The past year, I have had the opportunity to spend some time in some familiar watersheds. I was living in Pennsylvania for a few months, working on my PhD in State College. State College is a football-loving student metropolis, seemingly plopped down in the middle of nowhere. After getting over the absurdity of American football culture (sorry!) and the traffic it creates on game days, I quickly realized that it’s a beautiful place. Riding on the bike path in peak fall colors was nothing short of dream-like. I made friends, explored, and appreciated the space I had quickly started to call home.

On one fall afternoon, I drove out to the Appalachian Trail to go on a hike with a friend. On the drive, I passed over the Susquehanna River, one of the largest working rivers in the US. From this vantage point during low flow periods, sand banks emerge from the water surface, showing all the passersby who are gazing out their windows a braid of waters and sand surrounded by deep green foliage. Although a brief glance as you speed over the the bridge, it’s captivating. The Susquehanna also has a special place in my heart, because of ample work being done in the watershed to address it’s poor water quality. And it’s one of my many datapoints, it’s flow and nitrogen concentration tucked away in text files on my harddrive.

I’ve always been envious of researchers that can foster a personal relationship with their field sites. Seeing the changes in the landscape and being able to map those changes onto different seasons of their lives. Forging a bond with the land, loving the place where their work is rooted in. Knowing every raindrop they witness falling will eventually be a part of the data they collected and a part of what they advocate to protect. Those of us in my line of work know that people protect what they love.

My work is much less personal. Most of the data are simply numbers on my computer screen, representing changes in places completely disconnected from my everyday life. Every watershed is important to me, but I have no kinship to them, as some of my peers might. To be able to go out and meet the rivers I work with, ones that I often only think of as a string of numbers in a text file, is an important part of loving my work. When I get to meet my data points, it always serves as a reminder of why I do the work I do. A reminder of who I am advocating for: the water, the sand banks, the trees, and the person who happened to look upon the river and steal a moment to appreciate it. So, let this serve as a reminder to go out and touch some grass.