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.

The current funding landscape unintentionally contributes to this cycle.

Grants typically go to established nonprofits with strong community track records. These grants often include sufficient funding for professional trail work—but organizations are tempted to use that funding to support internal staff positions instead of contracting with specialized trail builders.

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 reshape how trail projects are funded and implemented.

That means reframing 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.

Imagine a different kind of project: one where nonprofits handle community engagement and land access; where qualified designers lead the technical work; where municipalities know they’re getting trails that will last.

And where land managers view trail partnerships as assets, not liabilities.

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—not just community enthusiasm?

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.

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 — the man who 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 we're actually seeing?

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, so I drove over there, parked, got out of the car, and there it was! I had to hold my phone up to see it, but there it was, imposed over the parking lot. It was weird and funny. Then 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 allow us, 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 — through that spacious kind of attention that lets connections surface when they're ready.

But what if that capacity itself is what's at stake?

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 designed systems.

Each transformation probably felt inevitable and beneficial to the people living through it. How can we assess what we might be about to lose when we can't even name what we've already lost?

The spacious attention that allows genuine insight to emerge — we know it exists because moments like my Farmville realization still happen.

We know it matters because it's how real understanding develops.

But we also know how fragile it is.

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?

Even if we can't fully name it?

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 that are optimized for engagement rather than understanding.

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

This might be exactly what trail work already is: a technology designed not to capture attention but to help people find their way to deeper engagement with what's actually there.

Trails are wayfinding in the most literal sense, but also in a deeper way — they mark a path back to unmediated contact with place. They're designed to reveal rather than replace.

The stake in the ground isn't just about preserving wilderness, but about preserving and practicing forms of attention that don't depend on designed stimuli. 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 actual feet, actual weather, actual encounters with what wasn't designed for us. Not as escape from the world, but as practice for a different way of being present to it.

Trails create conditions where spacious attention can still happen. In a world increasingly designed to capture and direct our focus, that might be more revolutionary than it looks.

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.