As Bob Dylan said, “You do what you do because you do it well.” What Round River Conservation Studies does, and does better than anyone, is teach ecological literacy, and a reverence for the Other. As a teacher, I could never ask for better students than my Round River groups. They were academically nurtured and well-read with a deep understanding of grammar, mathematics, physics, and chemistry. In addition, they managed their time well, were sharp on attendance and keen on daily preparations. However, with very few exceptions, my students were from an upside-down World. Many of them, even my senior university students, did not know their surrounding fauna and flora, nor did they know the ecology or evolution of their environment. They were not familiar with the small mammals, birds, amphibians or fish associated with their nearby forests, grasslands, or shrub-steppe environments. I found this ecological deficit among my students disheartening. How could they know so much, yet, know so little? 

I found that what students needed more than anything was a blend of knowledge, wonder, fear, and respect for their surrounding landscapes. Terry Tempest Williams, an early associate of Round River, used to stress that students need to develop a “[R]adical curiosity for the Other and a sense of awe.” Round River promotes curiosity about the natural World above all else. Students delve into natural history — the scientific study of plants and animals in their natural environments; levels of organization from the individual organism to complete ecosystems, and identification, life history, distribution, abundance, and inter-relationships. I saw in my time working with students that when you combine natural history with curiosity, a byproduct is awe. 

Round River also has a long history of working with First Nations and Indigenous Peoples. These partners have accumulated understandings, practices, and philosophies that hark back thousands upon thousands of years. Round River students have the valuable opportunity to learn directly from these ways-of-knowing and epistemological approaches.

Students also learn outdoor skills — how to read maps, use compasses, and practice old-school methods to live, travel, and thrive comfortably in Wilderness settings. Over the course of a program, they become accustomed to using minimal gear and limited natural resources when moving through remote landscapes.

Most importantly, students contribute to meaningful science. They monitor biodiversity, abundance, ecological assemblages, demographics, assist on reserve designs and gather other applicable information. This information is useful in protecting our wildlife heritage and assists indigenous communities, state/provincial and federal agencies, and goes into grey literature and peer-reviewed journal articles. Ed Martin, Heiltsuk (Haíɫzaqv), a mentor and advisor from when I worked in mid-coastal British Columbia, told me, “[I]nformation and knowledge is power.”  Leverage and control of landscapes is held by those who can speak for the inhabitants of landscapes. Round River students’ contributions can make a significant difference in speaking for and protecting these places. 

I truly wish entire colleges or universities could be run through a Round River program, but this is virtually impossible. Perhaps that is Round River’s paradox: its programs are intentionally small, and trying to scale them up too much could mean losing what makes them so special. That is both their beauty and their limitation — small programs in big, wild places.