Museum exhibit professionals are always working on two difficult problems: achieving a balance between giving too much or too little information in an exhibit and catching visitors’ attention long enough to ignite their curiosity.(1) People cannot participate fully unless they have access to the content of the exhibit and they won’t participate fully unless they’re excited.

The MIT Museum in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Photo by Eric Roth.

At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) Museum, we have begun to incorporate into our exhibits some new, simple elements to deepen visitors’ understanding of and engagement with exhibit content. These elements can be understood in the context of the key principles of interpretation: How can museum visitors, many of whom expect to simply receive information, be provoked into active participation?

The MIT Museum is the public face of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of the premier research universities in the world. With over 100,000 visitors annually, the MIT Museum aims to make “research accessible to all,” a complex task made even more complex by the difficult subject matter that the MIT Museum presents.

Exhibits at the MIT Museum reflect both the rich history of the institute and the importance of ongoing research being conducted in MIT’s labs and research centers. Exhibitions include “Sampling MIT,” a set of seven mini-exhibits featuring recent MIT “innovations to change the world”; “MIT 150,” an exhibition of 150 iconic objects and ideas on the occasion of the institute’s 150th anniversary; and a small exhibit announcing the recent acquisition of 10,000 historic artifacts from Polaroid. Other galleries feature selections from the MIT Museum’s collection of holography, the largest of its kind in the world; kinetic sculptures; and an homage to Harold “Doc” Edgerton, the inventor of flash photography.

One of the Sampling MIT mini-exhibits features recent research on the use of functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to identify specific areas of brain function. fMRI helps researchers understand how information is processed in the brain, using volunteers who are awake and interacting with researchers during the painless procedure. The exhibit gave the brain researchers an opportunity to explain their work to the public and, they hoped, to attract new volunteers to participate in fMRI studies.

Discussions with the neuroscientists led MIT Museum staff to add to the exhibit what we were soon referring to as “the red phone,” a direct line allowing MIT Museum visitors to volunteer for fMRI studies. Of all the ways that we could have included a volunteer sign-up mechanism in the exhibit, the red phone seemed the most interesting. It wasn’t an online form just like the other online forms that many of our visitors fill out frequently, it wasn’t a handout with follow-up information that would likely be stuck in a pocket and forgotten, but (for 2010) it was an unusual-looking instrument: a red, old-fashioned desk-set telephone with a cord and no buttons.

The key elements in the success of the red phone are: 1. It is visually intriguing; 2. It is placed in the exhibit directly beside other information about the research; and 3. Most importantly, it directs visitors to an immediate, concrete action (pick up the phone, listen to the message, and leave your contact information) that results in making a concrete contribution. By meeting these three conditions, the phone entices visitors to participate. Researchers involved in the exhibit report that they have received a steady stream of volunteers for fMRI who reached them from the MIT Museum while they were viewing the exhibit.

Another of the seven Sampling MIT mini-exhibits features work from labs led by Subra Suresh, dean of the MIT School of Engineering. Each Sampling MIT exhibit includes two research questions that frame the exhibit content; in the Suresh exhibit, the main question is, “How can an engineer help fight malaria?” Text and videos highlight nano-scale tools that measure changes in normal red blood cells’ elasticity and stickiness when they are infected with malaria. The research topic, though, is much more complicated than we could ever address in the limited form of the Sampling MIT mini-exhibits.

We were aware that some visitors would want much more detailed information than could reasonably be included in the exhibit, while others would be satisfied with the general overview. We decided to use this exhibit as a test of how we could address this problem.

Observations of our visitors, especially our younger visitors, revealed that many of them walk through the galleries with their cell phones in hand. This observation led us to think about how to harness those phones to provide extra information for visitors who wanted to dig deep into the exhibit content, a process that then led us to begin using QR codes.(2)

A QR code printed on a panel in the malaria exhibit allows visitors with Internet-enabled cell phones to connect to the exhibit page on the MIT Museum website by taking a picture of the QR code. On the Web page, they find a list of nonprofit organizations that are fighting malaria, information about the worldwide incidence of malaria, and links to scientific papers published by the Suresh Research Group.

When the malaria exhibit opened, a guide to QR codes was distributed to visitor services staff, and staff was briefed on how to help visitors who wanted to know what it was and how it worked. Typical use of the code is currently averaging about one visitor per day, a number that we expect to increase as we add QR codes to new exhibits and as their use becomes more common in the U.S.(3)

These two telephone techniques aim to address basic questions about visitor experience. How can we give some visitors detailed information without overwhelming others who simply want an overview of an interesting research topic? How can we move visitors to action while they’re engaged with an exhibit? What can we do in exhibits to propel visitors to extend their experience beyond the site, to learn more, to act, to become real participants in understanding and creating cultural heritage?

And, of course, how can we get visitors excited enough to volunteer their brains for science?

Notes

1. In an April 12, 2010, post on a Smithsonian Magazine blog (http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/aroundthemall/2010/04/slow-it-down-at-the-american-art-museum), writer Erica R. Hendry noted that, “The average person takes, on average, less than eight seconds to examine a work of art.” I have seen varying estimates of this phenomenon, but all of the estimates indicate that many museum visitors skim through exhibits. Hendry’s blog post focused on the Smithsonian’s participation in Slow Art Day (http://www.slowartday.com), an international program designed to help visitors spend more time with exhibits.
2. The QR code was developed in Japan and is in wide usage there. QR codes can be generated online at many sites, including http://goqr.me and http://qrcode.kaywa.com/
3. The codes are now commonly seen on utility bills and bank statements in the US. We anticipate that they are likely to be more widely adopted here as current cell phones are replaced by phones with Internet connectivity.

Laura Knott is interim exhibitions coordinator at the MIT Museum in Cambridge, MA, and curatorial associate in the museum’s architecture and design collections. She can be reached at lknott@mit.edu.

I consider it one of my most important responsibilities as a parent to provide a broad world view and expose my children to different cultures—not just in terms of language, food, and dress, but as a way of looking at the world. To that end, my wife and two children went with me when I attended NAI’s International Conference in Townsville, Australia, earlier this year. Before the trip, we anticipated kangaroos, koalas, beaches, and tropics, but it was an event at the Townsville Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Cultural Centre that provided one of the most memorable moments. The site features interpretive exhibits, a thoroughly thematic gift shop, and musical and dance performances by aboriginal people in traditional garb.

Our children watched the dancers and musicians with rapt attention. Joel, age 6, bobbed his head to the beat of the drums. Three-year-old Maya laughed and tried to emulate a traditional dance that mimicked the motions of a kangaroo. Then Joel’s and Maya’s eyes widened when the performers stepped off the stage to interact with visitors. After an initial hesitation—not just on the part of my children but of everyone in the audience—visitors crowded around to converse and take photos together. The seal had been broken, and the performer-audience relationship quickly shifted to one of human beings talking about everyday things like clothes and food. One group of performers was a family that included children only marginally older than Joel. Both sets of parents watched and smiled as the aboriginal children and Joel (barely) interacted. I snapped the photo here—one of my favorites—and encouraged Joel to ask questions, but he was overcome with shyness, perhaps because of the growing group of onlookers.

After the visit, Joel and Maya found their voices and peppered my wife and me with questions about the aboriginal culture. We certainly didn’t have every answer (who does?), but the fact that our kids were asking the questions told me that the site had achieved its goals. As my children grow up, I hope that there will continue to be places where they can go to ask questions and learn about cultures other than their own, not just abroad but at the many that exist here in the United States.

Educator Kurt Hahn said that it is wrong to coerce people into opinions, but it is a duty to impel them into experience. An example of this lies in two different ways of telling the story of horse-drawn vehicles. Both ways compel visitors into experience, both ways connect the audience to the artifact, and both ways sit on the opposite ends of the interpretive spectrum—conservation versus restoration or replication of horse-drawn vehicles. But, are they really opposite?

Many people believe, inaccurately, that they are conserving a horse-drawn vehicle by restoring it. Indeed, conservation of any artifact stabilizes the deterioration of it while also preserving the original luster and texture of the paint, decorative art, woodwork, carving, other materials, and identifying features. A completely original vehicle contains the materials it was originally constructed with—the original wood, paint, upholstery, and other components. It also contains, or more accurately, carries the evidence of wear and tear of its use throughout its existence, essentially appearing in “last-used” condition.

Creation of Adam, Sistine Chapel

I like to use the Sistine Chapel to illustrate this idea. Michelangelo’s artwork in the ceiling was conserved recently; the more recent paint and chemicals covering the original art work were removed and the original Michelangelo paintings revealed. It is a perfect metaphor for what interpreters do: reveal meaning or stories. Wear and tear of the work through the ages cannot be removed in the process of conservation, though continued deterioration can be slowed or even halted. The thought of restoring the Sistine Chapel—scraping the “old paint” off the ceiling and redoing the whole work of art to replicate its look right after Michelangelo finished it—well, the idea is not only impossible, it is simply not appropriate. The result of this absurd treatment would cause the entire meaning of the work and the story behind it to be lost. And is there even another artist who could “copy” the quality of the original artist’s work? Restoration is done with horse-drawn vehicles and other artifacts. It has its place, but caution must be used if the goal is to preserve an interpretive story.

Historian and consultant David J. Glass says, “Conservation and stabilization, when and where applicable, allows retention of original materials and fabric of an artifact; essentially the observable record of what was made in the past. Restoration attempts to duplicate these materials and fabrics, and must only be regarded as such.”

A restored vehicle may retain some of the original wood and other materials, but anything that is not like the vehicle was as a new one, freshly rolled out from the factory, is lost. A restored vehicle is one that has undergone extensive work: paint is removed, broken components are repaired or replaced, and upholstery is redone. Done well, a restored horse-drawn vehicle looks exactly like it was when first built, but it is nothing more than a silhouette of the original—useful to demonstrate how it looked as a new vehicle, but lacking in the real stuff. The real stuff was wood from an ash, hickory, or yellow poplar tree cut down in 1880 and paint and cloth manufactured from early North American factories.

What is truly important to the art of interpretation is the “real stuff” of stories—provenance, the story behind the artifact. How is the provenance of an artifact valuable to its interpretation? The provenance tells us the story behind the specific artifact.

There is an interesting story behind a panel of rock art at Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park, a national historic site in southern Alberta, Canada. The interpreter leading a rock art tour I participated in this spring explained it in such a way that it will always stay with me. This relatively recent piece of rock art was drawn by a First Nations person who rode to the Milk River Valley in one of the first automobiles of the time. The content of the art tells us a bit of the story, especially about when the rock art was created because it shows people riding in an early automobile. But it is the story behind the art, the provenance, that really sticks in my mind. Interpretive specialist Bonnie Moffet described how researcher Michael Klassen, in looking at archival photos for the new interpretive center displays, discovered a photo of a First Nations man, Bird Rattle, a Blackfoot person who lived from 1861 to 1937. The photo showed him standing at the base of the sandstone cliff in the process of carving that very image of the automobile!

It illustrated his personal journey from the new reserve, by special permit, to visit the spiritual place along the Milk River he remembered as a child. He had become friends with an engineer who was building roads in the area, and his new friend had driven him back to the sacred valley. And the return to the area riding in an automobile was indeed a life experience for Bird Rattle. The early caption of the photo showing Bird Rattle in the process of carving the art read:

Piegan elder, Bird Rattle, carving the automobile petroglyphs at Writing-On-Stone on September 14th, 1924. Roland H. Willcomb photograph.

Roland Willcomb was the engineer who drove Bird Rattle that day. It is the only piece of rock art in the area that I have heard of where the exact time and date of its creation is known and the actual artist is known. Nothing replaces this story, and nothing can. Only being on that spot, at the base of the rock wall, looking at the original carved work and hearing the story from Bonnie made the connection for me. All I could say was, Wow.

Modern-day carriage-driving competitions give spectators a close-up demonstration of driving skill and the incredible power of the horse pulling a vehicle around obstacles at speed. Photo by Lorraine Hill.

How is a restored artifact valuable to the story? What can a silhouette tell us? It tells the active story, how the vehicle worked, how it was used, and what it looked like new. It could tell the showroom story, the factory story—general stuff. If you want particulars, the nitty gritty, make sure you have some of the original artifact left. On the other hand, you cannot underestimate the power of action, when providing the audience with a full interpretive experience. A restored vehicle, or better yet, a replica vehicle, can be used, adding the active component to storytelling. To see that pair of horses in traditional harness pulling the restored Yellowstone coach helps us understand early interpretive tours of Yellowstone National Park. Better yet, hop on and take a ride! This was the way travelers saw the first national park in America, at the turn of the century. You would never do this with an original Yellowstone coach; no matter how you treat the wood of a conserved vehicle, at 100 years it is not structurally sound and the use would destroy the visual clues to the story. But with a replica, the feel, the emotion, and the smell can be added to the story and it becomes an experience.

Charles Philip Fox, author of Horses in Harness, describes early visits to Yellowstone with his grandfather in the 1920s. When asked how he felt, Fox’s grandfather, a horseman all his life, would inevitably answer, “Oh, head high, tail over the dashboard.” One would not understand this response unless one spent a great deal of time driving a fancy horse “put to” (pulling) a nice little carriage. The person seeking understanding of the horse-drawn vehicle era might notice a horse “feeling his oats” while observing demonstration driving in an arena, but only when actually sitting with the driver, or as a passenger in a carriage, would “tail over the dashboard” come to a fuller understanding by the participant.

Whether you are seeking to enable your visitors’ experiences with active interpretation, or to inspire awe with an authentic story, there is an artifact or a replica that can make it happen in many instances. Deciding what type of the horse-drawn vehicle story or experience to give visitors will help you choose where or how to tell the story. To tell a more complete part of our history, you need both the original artifact and its provenance, as well as the replica experience. Conserve the story with an original artifact where possible, and actively use a replica or restored vehicle in sound, safe condition to fully immerse yourself in the active historic experience.

For More Information
Klassen, Michael, James Keyser, and Lawrence Loendorf. 2000. “Bird Rattle’s Petroglyphs at Writing-On-Stone: Continuity in the Biographic Rock Art Tradition.” Plains Anthropologist vol.45, no.172.

Heidi Eijgel is a visitor services specialist for Southwest Alberta Parks.

Imagine this scenario: You have agreed to make a presentation at a staff meeting. You take time to outline your talk, prepare your handouts, and create effective visual aids. You practice. You confidently walk into the room wearing jeans and a button-down expecting to see a table with six to eight people. As you enter the room, though, you find there are close to 80 people sitting in an auditorium. They are dressed in business attire. There is a lectern on the podium with a microphone and a large screen behind. The paradigm of your presentation changed suddenly. It requires different preparations, more handouts, and an entirely different presentation strategy. In an instant, you go from feeling confident and prepared to feeling scared.

Your mind flashes back to when you were invited to speak. You wonder what you were told, what you heard, and suddenly wish you had asked a lot more questions.

The very first part of preparing for a presentation is to define the parameters. Think about how the situation described above could have been different if the following questions were asked:

• How many people will I be
  addressing?
• How will the room be set up?
• Who will be in the audience and what is their background?
• What do you hope to accomplish by having me present to your group?
• Is the audience a group of strangers or do they know each other?
• What other speakers are on the agenda and when will I speak in relation to them?
• What type of audio-visual equipment and software do you have?
• Will there be technical assistance available?
• What is the appropriate dress for this occasion?

Some additional questions that may be of help include: Will alcohol be served? (This is to gauge the audience, not for you to drink!) and What is an emergency number I can call the day of the talk in case I have a problem?

Don’t assume you understand the parameters of a presentation. Make sure you ask the right questions. Find out as much about the situation as possible before you begin preparing. The more you know about what to expect, the better prepared you will be. Your confidence and credibility will soar.

This speaking tip is one is a series provided by iSpeakEASY. Visit www.iSpeakEASY.net for more tips and articles. Contact Ethan Rotman directly at 415-342-7106.

Cooperating agency personnel (from left) Elliot Doss, Bill Cox, and Joel Miller shock and remove fish from the old channel.

As interpreters, we know through experience and training that connecting an audience with a resource can lead to understanding and better yet, inspiration. We were counting on that when we started the Lake Sonoma Stream Restoration Demonstration Project, adjacent to a fish hatchery about 60 miles north of San Francisco. The project “journey,” as it has become known to us, began over two years ago when a group of fisheries biologists, interpreters, habitat restoration specialists, and park managers from three different agencies bought into a single idea—that converting a weedy, man-made ditch into a demonstration site for interpretation of habitat restoration techniques would transcend a simple resource management activity. The interpretive context becomes one of moving select audiences from understanding and to inspiration and action. The journey proved to be full of blind curves, but ultimately one of hope.

We had recently developed a new interpretive master plan with no money to implement it. Does this sound at all familiar? We had confidence that we, as representatives of partner agencies, would work together like a stream leading to solutions. Sometimes bureaucratic systems make it hard to combine resources, and we came across some of that, especially regarding different agency needs with contracting. Each of us had internal agency audiences to satisfy. But we were as opportunistic as salmonids seeking survival. We emphasized bridging to parts of the larger plan wherever we could, always with a mutual desire to move ahead. We were beginning to get our feet wet.

The Early Headwaters

Invasive plants were removed and banks were reseeded with native grasses. The channel was lined with river gravel and a new stream habitat was created with root wads, redwood logs, and rock weirs.

The interpretive master plan completed in 2006 for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Warm Springs Dam/Lake Sonoma project described a new theme based on the Russian River Watershed. This stream restoration endeavor was an opportunity to move forward and begin to engage and link to the local watershed concepts. To mitigate loss of steelhead and coho salmon, the Don Clausen Fish Hatchery was constructed at Warm Springs Dam in 1980 and is operated by California Department of Fish and Game, a partner in the master planning process. For nearly 30 years, a man-made ditch directed fish from the dam’s fish ladder to the hatchery entrance. Over time, the ditch had been invaded with Himalayan blackberry, silt, and a chokehold of willow roots. We needed a way to rethink and connect the old ditch with our new interpretive vision.

Every winter, visitors and school children flock to the fish ladder and wade through wet, muddy grass along the ditch to witness the returning steelhead. We learned a lot about our audiences through visitor surveys and focus groups. They enjoy learning about the steelhead and want more direct contact with the fish. They love to see them coming back to the hatchery and want to know more about how the hatchery works. What we didn’t anticipate was how hard it would be to convince the managing agencies that our habitat restoration idea could be successful as well as protect the steelhead, a threatened species in the Russian River Watershed. The take-home message for us was that the seeds for sustaining our partnership and achieving our goal were founded in the power of a good idea and our ability to communicate that idea.

A preliminary survey helped refine the master plan, retooling exhibit and office area spaces in the visitor center and providing data on abating noise conditions in the hatchery. Yet, it didn’t scratch the surface on getting to interpretive installations. The giant interactive salmon that looked so good in the slick pages of the master plan was only a holding place for the future. What could we accomplish now to keep the momentum for progress alive?

Flow Arrives at a Confluence: Zeroing in on the Project

Before: The channel is choked with non-native plants and years of sediment buildup. There is no stream habitat and public cannot see migrating steelhead.

The fish ladder and fish channel to the hatchery always figured in the master plan, but the full potential was never really examined until an out-of-the-box idea came up from staff through a routine exercise at a conference session. Why not use this small stretch of off-stream migration corridor to demonstrate the different kinds of stream restoration techniques used to enhance salmon and steelhead habitat? We can have explanatory interpretive signage—students and landowners will have a place to come see. The conference committee simply loved the idea. So it was time to put the proverbial shoulder to the wheel once again. We looked for hope in our hearts and focused on a plan to restore the steelhead passage (“ditch”) leading to the hatchery gate.

After: A new structure mimics native stream water flow through gravel beds, rocks, and logs for returning steelhead.

The primary partners in our habitat restoration project—U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, California Department of Fish and Game, Friends of Lake Sonoma, and Sotoyome Resource Conservation District—worked together to create practical and interpretive goals. We wanted our project to provide both a demonstration for salmonid stream restoration techniques along with opportunities for inspiring stewardship. The ditch would be drained and cleaned out, invasive plants removed, and new habitat features installed that mimic natural stream profiles. Rock weirs, root wads, fallen logs, willow walls, deep pools, and gravel beds—all things that private landowners could do on streams running through their property to improve fish habitat—were to be put in place as a living classroom experience.

The learning would also extend to supporting the popular Classroom Aquarium Education Program through the California Department of Fish and Game. Students would raise steelhead in their classrooms and release the fry in the newly restored channel.

The Russian River watershed is 90 percent privately owned, so private landowners hold the key to successful restoration in waterways connecting to the Russian River. In our vision, this project would provide a microcosm of ideas and a demonstration to inspire them. Casual visitors and organized school tours would benefit from a new wide wheelchair accessible path—close enough to see the migrating fish without having to get their feet wet or trample the ground. Elevated platforms would be constructed out over the water for enhanced viewing and even greater connection. Elements rounding out the plan included new interpretive panels, native riparian plantings, and a rain shelter over the fish ladder viewing area. We were convinced we had a great vision, and everyone loved the idea—but, no good deed goes unpunished. The real journey had just begun.

Flood of Challenges
Our first attempt to gain grant funding was only partially successful. The Corps provided $10,000 seed money, the Friends of Lake Sonoma donated $5,000, and the other partners submitted a $200,000 grant proposal to the state of California only to be turned down.

Huh? “We love the project,” we heard, “but….” We tried again, submitting a revised proposal the following year only to run hard up against California’s budget crisis. All grants were suspended. Adding insult to injury, a new term, “Furlough Friday,” entered our vocabulary and directly affected the state partners. But the power of our good idea would not let go. We met to discuss how we could move forward with the $15,000 we had in hand. With reduced staff resources, we cobbled together donated labor and materials to complete the first phase of restoration. What seemed simple at the time was becoming much more complex.

Our best interpretive efforts would prove invaluable in the numerous meetings to communicate our intentions and coordinate implementation of the actual construction. It became time for adaptive management considerations. One partner felt a bit left out—most of their work was to be funded from the grant that was suspended. How do we keep them included? Once again, our good idea was like a beacon. We’ll find a role for them and the money to pay for it—and we did.

Next, there came a new wrinkle. Corps of Engineers leadership now wanted the project to represent a much larger effort to restore creek habitats as outlined in a Russian River Biological Opinion—suddenly our little project was becoming political football. “We love your project, but….” Front and center, interpretive fast talking and a few more huddles put that football in the end zone. Then, more setbacks and more meetings ensued—when could we be left alone to start the work?

Meanwhile, we were fortunate to have a close network of professional interpreters with whom we met on occasion to share stories, projects, and the like. They were the perfect group to provide the room we needed for catharsis and restoration of inspiration that inevitably followed. The power of interpretive networking cannot be underestimated.

Build it and They Will Come
You wouldn’t think it, but habitat restoration can be a bit ugly and scary. It includes large machinery, lots of dirt moving, and piles of logs and boulders. This is not to mention concern over regulations for water quality, threatened and endangered species, and adhering to scientific protocols for everything you do. It’s all enough to make anyone say, “We love your project, but….” Countless times we could hear that refrain coming. But we couldn’t shake the hope we shared.

Wonderful words must be said for the folks who worked with us, whose can-do attitude began to reshape the landscape bit by bit. We had to close off the stream area due to construction conditions on site. “Fish Ladder Closed” signs adorned the hatchery interior. But the real work was outside. At the peak of summer season with migratory runs far away, the small channel was pumped dry in order to rescue a few resident juvenile fish. Next, scraping away large swaths of non-native blackberry and application of herbicide took place to thwart the return of invasive plants.

We had finally headed down a road and we couldn’t turn back. We’d physically torn the “ditch” apart and had to put it back together. The important thing now was to keep everybody focused on what we were trying to do, and to keep the flame alive. When we worked, momentum took over.

Then one day, the process culminated with the excavation of the channel and artful placement of gravel, stone, and woody structures for re-creation of natural habitat. A rock weir created a fish pool; logs and boulders offered in-stream complexity for protection of fish; and banks were stabilized with native grass seeding, erosion-control blankets, and straw. The foundation for a wheelchair-accessible trail was laid in and adjacent upland areas were contoured to resemble a more natural landscape.

From High Reach to Ocean Deep
Throughout our travails, we had kept a vigilant beam focused on issues that mattered. The science of habitat restoration and fisheries management had to be kept connected to the people who support these efforts through taxes and personal interest. Guiding interpretive principles of provoke-relate-reveal had recaptured the initial naysayers.

Now that the restored stream is taking shape, it seems that everybody wants to be part of a successful idea. The rains have come, the water gurgles through the former ditch like a native stream. The rocks, cobbles, redwood logs, and root wads peek up through the water as it dances along the gravel beds. The native grasses we seeded are beginning to sprout, and a new walkway has a temporary but serviceable base. In recent months we welcomed the first steelhead back. They took to the restored habitat immediately. We’ve even observed spawning activity at this site for the very first time.

Feedback as of late is quite simply music to our ears. The stream of hope and inspiration of the good idea had carried us each step of the journey. Payoff is finding inspiration in the work you are doing and the people you are doing it for. We survived to tell this story. You can, too.

David W. Moore is interpretive services supervisor for California Department of Fish and Game, Bay-Delta Region. Nancy Rogers is the San Francisco District park ranger and interpretive specialist with the US Army Corps of Engineers. They can be reached at dmoore@dfg.ca.gov and nancy.l.rogers@usace.army.mil.

The pitcher hurled a pitch so hot that it turned the August air to steam as I heard the ball sizzle past my bat. The ball pounded into the catcher’s mitt for a strike. It was the bottom of the last inning with two outs. The game featured the teams with the best season records playing for the league trophy. My challenger was a relief pitcher, assigned to get one person out: me. With the next pitch, I connected with for a line drive toward first base and into the outfield, foul. Had the ball landed two feet to the left, the runner on second would have scored, tying the game, but it landed foul. I had the pitcher’s fastball measured, though. I knew how hard he could throw, and I was not that impressed. I knew that I could make him pay dearly if he got another pitch near my strike zone. I repositioned my feet so that I could drive his pitch toward the outfield gap in left-center. A line drive there would score the runner from second with ease, and get me into scoring position for the winning run.

“You haven’t a chance. He is gonna strike you out,” the catcher mocked. I cast a muffled reply back to him.

I settled into my batting stance and stared at the pitcher. He was a tall guy who seemed even larger on the mound. He peered at the catcher and nodded, agreeing on the pitch and its location. He then looked at me with what appeared to be a smile. He had a secret.

I blocked out the frenzied crowd. My concentration was sharp as he threw a beautiful pitch toward at my strike zone. In less than a second, my muscles reacted to attack the ball. My swing was smooth and powerful.

Who throws a curve ball in little league? Nobody! The ability to throw curve balls is learned in high levels of baseball, when the pitchers are physically mature enough to avoid damaging their arms. This guy, however, could throw a curve ball, and instead of getting an 80mph fastball, I got a 65mph breaking ball. I had never seen a pitch like that. I swung too early. Strike three, end of the game, and end of the season.

“You win some, you lose some” is a sports cliché. Although the outcome of a game is often decided by chance alone, failure on the part of the players has a significant role. Even so, as filmmaker Ken Burns stated, “Baseball is the only sport where you can fail seven out of 10 times and still end up in the hall of fame.”

Coaches and trainers at the lower division levels know how to develop players’ talents by identifying and working with their failures. Players must learn to deal with the physical and psychological demands of a sport that requires concentration, physical conditioning, and intelligence. From Little League to American Legion through the classifications of professional leagues (A, double A, and triple A), players are expected to develop by learning from their errors. When the most talented and outstanding players have learned enough, they may earn the opportunity to play in the big leagues.

The scheme of advancing through the echelons of baseball provides lessons for our profession, too. Frontline interpreters, writers, illustrators, designers, managers, and supervisors need opportunities to try new methods, analyze alternative techniques, and explore new ways of operating in proactive nonthreatening environments. It is easy to accept “programs as usual” when we are rewarded for doing something well. However, “programs as usual” can tempt us toward stagnation. When that happens, interpreters might avoid trying new approaches out of concern that one negatively assessed program, criticized panel, or rebuffed interpretive plan will have ominous consequences. Even at our regional and national workshops, it is difficult to find dialogue about innovative advances, favoring instead the sharing of confirmed success stories.

We need training that takes place in a nonthreatening atmosphere that allows interpreters to try new ideas and methods, where their performances are accurately critiqued. To this end, I propose the concept of an interpretive academy, with program tracks in frontline interpretation, nonpersonal interpretation, supervision, design, and management. Like the tiers of amateur and professional baseball that develop players’ skills and new approaches to the game, an interpretive academy would serve as an opportunity for promoting innovative visions across the disciplines for inexperienced and experienced interpreters. An academy would help us to determine how failure can serve as a positive mechanism to meet our program needs and target the interests of our publics.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.

Fifty miles east of San Francisco, where the interior foothills of the Coast Range give way to the great Central Valley of California, two eras of California’s mining history come to life at Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve. Managed by the East Bay Regional Park District, this 6,000-acre park protects historic town sites, coal and sand mines, and a pioneer cemetery.

In the late 1800s, the coal mining town of Somerville was one of the largest towns in Contra Costa County, California. Photo courtesy Louis Stein collection.

From the 1860s through the turn of the 20th century, miners in the Mount Diablo Coal Field, once California’s largest coal-producing region, provided fuel for the young state’s growth. From the 1920s through the 1940s, another generation of miners removed over 188,000 tons of silica sand for glass production in Oakland, leaving behind a maze of approximately eight miles of massive underground rooms and supporting pillars. The park district is working to restore several aspects of these dynamic pieces of California’s past. For nearly 40 years, staff have focused on three areas of restoration: repairing the greatly vandalized pioneer Rose Hill Cemetery, opening the 1930s era Hazel-Atlas Silica Sand Mine for public tours, and maintaining the cultural landscape of the town sites through the management of vegetation that is non-native, though historically significant. Today, due to these restoration efforts, school groups and public visitors are able to explore the town sites, mines, and cemetery to discover clues to this nearly forgotten piece of history.

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Like a swarm of buzzing bees, the students disembark from their school bus. Even though most are from communities relatively close to the park, they have just entered a completely new world, and the questions begin with increasing urgency.

“Where are we? It seems like the middle of nowhere!”

“Is this really the bathroom?!”

“Why is there a cemetery up on that hill? Do we have to walk there?”

“Is that a COW?”

Slowly the naturalist begins to usher the students out of the parking lot and onto the trail to begin their exploration of the Somersville town site. During this journey of discovery, students will have the opportunity to learn about the area’s coal and silica- sand-mining history, including a tour of the 1930s-era Hazel-Atlas Mine. They will also investigate a former coal mining community and learn about the people who lived here. Although the students do not realize it, they will be interacting with three different restored historical settings today.

East Bay Regional Park District works to maintain the historic layout and vegetation of the Somersville town site, while allowing for modern park uses. Photo by Robert Kanagaki.

After a short hike to the Hazel-Atlas Mine, the group finds itself about to enter into an underground world. Before crossing the threshold, the naturalist explains that they will be exploring approximately 1,000 feet of the mine, and will have a chance to see what this mine could have looked like in the 1930s. Gradually, everyone’s eyes adjust to the illuminated sections of the mine. Wide-eyed, these students collect their hard hats and flashlights before following the naturalist further into the earth.

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The Hazel-Atlas Mining Museum grew out of a passion for and a desire to share the mines and their history with the public. In 1973, when the East Bay Regional Park District began acquiring the land that would become Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve, the district’s primary concern was to locate and close all the coal and sand mine openings on park property. For over 20 years, people from the area had come to the abandoned mines to explore, party, and even use them as a camping spot. Over the years conditions in the mines had deteriorated to the point that many had collapsed and some contained carbon dioxide gas. People were getting injured and even killed while exploring them.

Eventually, the idea was born to restore a portion of the Hazel-Atlas Mine into a representation of an underground silica sand mine from the 1930s. This would prove to be a daunting task. After the Hazel-Atlas Glass Company closed the sand mines in the 1940s, visitors to the site removed equipment and artifacts, leaving an empty maze of tunnels and pillars supporting the hillside above. Before the park district could use this mine as an interpretive site, it would need to build support timbers and work stations, locate and re-lay ore car tracks, and construct stairways and bridges to allow access through areas that had been mined. Staff and contractors, led by mine manager John Waters, would soon learn that this would be more complicated than they ever imagined.

Retired mine manager John Waters was the driving force behind restoring the Hazel-Atlas Mine and opening it for public tours. Photo courtesy EBRPD Archives.

The tunnels that riddled these hills presented many new challenges. First, the mine was mapped, structural safety was determined, and the location for the mining museum and underground visitor center was chosen. A plan was developed to routinely check structural integrity and air quality in the portions of the mine slated for public use. Finally, material accurate to a 1930s sand mining operation was acquired. Park district staff worked with state and federal mining offices to meet safety standards, and the restoration work began. In 1985, the Hazel-Atlas Mining Museum opened to the public for the first time. Over the years it has undergone renovations to continually meet safety standards and expand the tour route. Currently the museum averages 17,000 visitors annually.

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Close to 1,000 feet into this underground world, the students are staring up at the ceiling (called the “back” in a mine) 30 feet above their heads. The naturalist has already explained the mining techniques from the 1930s, even showing the students the type of machinery used. Now the group has to reverse direction and head out of the mine. Eventually, groups will be able to exit the mine through a second entrance one level down—alleviating the need to reverse direction. But today another class is waiting to come underground, and this group will continue their exploration on the surface.

Once outside, the naturalist explains that they will be leaving the sand-mining history behind and going further back in time—back to the late 19th century. This was the heyday of the Mount Diablo Coal Field. Miners who lived here dug hundreds of miles of workings while they removed four million tons of coal. The town of Somersville, in which the group is standing, filled the valley. The naturalist explains that during the late 19th century, nearly 1,000 people lived here, working, playing, worshiping, and dying. Somersville served as an important community in the Bay Area with schools, churches, community organizations, and even a baseball team.

Today, there are no buildings and no residents, but there are clues that help us catch a glimpse of this vanishing past. It is these clues that the naturalist has asked our students to keep an eye out for. “Look for things that seem out of place; things that look like nature didn’t put them here.”

As the group hikes down into the valley the students begin to identify things that look out of place.

“I see a picnic table.”

“What about that sign board over there?”

Then, as if at once, the students cry out, “That! That giant pile of dirt!” A waste rock pile from the coal mining days now sits directly in front of the group. These are the rocks that the coal miners had to dig through to get down to the coal. They didn’t want to transport the waste rock far, so it was dumped near the mine.

After a quick exploration of the waste rock pile to discover the ingredients that make up the surrounding hills, the group continues the search for clues. Now that they know what to look for, many are seeing more subtle clues: scattered bricks from an old path and broken pottery unearthed by recent rains. Occasionally some begin to notice the depressions in the ground where buildings once stood. Even the trees are clues about the town’s past. Many were brought by town residents to California from previous places they had lived: black locust came from the central and eastern United States, pepper trees from South America, and tree of heaven from China.

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Across the country in recent years, park managers have taken to eradicating non-native, invasive plants found in parks. The East Bay Regional Park District is no exception to this; many of our parks have impressive eradication programs. In contrast, Black Diamond Mines has chosen to protect and even restore non-native, historically significant plantings within the town sites. Rangers are drafting a plan to remove the invasive tree of heaven growing outside the town sites, while simultaneously managing its growth within the town site as a historically significant species. In rare cases, such as in the cemetery, replacement trees have been planted in the exact location where an ancestor tree has died in order to restore the cultural landscaping of the site.

The Somersville town site is maintained in a natural state, allowing modern park use such as hiking and bike riding while restoring and preserving clues to the past. District staff works hard to protect resources like the historic trees, waste rock piles, historic features, and archaeological artifacts. Former building locations and mine sites serve as picnic areas and railroad beds as trails. The result of this effort is a landscape that is natural, yet maintains aspects of the past. Visitors interact daily with the history of this place, often without even thinking about it.

~

A half-mile from the waste rock pile, we find our young scholars trudging up to Rose Hill Cemetery. This 160-foot climb seems almost unbearable for some of the students, and it gives them pause to learn that the town’s school used to sit just down from the cemetery. As the group enters, the naturalist tells them about the people who are buried here. Of the nearly 250 individuals interred here, more than half are children, many of whom died from diseases. Due to their expense, gravestones were often shared, while some people were buried with only a wooden grave marker, and others had no marker at all.

Each student is given a scavenger hunt sheet, and they spread out across the cemetery, scouring the stones for information. “Who was born in another country? Who is the youngest person buried in the cemetery? What do you think the carved designs (motifs) symbolize?” As these students explore the cemetery, they begin to develop a more personal connection to the people who lived, toiled, and died here. What these students do not realize is the amount of work and passion it has taken to restore the cemetery to its present condition.

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Prior to the park district’s acquisition of the land in 1973, the trail leading up to Rose Hill Cemetery was an unpaved county road winding through cattle country. The barbed-wire fence surrounding the cemetery deteriorated over time, allowing cattle access to the site. It is believed that many of the gravestones were broken by cattle rubbing up against them. As residents moved out of the coal field, fewer people remained to keep an eye on the cemetery and it became a magnet for vandals. Many gravestones were broken and nearly half disappeared. To make matters worse, the soil in the cemetery was sterilized to eliminate the need for mowing. This removed any erosion control on the hillside, and after heavy rainfalls the mud began to bury gravestones and gravesites.

In an effort to safeguard the gravestones, some individuals began securing them to the ground with concrete. It was this act of preservation that saved many of the gravestones, giving the park district much of what it would use in the ongoing restoration work. This work has been twofold. First, research is being done to locate gravesite locations as well as the identities and family stories of those interred here. This historical research, headed by supervising naturalist Traci Parent, is nearing a milestone as the culmination of 30 years of research will soon be published under the title Rose Hill: A Comprehensive History of a Pioneer Cemetery in the Mount Diablo Coal Field, restoring knowledge about the cemetery and those who make it their final resting place.

The second cemetery restoration effort is led by park rangers who are working to repair and restore vandalized gravestones. This can be extremely difficult since some of the stones were broken into multiple pieces, with many of the pieces missing. Park Ranger Doug Fowler leads the efforts to restore these gravestones. Following nationally recognized conservation standards, he and his coworkers have developed various methods for repairing these broken stones. Currently nearly 30 gravestones have been restored and more are in the works.

~

With broad smiles on their contemplative faces, the students load back onto the bus to begin the trip home. Their field trip is over, but they have begun what may become a lifelong journey of discovery, as they connect modern life with the past that surrounds them. As the bus pulls away, a smile grows across the naturalist’s face; he knows that he will see some of those students again. Maybe they will bring their families to visit the mine. Perhaps they will become future volunteers. There is always the possibility that someday some of these students might become naturalists themselves. The bus disappears from sight and the naturalist turns back to regard this nearly forgotten landscape. There is much left to do, because the more we selectively restore the historic setting of Black Diamond Mines, the more those visiting strive to connect with the past.

~

Kevin Damstra is a Naturalist with East Bay Regional Park District based at Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve. He can be reached by email at kdamstra@ebparks.org.

For thousands of years plants have been linked with many ancient traditions as spell binders, capable of working specific magic. While I’m not suggesting that interpreters practice these ancient crafts in the literal sense, I believe plants can be powerful allies in our efforts to restore a deeper connection to our cultural and ecological heritage.

Even dandelions can be captivating. The author’s niece Rylie Marie investigates.

Stories Restore
There are stories in land, stories in the rocks, in the trees, and in the plants growing in your backyard. Plants offer interpreters stories that connect the histories of people, places, and animals, stories that sweep across cultures, languages, and even species, stories of invasion, cooperation, opportunity, survival, love, and loss. Unearthing these stories provides a treasure trove of interpretive possibilities. Our real aim in learning and sharing plant stories, as well as other stories, should never be about dispensing “nickel knowledge” of natural history, but about helping visitors restore a sense of their own roots in the land. Anchoring these plant stories in universal concepts makes them more memorable, meaningful, and, at times, magical. Ecologist and writer Gary Paul Nabhan suggests that we “re-story” the land by making it a part of our story, our seasonal celebrations, our community gatherings and festivals.

It is easier to protect places that are imbued with familiar and cherished stories. In his thought-provoking book, Cultures of Habitat, Nabhan says that if we track down these stories to the finest detail, our own lives will be enriched. He adds:

In every biotic community, there are story lines that fiction writers would give their eyeteeth for…. Dormancies of lotus seeds that outdistance Rip van Winkle’s longest nap. Promiscuities amongst the neighboring oak trees that would make even Nabokov and his Lolita blush.

Nabhan asks, with the myriad of stories around us, how many of them do we recognize as touching our lives in some way?

Most Americans can identify thousands of brand names and logos, but fewer than 10 common plants in their own backyards. These plants exist outside the zone of perceived relevance. Ecologist Aldo Leopold reminded us that the first rule of tinkering is to keep all the parts. Inherent in this rule is the notion that we should also know what the parts are; otherwise how can we hope to know what’s there, or what’s missing, or in the case of invasive species, what shouldn’t be there? How can we restore our connection to the places we want to protect without the stories from the Green Kingdom?

Learning the names from these other lives is one starting point to learning these stories. Once you know the name of a plant (or animal) you can begin to learn how its story fits into the stories of other members of an ecological community and even into our own stories. You might even discover the poetry of its name. Although I’m not suggesting that the only way to appreciate plants (or anything) is to attach a name or label to them; I’m simply saying that names are a tool, and as such, can be used to build bridges or barriers. It’s all a matter of application.

In the presence of a skilled and knowledgeable interpreter, both the common and botanical names can be used to create an array of connections with the everyday lives of any visitor.

Secret Stories from the Green Kingdom
You might say that there is a whole galaxy of interpretive stories hidden in the names of plants—sunflower, moonflower, cosmos, star chickweed, and aster, to mention a few. Martha Barnette’s small but delightful book A Garden of Words is a valuable etymology resource on the origins of plant names and stories. According to Barnette, the name daisy is in reference to the sun being the “eye of the day” or day’s eyes. Aster is certainly a fitting name for a flower that resembles the celestial “blooms” of the night sky. Likewise the genus name Stellaria is appropriate for the star-like blossoms of the giant or star chickweed, Stellaria pubera. The edges of our eastern woodlands are laced in September with the white flowers of white snakeroot, judged by many to be the culprit in the death of Abraham Lincoln’s mother who died from milk sickness. Cows ingesting the plant passed a toxic chemical through their milk. This plant belongs to a genus in the aster family that is known to hybridize freely, and thus some authorities question which species is the felon in this story. Plant stories are often mysteries!

Rylie Marie is captivated by summer’s bounty.

Yaupon holly, with the colorful species name Ilex vomitoria, points to a story worth telling to a group of middle school students who may think they aren’t going to enjoy learning about binominal nomenclature, the scientific two-part classification system. I love introducing visitors to the soapwort growing at Bernheim Arboretum and Research Forest in Kentucky. This plant goes by several other common names, including bouncing bet and fullers herb, each name has its own collection of stories. Wort is from the Old English word wyrt, meaning plant, herb, or root. The name soapwort makes sense in view of the plant’s use as a delicate laundry agent. The plant was also called fullers herb, a holdover from the process of washing new carded wool or fulling. Even the scientific name, Saponaria officinalis, is redolent with meanings and stories. For starters, the genus provides a clue that the plant may contain saponins, agents that produce suds. The species name, officinalis, points to its history in the official apothecaries, the forerunners of our modern drug stores.

Even Weeds Have Stories to Tell
Examining most lawns reveals numerous interpretive stories “hidden in plain site.” Since weedy species are abundant and widely distributed, visitors are likely to reencounter these plants, and such repeated contact reinforces these stories. Dandelions are often one of the first plants noticed by children. The yellow suns are easily grasped by little hands, and children beam as they offer a bouquet to their mothers.

“Oh Sweetie, thank you, but that’s just a weed,” I recently overheard a mother say. Her response was gentler than many other responses to this floral offering I’ve heard over the years. However, the label of weed points to only a part of the story.

Author and naturalist Tavia Cathcart says, “The name dandelion comes from a French phrase dent de lion (tooth of the lion).” It’s easy for visitors and even little children to see a possible connection between this name and the sharp green teeth on the edges of dandelion leaves. Not native to the United States, but now naturalized widely, dandelions provide us with tales of travels, trials, and culinary creations, as well as myth, magic, and medicine that extend at least to the 10th and 11th centuries. Dandelions also provide high drama when viewed through the lens of warfare.

The Green Kingdom is Not Always the Peaceable Kingdom
In one of the best interpretive programs I’ve ever attended at an NAI National Workshop, Fran Blanchard and Mary Ann Bonnell reminded us that plants and their stories can be filled with all the drama of a battlefield. They also clearly conveyed their theme that plants aren’t passive in their defense of the homeland. Dressed in faux military regalia and representing the Secretary of Homeland Security and the Secretary of State, these creative interpreters staged a mock pre-battle press conference (complete with charts, maps, and graphs) from the viewpoint of plants. Workshop participants were quickly shunted into the role of press agents vying to ask questions of our illustrative leaders. Our capable commanders demonstrated numerous tactics employed by plants (chemical warfare, armored defenses of thorns and spines, etc.) in defense of their territory.

Years later, the universal concepts and relevant stories shared in that session have helped me see new stories in the land. I find new drama among the dandelions, as I now witness the turf battles and ongoing skirmishes between fastidious landowners and these “lions of the lawn.” I’ve realized that dandelions’ strategic arsenal not only includes prolific paratroopers, launched from familiar fluffy seed heads, but also underground taproots that lay claim to their territory with tenacity. Dandelions even appear to have a highly effective intelligence agency. They seem to know how low to keep their crowns, before counter attacks of land owners on lawn tanks (lawnmowers). Once the tanks have moved on, dandelions quickly raise their victory flags of yellow suns. Fortunately, universal concepts aren’t limited to those associated with warfare.

The Business of Blooming
When we describe our favorite spring wildflowers, we often use such words as delicate, fragile, and lovely. All of these descriptors are certainly accurate but they can belie the hidden tenacity of these so called genteel ladies of our spring woods. The real stories are a lot less tame and point towards some of the earliest business strategies in the “world’s oldest profession.” Contrary to popular belief, spring wildflowers usually don’t disappear from view because they succumb to freezing or frost. The real reason has more to do with the economics of ecology than frailty or frivolity. As much as their beauty may please us, spring wildflowers mean business, and most flowers are in the sex business.

Woodland wildflowers are supremely alluring and enterprising. They must take advantage of a small window of opportunity that opens in the woodlands just as daylight begins to lengthen but before the trees leaf out and block the sun. In other words, they only have a few weeks to complete their reproductive life cycle. It isn’t just the sun that they need. Survival of the next generation of viable seeds often depends on attracting pollinators that carry pollen (usually) from the male parts of other flowers. Similar to some human enterprises, flowers advertise their wares. Bright banners flap in the breeze like colorful flags at used car lots. Others offer rich perfumery. “Stop here,” they seem to say in their sexiest chemical lexicon. “We’ve got what you want, you’ve got what we need.” Some flowers like violets offer clearly marked runways so that insects can find their way to the pollen or nectar. Many flowers even offer landing pads. How’s that for customer service?

There is deception among the flowers. Some orchids imitate bees, and according to Sharman Apt Russell, author of The Anatomy of a Rose, there are some flowers that don’t live up to their end of the bargain. These trick pollinators into expending energy to visit them and offer nothing in return. Cooperation, competition, deception, and manipulation—flowers are not only full of melodrama, they are full of universal concepts.

The Green Story in a Nutshell
Mystery and reciprocity live at the heart of the plant kingdom. A squirrel buries hundreds of acorns and eats some of them. A tree grows from one of them, and its leaves are munched by a caterpillar. The caterpillar is eaten by a bird. The bird lands on the branch outside my window and sings. Sunlight has become not only root but also wing, not only leaf but song.

For many of us this past winter was rough and long, thus we welcomed spring with its unfurling fire of green light with even more gratitude than usual. Although it is late spring at this writing, the Green Kingdom is lush, lovely, and alive here in Kentucky. But even if you live in a part of the country where the seasonal changes are less obvious, there is no escaping the inevitable fact that all living things are woven into a fabric whose warp consists of various shades of green.

Green is the color represented by photosynthesis, the solar-powered process so necessary for the richness of life on earth. In the presence of sunlight, pigments of chlorophyll like millions of miniature alchemists turn invisible molecules of water and carbon dioxide into visible forms of grass, leaves, buds, flowers, and trees. This turning of the invisible to visible and back again lies at the heart of photosynthesis and thus at the heart of the living earth. As the original alchemists, plants tap into the power of the sun and supply the energy for the planet. As interpreters, we are constantly looking for ways to create this sort of magic as we strive to restore our connections to the places we love. Learn more stories from the Green Kingdom; share them with your friends, family, and visitors. Chlorophyll may be at the heart of photosynthesis, but relevant stories are at the heart of our interpretive efforts. The Green Kingdom provides interpreters with stories that may help us turn sunlight into song.

Resources for Connecting with Plant Stories
Barnette, Martha. 1992. A Garden of Words. New York: Times Books.

Cathcart, Tavia, and Dennis Horn. 2005. Wildflowers of Tennessee the Ohio Valley and the Southern Appalachians. Auburn, Washington: Lone Pine Publishing.

Sanders, Jack. 1995. Hedgemaids and Fairy Candles. Camden Main: Ragged Mountain Press.

Sanders, Jack. 2003. The Secrets of the Wildflowers. Guilford, Connecticut: The Globe Pequot Press.

Wren Smith is the interpretive programs manager for Bernheim Arboretum and Research Forest in Kentucky. Reach her at 502-955-8512, x227 or Wren@bernheim.org.

Natural wonders such as Old Faithful (pictured here) and Delicate Arch (above) are icons of our national identity. What happens if they change? Photos by Marco Soave, Palacemusic.

At what point does restoration or management intervention erase the inherent value in our park resources? I first began puzzling over this question years ago after a simple joke on a backpack trip to the heart of Yellowstone. As my brother and I headed out for the backcountry, we left the noise of the roads behind and with it the fabulous megafauna. During the days we spent in a silent, flower-filled valley, we never saw anything larger than a squirrel until we returned to our car, which was surrounded by bison and elk.

“With such a beautiful valley, why would these animals hang out along busy roads?” I asked.

“They’re fed on the roadsides and trained to stay for visitors,” was my brother’s retort.

The rest of the trip we pointed out “clues” that Yellowstone was managed just to maximize the tourist experience: massive bull elk within a fenced cabin yard, bison licking the roadsides, and wolves denned conveniently across from a viewing overlook. What evolved became a complex theory worthy of the most fanatic conspiracy buffs. It confused my own once-firm grip on the reality of the Great Outdoors.

For example, we discovered that Old Faithful has continued to spout on average approximately every 91 minutes for the past 30 years. In 2002, over 2,300 earthquakes were measured in Yellowstone. Geothermal features are so sensitive that a single quake in Denali 1,900 miles away sent an impact rippling through Yellowstone. This distant quake caused five geysers to erupt more frequently and three to erupt less frequently, yet Old Faithful has experienced only minor changes amidst all this geologic turmoil. That information seems innocuous until it is noted that in the same year of 2002, tourism was responsible for $1.8 billion in the state of Wyoming. Old Faithful was the most popular overnight destination, accounting for nearly 40 percent of all tourist trips to the entire state. As we watched the famous geyser erupt on schedule, we noticed the water quickly run off through a grouted rock channel and our conspiracy theory was established. What would happen to the Yellowstone tourist industry, the cash cow of Wyoming, if Old Faithful dried up? We asked each other whether, in September 1988 when the Park Service evacuated the entire Old Faithful Village citing wildfire concerns, crews used their shovels to build fire lines or bury plumbing.

Subsequent journeys added fuel to the fire. Arches National Park is home to 2,000 natural arches, including the famous Delicate Arch (of Utah’s license plate fame) and Landscape Arch, which some argue is the longest natural rock span in North America. It is impossible to gaze at these delicate structures and not feel that they are defying gravity. In the last 20 years, 42 arches, including many less delicate looking than these massive wonders, are known to have collapsed in the park. In June of 1995, Landscape Arch itself shed three massive sections of rock, each a week apart, then it stabilized and has been quiet ever since. Did the Park Service close the trails around this arch to protect visitors from falling rock? Or, as in our twisted logic, was it to keep us from seeing braces that prop up the span from behind? Before you answer too smugly, consider that an obvious concrete beam already reinforces Agate Bridge in Petrified Forest National Park to keep that natural wonder from collapsing.

With our theory well under development, it was not shocking to hear a National Public Radio story about New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain. This iconic landmark featured on coins, license plates, and memorabilia slid into a jumbled pile of boulders after eons of gazing out across the land. A year after the tragedy, NPR was reporting on plans to develop a memorial to the lost profile and to interpret its history and the changing landscape. The reporter was serious when she said someone from Disney had approached the commission offering “a little Hollywood magic” to rebuild the feature on the mountainside.

If you’ve visited theme park facilities, you’ve certainly seen the quality of “re-creations” built to attract visitors. Denver has a quarter-scale replica of Delicate Arch on a miniature golf course. From natural caverns in the lion’s den at the zoo to coral reefs in the city aquarium, natural wonders are duplicated with incredible realism. Given the realism we can achieve, how is a visitor to know where natural resources are being restored versus enhanced, or even created?

Before I’m shunned from the world of interpretive naturalists or banned from our national parks, recognize that I’m not honestly suggesting a planned conspiracy or even inappropriate manipulation of all the resources mentioned. However, once you buy into the joke just a little, suddenly funny bits of “evidence” appear wherever you go and the line between natural, managed, and artificial is quickly blurred. Examples of “improvements” to our natural wonders abound and the creative eye can spot them at almost any park or wayside.

The Great Wall of China at Badaling, constructed in 1505 or 1953?

It is openly acknowledged that Bosque Del Apache and other national wildlife refuges grow crops and artificially flood fields to attract the incredible clouds of waterfowl that darken the skies. Irrigation gates control the life-giving flow in the Everglades more than natural runoff. In Belize, dramatic friezes on Mayan temples are excavated, studied, then buried under fiberglass-and-concrete re-creations to protect them from weathering. The ruins of Mesa Verde have been “restored” to make them safe for visitors with little distinction made between what was rebuilt from a pile of collapsed bricks and structures that have remained standing for centuries. The Great Wall of China at Badaling was rebuilt in the 1950s with newly fired bricks fully encasing the historic wall, so none of the original can be seen. In Canyonlands National Park, steps are chiseled out of the sandstone to improve safety on challenging trails but are then camouflaged as natural fractures. California condors and Yellowstone’s wolves are tagged and every movement is tracked more closely than that of suspected terrorists.

Art restorers in museums have been working on tricks to clean and even retouch famous canvases, but when does the brush of the technician trump the stroke of the master? Is it any different for our natural wonders? When protecting weathering rock art, do we draw the line at diverting rainfall from running across it? Shellacking it with a protective coating? Or can we even touch up damaged or missing portions, as with a da Vinci painting?

Resource interpretation is described by National Park Service trainer David Larsen as finding a tangible icon, and—just like an icon on your computer desktop—“clicking” on it to reveal a whole new set of information and meanings. The interpretive technique is to use a tangible item to transport the mind to a world of universal concepts. Is that possible with reconstructed and manipulated icons? At what point does the resource lose its inherent authority over the imagination of the visitor?

True interpretive integrity requires that we interpret the resource for its inherent values and its current condition. Without restoration, many resources may disappear forever. Yet with improper interpretation, the values of those resources may be threatened. We need to be able to say comfortably and honestly that the visitor is viewing a re-creation or an artificial system when that is the case. We also need to admit that we are not able to indefinitely preserve every resource—and that perhaps our love of it is the cause of its demise. In some places this is done very well. In others, it is ignored or disingenuously minimized.

Our joke theory lives on over a decade later, with one of us throwing out a cynical observation of almost any natural wonder we experience. Maybe it is a coping mechanism to deal with our true awe of nature. Yet, as management of our natural resources becomes more and more intricate, where will the line of preservation fall and how is it interpreted? How will our meddling affect the meanings inherent in our natural and cultural wonders? At what point will we have gone too far, and will we know? Next time you visit Yellowstone, see if you can tell where the channels and manholes lead in the meadows around Old Faithful. Enjoy the joke. Then, ask yourself how much intervention is too much.

Skot Latona is a Certified Interpretive Trainer at South Platte Park in Littleton, Colorado. He appreciates sharing examples, photos, or creative outlooks that could add to the “research” on his conspiracy theory. Some of his photo “evidence” can be viewed at http://picasaweb.google.com/skotlato/AConspiracyTheory or he can be reached at skotl@sspr.org.

This column is a series designed to help enhance your PowerPoint presentations. Each edition pinpoints common pitfalls faced when planning, preparing, and presenting PowerPoint shows.

Pitfall: Not Embedding TrueType Fonts

Jack: When I loaded my PowerPoint show onto my host’s computer at the conference, my fonts changed to bizarre, futuristic ones.

Jill: You experienced a font shift! Did you embed your fonts when you created the show?

Jack: Say what? I’m not a computer nerd. If I had fiddled with PowerPoint’s inner workings, I would have really screwed things up!

Jill: Seems to me you screwed things up without fiddling with PowerPoint!

When you transfer a presentation from one computer to another, sometimes the wrong fonts show up on the screen. This occurs because the second computer does not have the same fonts installed. This problem can easily be solved by “embedding” your fonts into your show. Embedded fonts are part of a file so they travel with the file from computer to computer. The down side is that embedding fonts increases a file’s size and only some TrueType fonts can be embedded in PowerPoint (TrueType fonts have small blue “TT” icons when viewed in your Windows Fonts folder). Unfortunately, you can not embed fonts in Mac versions of PowerPoint.

To Purge the Pitfall
To solve this problem when initially saving your file in PowerPoint 2007, follow these steps:

1. Click the Office button in the upper left corner of the screen, then click Save As.
2. In the “Save As” dialog box, click Tools in the lower left corner, then click Save Options.
3. Click the box in front of “Embed fonts in the file” (so a checkmark appears).
4. Select “Embed all characters (best for editing by other people).” If you want to keep the file size down for a show that will only be displayed but not edited on another computer, select “Embed only the characters used in the presentation (best for reducing file size).” Be aware that with this latter approach, any letter (e.g., “z”) that you never used when creating the show on your first computer will not be available when you open the show on a second computer unless the font you’re using was already loaded on the second computer.
5. Click OK to finalize the embedding process then give your show a file name and click Save.

Final Thoughts
Font “shifts” that occur when you create your show on one computer yet present the show on another computer can ruin a PowerPoint presentation. Simple adjustments to PowerPoint’s “Embed fonts in the file” setting can eliminate this pitfall. Of course, you can avoid this pitfall altogether by sticking to a basic typeface such as Arial that is available on almost all computers. You could also simply prepare and present your show using the same computer.

Dr. Jon Hooper has over 30 years of experience helping natural and cultural resource professionals enhance the effectiveness of their communication efforts. He is a professor of environmental interpretation at California State University, Chico, and is the owner of Verbal Victories Communication Consulting. He is a Certified Interpretive Trainer (CIT) and was Project WILD’s national Facilitator of the Year in 2006. Contact Jon at jonkhooper@hotmail.com.