*Logjam above Wolf Creek Rapid*
*Selway River, Idaho*

The Wild and Scenic Selway River, Idaho.

I could hear my friends scrambling to throw the last bits of whitewater gear into our truck as I sat like a stoic in front of my Forest Service computer, staring at the goodbye letter that I had taken weeks to draft. If I didn't hit the send button now, I'd be booted off of the network without saying goodbye, as was the fate of so many of my colleagues over the last few months. I reread the departure letter again for typos, grammatical errors, sentiment, and before I could begin to pick it apart again, I impulsively hit SEND, then waited for it to show in my Sent folder.

What, exactly, was I saying goodbye to? Like a millstone around my neck, this question's weight pulled me under the waves of emotion and, strangely, stabilized me through the storms of the last few months. I was afraid that it might do the same on the river, so it was my intention to row meditatively through the high water with only this on my mind. This was, after all, the only way to ensure that the weight of it all didn't sink me.

When the email hit my Sent folder, I closed my government laptop for the last time, jumped into a rig with my best friends, and set off over Nez Perce Pass and down into the river drainage that taught me why, and for whom, Wilderness must be preserved.

legacy and identity

I grew up in the Cradle of Forestry, walking among trees that the first Rangers pressed into the barren, overlogged earth with the heels of their boots. When my dad gave me my first teddy bear, I aptly named it Teddy Roosevelt, for whom all teddy bears are named. I share a birthday with Gifford Pinchot, the father of the Forest Service who was ousted from his position as first Chief, igniting the Ranger's movement and splitting the GOP in half, a political development that reverberates into today’s conservation debates.

To say that the Forest Service is part of my identity would be a poorly illustrated understatement. The agency is an icon representing my beliefs about conservation, preservation, shared societal interest, and public equity. These values were with me when I repaired fences and packed mules in the Shoshone. I felt them when I slept in the first Ranger's quarters at Wapiti Ranger Station. I saw their legacy embedded in the communities surrounding the first national forest where I taught countless young people about conservation ethics and sweat equity. I heard them echoing in the halls of the Yates Building in DC. I embedded them into the Forest Service’s first AI program.

And now, here I was, having just cut that cord. Eight years of service concluded with a click.

dancing with the current

Double Drop marks the beginning of the Moose Juice, the start of the Class IV section where the river narrows and drops between the rocky canyon walls. Most boaters attack this section by powering forward, pushing hard to avoid being sucked into the powerful hydraulics that form behind each rock. But I've developed a different approach over the years.

I deliberately pulled back on the oars, letting my raft surf the standing waves. I can see the currents and even sense the undercurrents, taking in the whole of the river. I find lines of countercurrents and pull my boat into them, using the water’s force to move me rather than punching forward and through. Where others see danger, I've learned to find the dance. Instead of fighting the current, I've found that sometimes the safest path involves a momentary surrender, a controlled drift that allows you to use the river's own energy to navigate its challenges.

Just below the rapid, as if to affirm this approach, an otter appeared beside my boat, playfully diving and resurfacing. I've always taken otter sightings as good omens—symbols of joy, adaptability, and grace under pressure. In that moment, watching it glide effortlessly through water that had demanded my complete focus, I felt a flash of clarity about my professional transition. Perhaps leaving the Forest Service wasn't about abandoning ship but about finding a new way to navigate the same waters.

the weight of neglect

We eddied out at Moose Creek the next day, and I felt a heaviness settle over me as we approached the Ranger Station. Once a proud outpost of federal land management, it now stood in visible disrepair—victim to successive fire seasons and a particularly devastating windstorm. We sat outside one of the historic cabins and talked with a volunteer about the needed repairs.

"We could fix most of this ourselves," he explained, gesturing toward rotting beams and collapsed sections of roof. "But the National Historic Preservation Act prohibits individuals who aren't certified from doing this work. And the queue is so extensive because of administrative burdens that these structures will likely continue rotting for years."

Meanwhile, there are no Forest Service workers to clear the trails to even get here. This seems a strong argument to allow a concessionaire to do this work, but if we do, we will lose the character of the place. Eventually, this place will no longer be accessible to people like me—people who aren't bankrolled by hedge funds or tech IPOs.

This stark reality stood in jarring contrast to what we'd observed the previous day. We'd passed several ranch inholdings along the river, pristine properties purchased by banking billionaires who preserve them meticulously for occasional parties and respite. The same people who have been villainized by the current administration work tirelessly to maintain rich people's access to paradise, while public infrastructure crumbles.

the future is already here

As we pushed off from Moose Creek and continued downriver, I found myself unusually at ease in the high water. The anxiety that had gripped me at the put-in—was I really skilled enough to lead a trip like this?—had dissolved with each successful line through challenging rapids. Yet this familiar pattern of self-doubt followed by demonstrated competence made me reflect on my broader professional journey.

I've always felt like an outlier in the Forest Service, focused on systems modernization when many were comfortable with the status quo. I feel like I'm living 15 years ahead of most, and I need to figure out how to communicate this vision to others in a way that motivates them to build that future with me. I tend to challenge and argue in order to understand, and I need to balance that tendency with a more gentle approach to political conversations.

I do believe we need to do things more quickly, and I believe we have the technology to speed processes and make things more accurate. The technological revolution coming to our forests and grasslands should serve our values, not replace them. But when I talk about this in the current political moment, it often comes off as abrasive to people who are deeply invested in traditional approaches.

embracing change

Morel mushrooms in a post-fire landscape

Our traditional campsite had been completely transformed by last year's fires. Where familiar ponderosa pines once stood, charred trunks now reached skyward against new growth emerging from the forest floor. Some in our party expressed disappointment, but I found myself energized by the transformation. The burn had cleared space for a spectacular display of morels—those distinctive honeycomb mushrooms that thrive in post-fire environments.

This natural cycle of destruction and renewal felt particularly relevant to my own transition. I'm really anxious about leaving the government. The comfortable space within federal service has allowed me to develop values that aren't purely capitalistic in nature. Yet I've also recognized that I haven't been challenged and tested as much as I could be.

I reflected a lot on Pinchot's life after leaving the Forest Service. He didn't disappear when forced out of his role as Chief. Instead, he went on to significantly influence politics, won the seat of Governor of Pennsylvania, and founded the Yale School of Forestry. I am not leaving my values by leaving the Forest Service. I am still seeking out value alignment.

Looking ahead, I'm excited about starting my own venture and working more closely with policy influencing centers and technical organizations, my focus set squarely on accelerating the adoption of advanced technologies for wildfire prevention, land management, and forest health across multiple levels of government and the private sector. This new position allows me to continue serving our shared mission of responsible environmental stewardship from a different vantage point.

the river continues

As we loaded our rafts after the final day on the water, I felt a renewed clarity about this next chapter. The question that had weighed on me at the beginning of the trip—what was I saying goodbye to?—had found its answer in the river's flow. I wasn't leaving behind the values and purpose that drew me to public service; I was finding a new channel for them.

The Wild and Scenic Selway will continue flowing long after all our debates about its management have faded. My hope is that we can make decisions worthy of its timeless nature, ensuring that generations to come will find the same soul-stirring wilderness that I've been privileged to experience. And whatever role I play in that future—whether from inside government or beyond its boundaries—will be guided by the same current that has carried me this far.

wild and scenic: on the currents of change