Looking Back Before I Can Remember

Field Notes, , , ,
Helen (Fields) Dodson, Ron Dodson and Bruce Dodson

Over the past few days, I’ve been going through an old bankers box filled with folders, papers, and things I hadn’t looked at in years. It’s been a bit like opening a time capsule—one that I didn’t even realize I had.

Today, I came across a few photographs that made me stop for a moment.

One of them is a picture of me when I was about a year old, sitting with my Mom and Dad. It’s one of those pictures that, of course, I have no memory of—but there I am, right in the middle of it all.

What struck me wasn’t really me in the picture.

It was them.

They look so young.

At that moment, they weren’t “Mom and Dad” in the way I came to know them later in life. They were just starting out…building a life, figuring things out, carrying responsibilities that I couldn’t have possibly understood at the time.

There’s something about seeing your parents that way that shifts your perspective a bit.

Another photo I found was of my Dad as a boy—standing on what looks like a front porch, with a tricycle nearby. He has that look that young boys often have…a mix of confidence and curiosity, maybe with a little mischief thrown in.

Bruce Dodson

It’s strange in a way.

I’ve always known my Dad as my Dad. But here he is, long before I was ever part of the picture…living his own life, having his own experiences, becoming the person I would later know.

I suppose that’s one of the things these old photos do.

They remind you that the people who shaped your life had entire lives of their own before you ever arrived.

And in some way, whether we realize it or not, those earlier lives become part of us too.

I didn’t set out today to think about any of this.

I was just going through a box.

But sometimes, all it takes is a couple of old photographs to remind you that your story didn’t start with you.

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Rediscovering Old Memories

Communities, , , ,

A Field Note from the Archive

For the past few days I have been slowly working my way through a banker’s box full of old files, folders, envelopes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. In truth, it is only one box among several boxes and file drawers that contain pieces of my life from roughly 1970 to the present.

Opening the box felt a little like opening a time capsule.

Inside are decades of letters, articles, notes, photographs, and documents connected to projects, people, and places that shaped different chapters of my life. As I sort through the folders, I keep rediscovering things that I had completely forgotten about. Some of them bring back a flood of good memories. Others remind me of moments that were difficult at the time.

But what has struck me most is how differently many of those experiences look now.

Some things that once felt frustrating, disappointing, or even like failures eventually turned into something positive—sometimes years later. Other things that once seemed incredibly important now feel much smaller when viewed from a distance of decades.

Time has a way of reshaping our understanding.

Going through these files is not really about reminding myself of things I once did or said. Instead, it has become an opportunity to reflect on the past with a little more perspective and a little less emotion. It allows me to ask simple questions:

Was this really as important as I thought it was at the time?
Did it matter in the long run?
What did I learn from it?

In many ways, this process feels similar to walking through a familiar natural area in a different season. The landscape is the same, but your perspective changes depending on when you return.

What I once saw one way, I now see another.

So far, I must say that this little “file exploration” project has been a lot of fun. Each folder is like turning over a stone along a trail—you never quite know what you might find underneath.

Of course, it also raises another question.

What in the world am I going to do with all of this stuff?

For now, I’ll keep exploring.

After all, there are still a lot of folders left in that box.

But as I sit here looking at these old papers and photographs, another thought occurs to me.

Each piece of paper represents a moment when something seemed important enough to save. At the time, I probably had no idea how that moment would fit into the larger story of my life.

Now, decades later, I can begin to see the connections.

Projects that led to other projects.
People who opened doors at just the right moment.
Ideas that took years to grow into something meaningful.

In a strange way, this old banker’s box is not really a box of files at all.

It’s a map.

A map of the winding path that brought me from where I started to where I am today.

And judging by the number of folders still waiting to be explored, there are still plenty of dots left to connect.

A Walk Through the Gladys E. Douglas Preserve

biodiversity, ecosystems, Native Plants, nature conservation, Wildlife & Plants, , , ,

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.

Why I’m Simplifying My Writing Life

Wildlife & Plants

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.

— Ron Dodson

Snowdrops and a Roaring Creek

Wildlife & Plants

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.

Spring is just around the corner.

Winter Storm Fern & the Quiet Resilience of an Old Spruce

biodiversity, birds, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, , ,

Winter Storm Fern moved through the Capital Region with wind, cold, and a heavy blanket of snow. For most of us, it meant shovels, forecasts, and staying put.

For the land, it meant a test.

In my side yard — part of what I call the Dodson Bird Observatory — an old spruce tree and a hedgerow stood exactly where they’ve stood for decades. Snow piled deep around them. Wind pressed hard from the open side. And yet, they did what they’ve always done.

They held.

The spruce, with its dense, layered branches, breaks the wind and creates pockets of calmer air beneath it. In winter, those pockets matter. Birds don’t need warmth so much as relief — relief from wind, exposure, and constant energy loss. The lower limbs, heavy with snow, still provide shelter where life can pause, even briefly.

The hedgerow does something just as important, though it’s less obvious. It catches drifting snow, softens the edge between open space and forest, and creates protected zones at ground level. Beneath the snow, life continues — insects, seeds, small mammals — all part of a food web that doesn’t stop just because the landscape looks frozen.

What struck me during this storm wasn’t drama, but steadiness.

No intervention.
No maintenance.
No management plan pinned to a clipboard.

Just long-established structure doing what it was shaped to do.

This is one of the quiet lessons the land offers in winter:
resilience is often already in place — if we allow it to remain.

The Dodson Bird Observatory isn’t about rare species or grand design. It’s about paying attention to what works, where you live, and choosing not to erase it in the name of neatness or convenience.

Winter Storm Fern will pass.
The snow will melt.
The spruce and the hedgerow will still be here.

And so will the life that depends on them.

When Environmentalism Lost the Plot

Wildlife & Plants

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.

A Beginning on the Bank of the Vlomankill

biodiversity, Communities, ecosystems, nature conservation, ,

I was standing on the bank of the Vlomankill in Henry Hudson Park a few days ago when a simple thought struck me with surprising force:

I need to understand the history of the land and water around the place I call home.

I’ve walked this stretch of the Vlomankill many times, but that morning something felt different. The stillness of the water, the stripped branches of winter, the muted light—together they made me feel as if I was standing in the middle of a story I didn’t yet know. A story shaped by geology, ecology, people, and choices made over centuries.

That’s when I realized: if I’m serious about stewardship, then this is where it begins. Not in theory, not in distant landscapes, but right here—learning the natural and cultural history of Bethlehem, New York, one walk, one question, one discovery at a time.

And as I thought about doing this work locally, it occurred to me that I could do the same in Indiana and Florida, the other places I spend part of each year. Three regions, each with their own story. Three places where I feel connected. And perhaps three starting points for a process that anyone could use to better understand the land beneath their feet.

So this Field Notes entry is the kickoff. A line in the sand—well, mud—where I begin documenting my observations, questions, and discoveries.

This is step one.

Where this leads, we’ll find out together. I already sense a larger article forming for The Nature of Things, one that explores not only this place but the broader idea of “discovering where you live.”

More soon.

The Beauty and Conservation Value of Paper Birch

biodiversity, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, Native Plants, nature conservation, ,

On my recent hike around the Five Rivers Environmental Education Center in Delmar, New York, I stopped to admire this striking Paper Birch (Betula papyrifera). Its white, peeling bark stood out against the darker trunks of surrounding trees, catching the soft autumn light. Paper Birch is one of those species that instantly sparks curiosity—its bark looks almost like sheets of paper curling off, and indeed, people have found countless uses for it over centuries.

But beyond its beauty and history, the Paper Birch plays an important role in a conservation landscape.

Native Range and Habitat

Paper Birch is native to much of northern North America, stretching across Canada and into the northern United States, including the Adirondacks and northeastern hardwood forests of New York. It thrives in cooler climates, often colonizing recently disturbed areas such as old fields, burn sites, or logged woods. As a pioneer species, it is one of the first trees to take hold after disturbance, stabilizing soil and preparing the way for other species in the successional process.

Ecological Benefits

Paper Birch provides critical benefits to wildlife:

  • Food Source:
    The seeds are eaten by finches, siskins, and other seed-eating birds. Moose and deer browse on young birch twigs, while snowshoe hares and beavers rely on the bark and shoots for food in lean months.

  • Habitat:
    The peeling bark provides cover for insects, which in turn feed woodpeckers and other insectivorous birds. Cavities in older birches can become nesting sites for chickadees and nuthatches.

  • Pollinator Value:
    Birch catkins release pollen that sustains early spring pollinators when other resources are scarce.

Conservation and Human Connections

For centuries, Indigenous peoples of North America used Paper Birch bark for canoes, shelters, and containers, taking advantage of its light weight and natural waterproofing. Even today, naturalists admire its bark as one of the best fire-starting materials in the woods—it burns hot even when damp.

From a conservation perspective, Paper Birch is a reminder of resilience and transition. It doesn’t live as long as oaks or maples, but its ecological role is just as vital. By providing food, shelter, and succession pathways, birch helps ensure that forests remain dynamic and diverse.

Paper Birch in Conservation Landscapes

If you’re thinking about creating a conservation-friendly landscape, Paper Birch can be a valuable addition, particularly in northern climates. It offers:

  • Visual appeal with its white bark and bright yellow fall foliage.

  • Wildlife value through seeds, twigs, and bark.

  • Diversity in habitat by supporting insects and birds that rely on peeling bark and canopy cover.

While it prefers cooler soils and doesn’t tolerate long-term heat stress (making it less suited for southern plantings), in places like upstate New York, it can be an excellent choice to bring both beauty and biodiversity to a landscape.

Closing Thought

Standing among the Paper Birches at Five Rivers, I was reminded of how every tree—no matter how common or short-lived—serves as a keystone for the life around it. The Paper Birch may not dominate the forest for centuries, but in its decades of life, it provides essential resources that ripple through the ecosystem.

That, in itself, is a lesson in conservation: sometimes the most important contributions are those that prepare the way for others.

A Quiet Encounter at Dusk: Discovering Nature’s Subtle Stories at Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary

biodiversity, Communities, ecosystems, Native Plants, nature conservation, Parks & Sanctuaries, ,

By Ron Dodson
The Nature of Things

As the late evening light filtered through the canopy at Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary, I found myself walking more slowly than usual. It wasn’t just the fading daylight urging caution—it was the stillness. A kind of hush had settled over the woods, interrupted only by the soft crunch of leaf litter beneath my boots and the occasional twitter of birds settling in for the night.

I’ve walked these trails many times, but something about the fading light always changes the feel of the place. It draws your eyes downward, where shadows dance across moss, bark, and understory. That’s when I noticed a plant I’ve seen often but rarely stopped to appreciate in detail.

Nestled near the edge of the trail, surrounded by leaf litter and the beginnings of autumn’s slow decline, was a graceful spray of leaves and a small cluster of berries—False Solomon’s Seal, or Maianthemum racemosum. Its long, arching stem bore alternate lance-shaped leaves, each delicately veined and gently tapering to a point. And dangling beneath one of those leaves were its berries—still ripening, mottled with hints of red and cream.

False Solomon’s Seal is one of those woodland plants that might go unnoticed by a casual hiker, yet it plays a quiet role in the forest’s rhythm. Unlike its more rigid cousin, Polygonatum (True Solomon’s Seal), which bears its flowers along the stem, Maianthemum keeps its blooms and berries clustered at the tip or just below the leaves. When in bloom, its feathery white flowers attract early pollinators. Now, late in the season, its fruit will become food for birds and small mammals.

I knelt beside it for a while, just observing. There were tiny holes in the leaves—evidence that something else had paused here before me. A beetle perhaps, or a caterpillar. The plant had done its part in the cycle of give and take.

In moments like this, I’m reminded why I return to places like Hollyhock Hollow. Not to check off species or log miles, but to encounter—quietly and without agenda—the lives of others who share this landscape.

As I continued on, the light dipped further and the woods took on that dusky blue hue that always makes me think of memory—how fleeting it can be, and how easily overlooked are the small details that become most meaningful in retrospect.

So if you find yourself walking a trail as the day begins to exhale, pause for the plants. Look for the berries, the chewed leaves, the stories etched in silence.

You might just find a kind of stillness you didn’t know you were missing.

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