I’m not entirely sure where my grandfather gained his conservation ethic. Maybe it was ingrained in him by the bucolic way of life as a child growing up in Theresa, NY during the 1920s. Maybe it was something acquired while in hiding after his plane went down in Nazi-occupied France in World War II. Or possibly something learned from his decades of land surveying on the beautiful and diverse terrain of the Thousand Islands. Regardless of its origin, I am profoundly grateful to have inherited this conservation ethic.

Though he never plainly said it out loud, I now realize that he was incredibly aware of the two most finite resources that rule our human existence: time and land.

There was an impressive modesty to his ecological knowledge. He had no formal education in the environmental field, and would admit to not knowing “sh** from Shinola” on the matter. But he knew, almost to the hour, when the shadberries were ready for picking each June before the songbirds nibbled them all up. He knew when the bullheads would bite best and when the walleye would run up the Indian River each spring. With an innate ability, he knew the exact time each day when the wind would blow the hardest on the St. Lawrence. These were things not discovered from a book, but only through time on the land.

He taught me to have tremendous respect for the natural world around us. Through him, I learned that each and every acre matters. Just like the axe wound on that old pine tree in the back yard, the slightest of scars to our landscape take a long, long time to heal.

Now that I have two children of my own, I appreciate this sentiment more than ever before. I want to share with them the same outdoor experiences that I was lucky enough to have enjoyed as a child. Time spent catching the seemingly endless supply of hungry mid-summer sunfish off the camp dock on Clear Lake. Time at camp itself; a cottage that my grandfather built by hand nearly 60 years ago with salvaged nails that he stored in empty peanut butter jars. The stains of pine pitch on the bottom of my “summer” feet, and the shade of that 80-year old oak in August. I strive to share the things that are not discovered from a book, but only through time on the land.

So, in closing, I urge you to consider the long-term impact of your decision regarding the land—whether it’s your front lawn, a family cottage, or a 400-acre woodlot. Contemplate for the youthful experiences of those just old enough to count the rings of a tree, and for all those wild things that call that tree home. After all, we’ll never fully get back our time gone by, or our lands once trammeled; a lesson that bears repeating.