showing up without a map

We've opened the door for youth to get involved in service on trails. The formal program isn’t built out yet. The grant dollars aren’t secured. But the land is ready, and young people are showing up.

We're offering what we have: light planning work, creative engagement, small invitations to observe and contribute. Not a formal job site. Not a traditional service placement. Just a beginning. We are aiming to make an invitation to placemaking.

It's been a bumpy start. Two thirds of the families we worked with wanted more hours, more structure, more control than we could provide.

What we’re noticing is this: the challenge hasn’t come from the youth. The challenge is coming from the expectations surrounding these kids.

Some adults bring urgency that doesn’t align with the slower, more relational pace we’re trying to hold. At times, we’ve been treated less like a partner and more like a provider, expected to deliver time, labor, and paperwork on demand.

Was it premature to start before the full plan was in place? I’ve sat with that question. And here’s what I’ve landed on: this kind of work probably has to begin before the systems are fully built. If we waited for everything to be ready, we’d lose the opportunity to start shaping this work with the youth, not just for them. And what does "ready" even mean in a process like this? Are we ever truly ready, or do we just have to start walking the trail while it's still being made?

Not everyone is looking for more than a completed task. And that’s okay. Some families are trying to help their kids meet a concrete requirement of community service hours on a timeline. That’s a real and valid need. But this work, the kind that grows slowly and takes root over time, asks for a different kind of timeline, and a different kind of purpose. It is my job to hold that vision in view while staying honest about what we can and can't offer.

Some people will want more structure than we can offer right now. Others will step into the uncertainty and help us figure it out together. Both responses tell us something useful.

building trails to fail

In our region, trails are on the rise. More grants, more community demand, more Instagram posts.

At first glance, that looks like progress. But beneath the surface, a problem is taking root: nonprofit organizations are increasingly positioning themselves as trail professionals—without the credentials, training, or technical partners to back it up.

When conservation groups or community nonprofits take the lead on trail design and construction, without proper drainage planning, grade reversals, or even basic corridor clearing best practices, we get trails that look good for a season but fail in the long run. Trails that erode, collect water, or slip their bench.

Trails that break trust with landowners and public agencies.

And because these trails are often built on public lands, the consequences ripple outward. Land managers are left cleaning up the mess. Municipalities grow hesitant. And public confidence falters.

Part of the issue lies in how some trail projects are funded. 

Increasingly, modest trail grants are coming from community development or health-focused foundations. These funders don’t typically support infrastructure, but they’re inspired by trails as tools for connection, wellness, and resilience. They see the vision, but often don’t fully understand what professional trail design and construction actually require.

Nonprofits, aware that they’re already asking funders to stretch beyond their usual priorities, feel pressure to keep budgets modest. That often means lowballing construction costs to make the grant feel reasonable and winnable.

In practice, this can mean skipping professional trail builders altogether and relying instead on internal staff, volunteers, or low-bid crews without the needed expertise. The result? Trails that erode, flood, or fall short of meeting community needs.

What happens next?

Staff members who’ve attended a weekend workshop or completed an online course suddenly find themselves pin flagging trail corridor and leading construction projects. But a half-day session on trail basics doesn’t make someone a trail professional any more than a CPR class makes someone a paramedic.

These aren’t people trying to deceive anyone. They’re people who genuinely believe they’ve gotten the training they need. But the gap between introductory knowledge and professional competency is vast.

And the consequences of that gap play out on the landscape for years.

The pressure grows when major donors want hands-on involvement in trail building. Caught between maintaining relationships and upholding professional standards, nonprofits often default to keeping funders happy at the expense of long-term trail sustainability.

So how do we fix it?

The answer isn’t to sideline conservation nonprofits or community groups. They bring essential strengths: local trust, funding relationships, and deep commitment to place. They’re often the reason a trail project happens at all.

Instead, we need to reframe donor involvement around sustainable impact. Donors who work alongside professional trail builders gain meaningful, hands-on experience while contributing to something built to last. They can take pride in trails that will serve the community for decades, not just seasons. (There are a number of examples of how this has been done well.)

What if grant programs required partnerships with qualified trail professionals? What if funders invested in capacity-building to help nonprofits develop relationships with trail experts? What if applications had to demonstrate technical competence on the team?

Trail building is a profession for a reason. It requires technical skill, environmental literacy, and a long-view commitment to both land and people.

Passion matters. But it’s not a substitute for practice.

If we want trails to endure, we need humility. We need qualified partners. And we need the courage to say: “We’re not the experts on this part, but we know who is. Let’s get them on the team.”

I develop trails for a living. a farming game still hyjacked my brain.

I had to quit playing Farmville more than seven years ago, even though my "farm" was thriving. I'd earned the beloved collie without spending a dime, just steady engagement with the game.

But during my 45-minute commute from city to country, I started noticing something unsettling: I was overlaying game logic onto real farmland. Driving past acres of soybeans and hay, I found myself thinking in crops, harvests, game assets. That's when I knew the game had started to warp something fundamental: the way I process place, reality, and meaning.

It was messing with the way I create knowledge.

This morning, I watched a YouTube video announcing that OpenAI has acquired the company owned by Jonathan Ive (he designed the iPod and iPhone). The reports suggest they're working on a device that wouldn't require us to look at a screen. My first reaction was "oh shit.” Are we heading toward technology that will impose images on the landscape, in stores, in parking lots, wherever we are, that don't reflect what is actually there?

I played Pokemon Go once, just to see what it was like. I got a notice that there was a character in the Mayodan Lowe's Home Improvement parking lot. I drove over there, parked, got out of the car, and there it was! I had to hold my phone up to see it. It was weird and funny. Then tragic reports started coming in of kids walking out in front of cars or walking into immobile objects because they were more focused on their phones than the real world in front of them.

We cannot know what OpenAI and Ive are designing. But I have a foreboding that it's something that will entice us to project our own images on the landscapes, on what is in front of us.

The pattern that emerged this morning, connecting a seven-year-old gaming experience to current tech developments, didn't come from careful analysis. It knocked on my consciousness the way insights do when we're not forcing them.

But what if that capacity itself is what's at stake in the world of generative artificial intelligence?

We have the same brains as our ancestors, but our experience of the world has changed dramatically through agricultural and industrial revolutions. We cannot fully know what was lost in those shifts. What ways of creating knowledge, what forms of human experience, disappeared as our attention became increasingly mediated by new systems?

How can we assess what we might be about to lose when we can't even name what we've already lost?

How easily my brain started overlaying game logic onto actual farmland. How Pokemon Go had kids literally not seeing what was in front of them.

If we're heading toward technology that makes the designed layer even more seamless, even more compelling, shouldn't we at least pause and ask what we might be trading away?

The threat isn't just to our health, but to our capacity to think clearly. To let genuine insights knock on consciousness instead of having our attention constantly pulled toward designed stimuli optimized for engagement rather than understanding.

Maybe what we need is to put a stake in the ground, a way finding for the way back.

Trails are this in most literal sense. They mark a path back to unmediated contact with place. Trails provide access to the forest. Spaces where that wandering quality of mind can still operate. Where patterns can knock on consciousness without algorithms directing what we notice.

The way back might be surprisingly simple: actual ground under our feet. Places where we touch and smell the earth, our mother ship.

I Led with the Shovel. I Should’ve Led with the Story.

The way I described the project didn’t capture what mattered most.

I framed The Wild Build, a youth-led climate initiative, around what would be built — native plants, restored creeks, public signage. But I hadn’t led with the most important part: what the students would become through the process.

When a board member at a potential partner organization raised concern — that the youth they support shouldn’t be “used for labor” — I suddenly saw it.

The way I had pitched the project left too much unsaid.

The Wild Build is a project for teenagers — rooted in environmental action, creative leadership, and hands-on learning. Students will shape a real place, solve real problems, and tell the story of their work. They’ll install native plants, restore creeks, create pollinator habitats, and design public signage.

I pitched the project to a fellow nonprofit, and when their board reviewed the proposal, a message was relayed back: member spoke up with real concern. They are protective of their students. They didn’t want the youth they serve being used for labor.

In that moment, I realized: I hadn’t misrepresented RTN’s values. I had miscommunicated our vision. It wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t complete.

Because what matters most in The Wild Build isn’t what students build on the land. It’s what they build in themselves.

This is a project about: thinking like ecological designers, making creative decisions with visible impact, learning how local action supports global change, translating technical work into public communication and civic storytelling

It’s not about output. It’s about ownership. Not labor equity — personal equity.

The concern raised was valid. It came from a place I deeply respect — a commitment to protecting young people from being reduced to tools or tasks.

It reminded me that, in outdoor and environmental work, I have to be precise in how I frame youth involvement. Especially when the work looks physical.

Yes, there will be shovels, but they’re not the point.

The point is that students will come away changed — with clearer voices, stronger confidence, and a deeper sense of how they can lead in the world.

So I’m learning to put the growth before the gravel; to name the learning before the labor.

RTN isn’t looking for labor.

We are building legacy — one student, one story, one site at a time.

when funders ask too much

For small organizations, rural towns, and volunteer trail groups, applying for grants isn’t just about paperwork. It’s planning. It’s community engagement. It’s emotional labor. We’re often pitching projects we believe in deeply — ones that reflect months, even years, of groundwork and real-world relationships.

When a grant program requires complex applications — all before a single dollar is awarded — that’s a heavy lift. 

And when hundreds or even thousands of applicants are competing for a limited pot, with no feedback and little transparency on the selection process, the result can feel less like partnership and more like extraction.

To be clear: guidance helps. Webinars and how-to materials are appreciated. But there’s deeper responsibility funders hold — to weigh their process against the real-world capacity of the communities they aim to support.

Some funding sources strike this balance beautifully.

The North Carolina Youth Outdoor Engagement Commission, for instance, offers a streamlined, accessible application with responsive staff and a clear understanding of how schools (whom they serve) operate.

Programs like the Great Trails State, the Parks and Recreation Trust Fund (PARTF), and the Recreational Trails Program (RTP) offer strong technical assistance from experienced and responsive staff. While RTP has faced past concerns about inconsistent proposal review at the committee level, N.C. Parks and Recreation leadership is taking proactive steps to improve the consistency of the review process — signaling a deeper investment in transparency and applicant respect.

That’s what partnership looks like.

When funders treat applicants as collaborators — not just content providers — the process becomes an opportunity to build capacity, not just compete for resources.

For applicants, especially under-resourced ones, it’s worth asking:

• Do we have the capacity to submit a strong proposal without burning out our team?

• Does this funder provide support beyond the guidelines page or webinar?

• Will we gain something from the process — even if we don’t get the grant?

And for funders, especially those who value building capacity: are we asking more from applicants than we’re giving back? Are we helping build a field, or just selecting from it?

No group should feel depleted by the very process of seeking support.

Let’s build a funding landscape that strengthens communities — not just screens them.