Out Back, Once More

My daughter, making her way through the frozen hummocks in the wetlands out behind the house.

I often wonder what it would be like to walk those woods again. To slip out the basement door, past the tree house, through the stone walls, into that familiar mix of woods and water. To head out back, once more.

It’s not just the place that stays with me—it’s how it felt. The sucking sound of the swamp grabbing at my boots, the gurgle of the brook water over granite, the sudden splash of a frog vanishing into the pond. I could disappear into it completely, lost in a world that felt both vast and known. It wasn’t just nature—it was rhythm, pattern, and connection. Every sound, every detail, part of a landscape that I understood as intimately as my own skin.

I haven’t been back in years. The family house has long since been sold, and so too have the neighbors. Time, as it does, moves forward. But the land remains—changed, surely, yet likely still familiar. The old trees would be taller. The wetlands, reshaped by the quiet labor of beavers. That backyard was never wilderness, not officially, but it was wild enough for me. Brooks twisted through mossy stones, trails faded into brush, and every hidden corner held the promise of discovery.

I’m no longer the boy who wandered those woods from dawn to dusk. But his essence remains. The way I notice, the questions I ask, the quiet pull I feel near water—it’s all still there. I didn’t explore because I was told to. I explored because I was drawn in. Long before I knew the word ecology, I was practicing it. Those early days by the streams taught me to listen. And that pull toward water has never left me.

My parents helped plant that seed—taking me out back to snowshoe, plink with .22 rifles, or simply wander with the dog. There was no destination, just the rhythm of footsteps and the sense that something waited to be found. Those shared moments sparked a curiosity that only grew deeper with time.

Later, on my own, I’d spend hours by the farm ponds with no particular agenda. I’d lose myself in quiet observation. The fish were secondary. What mattered was being present—watching ripples stretch across the surface, wondering what lay beneath. I didn’t realize it then, but those moments were shaping me, teaching me how to see, how to wait, how to let the world reveal itself on its own terms.

That same pull led me into marine fisheries—analyzing data, managing populations, and helping shape our understanding of natural systems. I was lucky to be part of important work. But even in the vastness of the ocean, my mind always returned to those quiet freshwater streams. The ocean was grand, but the intimacy of those early waters is what stayed with me.

Eventually, I found my way back—not just in spirit, but in practice. As I moved across the continent, I sought out my own nearby “out backs,” places where I could reconnect.

Now, I spend my days restoring fallow bogs, bringing back the streams of my youth. Through Waquoit Bay Fish Company, I share these stories—through drawings, words, and data—and stay rooted in the types of places that first sparked my curiosity. The work is grounded in science, but it’s driven by something more: a need to reconnect, to give back. I’m not just managing habitats; I’m mending old ties, weaving together memory and stewardship. Each restoration is a chance to honor the places that shaped me and to ensure they’re still here to shape others.

I watch my own kids crawling over hummocks, chasing frogs, wide-eyed and mud-covered. I see them peering into the water just like I did. I know how vital it is to have an “out back”—a place to get lost, to wonder, to become. And I rest easy knowing they’re growing up with that same sense of curiosity that once shaped me.

We don’t always get to return to the places that made us. But we carry them with us. They guide our work, our choices, and the stories we pass along. And sometimes, in the quietest moments, they still call us—through the rustle of leaves, the trickle of water, the soft hum of a world we once knew. The call to head out back, once more.

My son, fishing the spring-fed ponds “out back”.