most things we do, once it was done, it moved on.
Programs evolved. Organizations changed. People came and went. And the book—like a lot of things—ended up on a shelf.
Or in a box.
The book was published in 2005.
Which, to me, still feels like “just the other day.”
But it wasn’t.
It was over two decades ago.
Long enough for things to be forgotten.
Or…rediscovered.
And then this morning…there it was again.
In my hands.
Only this time, I wasn’t writing it.
I wasn’t promoting it.
I wasn’t even really thinking about it.
I was shipping it.
Sending it off to someone I don’t know…who, for whatever reason, decided that this book still had value.
That got me thinking.
We tend to believe that the things we create have a defined life cycle.
We work on them.
We finish them.
We move on.
But that’s not really how it works.
Some things—ideas, books, projects—don’t end.
They just…circulate.
They sit for a while.
They wait.
And then, sometimes years later, they find their way back into motion again.
There’s also something else going on here.
In a small way, this is exactly what I’ve been talking about when I use the phrase:
Doing Well, While Doing Good.
I used items. To keep things out of landfills.
Today I sent something of value to someone else that is over 2 decades old, but still new and unread, just sitting on a bookshelf.
But in this case, it goes a step further.
Because what’s being passed along isn’t just a physical object.
It’s an idea.
A way of thinking.
A perspective on stewardship that, apparently, still matters enough for someone to buy it.
It also made me realize something a little more personal.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve been going through old files, photos, and folders—what I’ve been calling my “Bankers Box” phase.
Rediscovering pieces of my past.
Projects I worked on.
People I worked with.
Ideas I cared deeply about.
And now, in the middle of all that, one of those ideas quite literally passed back through my hands…on its way to someone else.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
We don’t just create things and leave them behind.
We release them.
And if they’re grounded in something real—something that connects—they have a way of continuing on, with or without us.
This morning, I didn’t just sell a book.
I watched an idea I once carried…keep going.
It also got me thinking about something else I’ve been discovering as I go through old files and past work. More on that tomorrow.
—Ron
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While digging through an old bankers box the other day, I came across something that stopped me for a moment.
An article I wrote in 1995.
The title was:
“Ego-System Management.”
I had to smile a bit when I saw it.
Not because I remembered every word I wrote—but because I immediately remembered the idea.
And as I sit here today, nearly thirty years later, I realize something…
That idea may be more relevant now than it was then.
Back in 1995, I was trying to describe something I was seeing in organizations and in people.
A pattern.
A way of thinking.
A way of making decisions.
At the time, I called it ego-system management—a play on the word ecosystem.
The difference was simple.
An ecosystem is built on relationships, balance, and long-term sustainability.
An ego-system is built on self-interest.
The more I look around today, the more I see how often we operate from that ego-system mindset.
We respond to what’s in front of us.
We focus on immediate problems.
We make decisions based on what benefits us—or our organization—right now.
And to be fair, that’s human nature.
But when that way of thinking becomes the norm, something begins to happen.
We stop seeing the system.
Instead of asking:
How does this all fit together?
What are the long-term consequences?
We start asking:
What solves this today?
What works for me right now?
And over time, those small decisions add up.
I’ve seen this play out in organizations.
I’ve seen it in communities.
I’ve seen it in business decisions that made sense in the short term—but created bigger problems down the road.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve seen it in myself as well.
What struck me as I reread that old article wasn’t just the idea.
It was the realization that I’ve spent much of my life—often without fully realizing it—trying to move from ego-system thinking to ecosystem thinking.
What I now call my Stewardship Lens is really just another way of saying the same thing.
Ecosystem thinking requires us to slow down.
To step back.
To connect the dots.
To consider not just what works—but what lasts.
That’s not how most of the world operates.
We live in a time where quick answers are rewarded.
Short-term results are celebrated.
And long-term thinking often takes a back seat.
But maybe that’s exactly why this idea still matters.
Maybe even more so today.
So finding that article from 1995 wasn’t just a trip down memory lane.
It was a reminder.
That some ideas don’t go away.
They just wait for the right time to be seen again…with a little more clarity.
Field Note to Self
When making decisions…
Ask yourself:
Am I managing an ego-system…
Or contributing to an ecosystem?
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There are moments in life that don’t feel important at the time.
They seem ordinary…routine…just part of growing up.
It is only later—sometimes decades later—that you begin to understand that those moments were not ordinary at all. They were the beginning of everything.
I recently came across an old photograph of my Grandpa Ben Dodson and me standing outside his house. I don’t know exactly what year it was taken, but I do know what it represents.
That small house, the front porch, and even the old wooden washboard table sitting nearby…that was my launching pad.
At the time, I had no idea.
My grandparents were both born in 1882. Even when I visited them in the 1950s and early 1960s, it felt like stepping back into the late 1800s.
There was no indoor plumbing.
The kitchen sink had a hand pump, drawing water from a well.
The house was heated by a potbelly coal stove.
The bathroom was an outhouse.
As a kid, I remember thinking…this is a lot of work.
And it was.
But what I didn’t understand then was that I wasn’t just visiting a place.
I was being introduced to a way of living…a way of thinking…a way of seeing the world.
Some of my clearest memories are not of big events, but of simple conversations.
Sitting on the front porch.
Or sitting beside Grandpa on that old washboard table.
That’s where I began asking questions.
Questions about the land…about how things used to be…about where we came from.
It was also where I first held an old stone axe head that Grandpa had found on the farm. He gave it to me, and without either of us knowing it, that simple act sparked a lifelong interest in rocks, fossils, and relics.
And it was where I first began asking about our family history.
Grandpa didn’t say much.
At the time, I didn’t think much about that either.
It was only years later that I came to understand why.
Today, that farm is gone.
Former Site of Grandpa and Grandma Dodson’s House
People drive by the site every day and have no idea what used to be there.
A four-lane highway now cuts across what was once a pasture where my dad and I hunted rabbits. Later, that same field became a place where he would hit golf balls and I would catch them with my baseball mitt—his way of practicing his golf game, and mine of practicing baseball.
The old lane that once came off Troy Road—where I first learned to drive a car with my dad sitting beside me—is now a paved entrance leading back to a commercial complex.
What was once open farmland is now a mix of gravel, dirt, and industrial activity.
The house is gone.
The barn is gone.
The pasture is gone.
And so are the people who gave those places meaning.
Site of the old gravel lane.
But the lessons are not.
Looking back, I now see that those visits were not just childhood memories.
They were the beginning of a way of life that I would carry forward without even realizing it.
That farm was where my curiosity began.
It was where I first learned to observe.
It was where I first started asking questions.
It was where I first connected people, place, and history.
In many ways, it was where I first began becoming what I now call a “steward.”
At the time, I thought I was just spending time with my grandparents.
I didn’t realize I was standing on the launching pad for the rest of my life.
As I continue going through old files, photographs, and memories, I find myself seeing things differently.
Moments that once seemed small now feel significant.
Lessons that once went unnoticed now stand out clearly.
And places that no longer exist physically still exist very much in the path they helped create.
Gravel Lane in Blue, House in Red and the old White Barn in White
It makes me wonder…
How many of us have places like that in our lives?
Places that quietly shaped who we became.
Places we didn’t fully understand until much later.
Places that, even though they may be gone, are still very much a part of who we are.
Maybe the real lesson is this:
Pay attention to the ordinary moments.
Because one day, you may look back and realize…
They were never ordinary at all.
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A few weeks ago, while spending some time in Dunedin, Florida, I decided to take a walk through a relatively new nature preserve that the City has opened to the public — the Gladys E. Douglas Preserve.It is not a large preserve, but sometimes the size of a place has very little to do with its value.
The trail winds through a habitat known as sand pine scrub, a landscape that developed on deep sandy soils left behind long ago when sea levels were much higher and much of Florida was underwater. What remains today are scattered ridges and sandy uplands that support a very specialized community of plants and animals adapted to dry, nutrient-poor conditions.
Walking the trail, you quickly notice that this is not the lush, tropical Florida many visitors imagine. Instead, it has a quieter character — sand underfoot, low scrub vegetation, scattered cactus, palmettos, and sand pines with their long soft needles catching the sunlight.
But as is often the case in nature, the real interest is found when you slow down and start looking closer.
Along the trail I noticed patches of pale gray lichens scattered across the sandy ground like small islands of frost resting among fallen pine needles. Nearby, a low cluster of prickly pear cactus pushed up through the sand, quietly reminding anyone paying attention that life in this habitat requires a certain toughness.
On one pine trunk, rows of delicate white fungi had formed along the bark, almost like someone had traced lines up the tree with a careful hand. It looked like nature’s own quiet artwork.
Places like this may seem small on a map, but they play an important role in protecting habitats that are becoming increasingly rare as development spreads across Florida. They also provide something that is becoming harder to find — a place where people can simply walk, observe, and reconnect with the natural world around them.
For me, that is often the real value of a place like this.
A short walk, a few photographs, and a reminder that even the smallest preserves can hold a surprising amount of life — if we take the time to notice.
If you ever find yourself in the Dunedin area, this little preserve is certainly worth a visit.
And if you go, take your time.
Nature rarely reveals its best stories to people who are in a hurry.
Over the past few years I have found myself writing in a lot of different places.
I have three Substack publications — Conservation Chronicles, Conservation Lifestyles, and The Nature of Things. I also have a blog on this website called Field Notes, along with various social media pages where I occasionally share thoughts and observations.
None of this is bad. Each platform has its own purpose. But recently I caught myself asking a simple question:
Why am I making writing more complicated than it needs to be?
After thinking about it for a while, I realized something that probably should have been obvious all along.
The place where everything should begin is Field Notes.
Field Notes Has Been Part of My Life for a Long Time
The name Field Notes is not new to me. In fact, it goes back many years.
When I helped re-launch the Audubon Society of New York State in the early 1980s, I created a printed newsletter and called it Field Notes. The name itself was inspired by the old Audubon Field Notes journal that birders once used to report observations across North America.
The idea behind it was simple.
Field Notes was a place to record observations, ideas, and reflections about nature and conservation.
Over time, my writing moved into many other forms — articles, columns, newsletters, reports, and more recently blogs and Substack publications. But when I step back and think about it, the simplest and most natural form of writing for me has always been field notes.
What Field Notes Will Be Going Forward
From now on, most of what I write will begin right here.
Field Notes will include observations and reflections about things such as:
a walk at Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary
birds or plants I notice in our backyard
ideas about conservation and stewardship
community issues I am thinking about
memories from earlier chapters of my life
artifacts, fossils, and other things I have collected over the years
projects I am working on or ideas I am exploring
In other words, whatever happens to be on my mind at the moment.
Some Field Notes will be short. Others may be longer reflections.
And many of them may simply remain Field Notes.
When a Field Note Becomes Something More
Occasionally a Field Note may grow into a larger piece.
If it relates to stories from my conservation career, it might become an article for Conservation Chronicles.
If it focuses on habitat, land stewardship, or environmental practices, it might evolve into something for Conservation Lifestyles.
If it deals with broader ideas about nature, biodiversity, or how people relate to the natural world, it may eventually become part of The Nature of Things.
But the important point is this:
Everything begins as a Field Note.
Writing as Observation
For most of my life I have kept some form of field notes.
When I was younger, they were notebooks filled with drawings of arrowheads and fossils I found in fields along the Ohio River.
Later they became notes about birds, nature centers, conservation programs, and community projects.
Writing has always been a way for me to observe, reflect, and connect ideas.
Field Notes simply continues that tradition.
The Rest Will Take Care of Itself
I’m not particularly concerned about building a large audience or managing complicated publishing systems.
If people read these notes and find them interesting or useful, that’s wonderful.
If not, that’s fine too.
For me, Field Notes is simply a place to capture thoughts about nature, community, conservation, and life as they occur.
Sometimes when you write things down, connections appear that you might not have noticed otherwise.
So this is a bit of a reset.
From now on, most of what I write will begin right here — in Field Notes.
Earlier this week we had one of those surprising late-winter days that feels more like April than March. The temperature climbed to 73°F, which made it a perfect excuse to take a walk at Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary.
There were still large piles of snow scattered through the woods, and most of the trails were far too muddy to walk. So instead, I followed the main road that winds through the sanctuary. Even with the snow lingering in places, the woods had that subtle feeling that winter is beginning to loosen its grip.
One of the things I hoped to see was whether the Snowdrops had started to appear. These small white flowers are often among the very first signs that spring is on the way.
Sure enough, tucked among the leaves and patches of melting snow, there they were.
Seeing the first Snowdrops each year always lifts my spirits a bit. They seem to carry a quiet message: winter isn’t over yet, but change has already begun.
The warm temperatures had another effect as well. With the snow melting quickly, Onesquethaw Creek had turned into a bubbling, tumbling torrent. The water rushed over rocks and around fallen logs as it made its way toward the Hudson River.
Standing there watching the creek, it felt almost like the landscape itself was waking up.
The spring-like weather only lasted a couple of days. Winter has already pushed back, and the forecast is calling for cooler temperatures and even a chance of light snow.
But after seeing those Snowdrops and hearing the creek roaring with snowmelt, one thing is certain.
I’ve spent most of my adult life working in and around what people broadly call “environmentalism.” I care deeply about wildlife, natural landscapes, and the long-term health of the places we live. That hasn’t changed.
What has changed is my comfort level with much of what modern environmentalism has become.
And I’ll admit up front that this may sound like an afternoon rant—but it’s really an observation formed over decades.
The “fruitcake” problem
(That is a technical term.)
One of the ongoing challenges environmentalism has faced is that many people who strongly embrace “the environment” are perceived as being a little… out there. Sometimes unfairly. Sometimes not.
I’ve always loved wildlife, but I’ve never been able to fully connect with ideologies that drift into absolutism—anti-hunting at all costs, arguments that ignore basic ecological realities, or emotional positions that seem detached from how real landscapes and real communities function.
Healthy ecosystems are not managed by slogans. They’re managed by people who live in them, work in them, and understand trade-offs.
The insulation gap
Another long-standing issue is who environmentalism tends to attract.
Many people active in environmental causes are financially insulated from the daily realities most people face. When your housing, food, and income are secure, it’s much easier to advocate for solutions that increase costs or restrict livelihoods—especially when you won’t bear those costs.
That disconnect matters.
Stewardship that only works for people with money is not stewardship. It’s lifestyle branding.
The fundraising illusion
Over time, many large environmental organizations have evolved into something else entirely. They’ve become fundraising machines—well-oiled, well-branded, and very good at separating people from their money.
The pitch is familiar:
Want to save a whale? A redwood tree? A rare bird? Send us cash and feel good about yourself.
Then you go back to living your regular life.
I’ve always struggled with that model. Because if it actually worked—if donations alone fixed ecological problems—then why is nearly every ecosystem on Earth still in decline?
At some point, that question deserves an honest answer.
You can’t outsource stewardship
Stewardship isn’t something you outsource to a nonprofit. It’s something you practice.
It’s local. It’s personal. It involves work. And yes, it often involves earning a living.
People protect what supports them. Hunters, anglers, farmers, foresters, and land managers have historically been some of the strongest conservationists—not because they were told to feel guilty, but because their livelihoods depended on healthy systems.
That reality rarely fits neatly into modern environmental narratives, but ignoring it hasn’t helped ecosystems recover.
Why I’ve always focused on earning from stewardship
This is one reason I’ve always tried to link conservation and stewardship to economic activity.
Not exploitation. Not extraction. But use with responsibility.
If stewardship cannot support people economically, it will always remain a side project for the privileged. If it can support people—through land management, local food, habitat work, re-commerce, education, or small-scale enterprise—then it becomes part of daily life.
That’s when it scales.
A closing field note
I’m not anti-environment. I never have been.
But I’ve grown increasingly skeptical of environmentalism that:
Relies on guilt instead of responsibility
Raises money instead of changing behavior
Moralizes instead of engaging real people in real places
Stewardship isn’t flashy. It doesn’t make great fundraising videos. It doesn’t offer instant emotional relief.
But it works—slowly, imperfectly, and locally.
And after a lifetime in this work, that’s the direction I’ve chosen to walk.
These are simply observations from the field. Others may see things differently. That’s fine. Stewardship begins, after all, with paying attention.
