Where Educators Go to Remember Why They Teach

After six years, more than 1,500 educators and partnerships with more than 50 National Park Service sites, STEAM in the PARK is demonstrating how public lands can become places of renewal—not only for teachers, but for the parks and communities they serve.

By Dacia Jones

The dragonfly larvae were hiding beneath rocks in a shallow stream at New River Gorge National Park and Preserve.

On a warm June morning, eighteen educators from across the country stood knee-deep in the water, carefully turning over stones and sorting through leaves alongside park scientists participating in the Dragonfly Mercury Project. The work was slow and deliberate. Every rock revealed a tiny world, and every discovery sparked another question. For a little while, no one was thinking about grading papers, state assessments, faculty meetings, or overflowing inboxes. They were simply curious.

Watching them, I was reminded of something we often forget: before educators become teachers, they are learners, and learners need wonder too.

For years, much of the national conversation about education has focused on students. We talk about achievement gaps, engagement strategies, standards, and outcomes. Those conversations matter, but as I watched those educators searching for dragonfly larvae in a mountain stream, I found myself thinking about a different question: Who takes care of the people who spend their lives taking care of everyone else?

Teaching has always required heart. Today's educators are expected to be instructors, counselors, mentors, problem-solvers, and community builders, often all within the span of a single day. Many spend their careers helping others grow while rarely finding opportunities to recharge themselves.

That reality is one of the reasons STEAM in the PARK was created. Founded in 2020 by Expeditions in Education, the program brings educators into national parks and public lands for immersive learning experiences that blend science, storytelling, conservation, creativity, and community. What began as a single experiment has grown into a nationwide effort that has connected more than 1,500 educators and college students with national parks through hands-on experiences alongside scientists, historians, interpreters, artists, and park rangers.

Yet the true value of these experiences cannot be measured solely by attendance numbers or professional development hours. Over the past six years, I have watched educators search for synchronous fireflies in the Great Smoky Mountains, kayak through the salt marshes of Assateague Island, collect dragonfly larvae in West Virginia streams, study wildlife tracks in mountain meadows, and stand silently beneath some of the darkest night skies in the country. I've watched them laugh around campfires, wrestle with new ideas, share stories about their students, and reconnect with parts of themselves that had been buried beneath the demands of daily life.

One of those moments came during a sunrise trip to Grandview at New River Gorge. A group of educators had risen before dawn, hoping to watch the sun break across the valley below. Instead, thick fog settled over the overlook, obscuring the view entirely. What could have felt like a disappointment quickly became something else.

As the group stood together talking and laughing in the mist, Alex—a first-year educator attending his first STEAM in the PARK adventure—offered a perspective that seemed to capture the spirit of the week. "Maybe the real Grandview is the friendships and relationships you build along the way," he said.

The comment drew smiles from those around him because everyone understood what he meant. While national parks provide the backdrop, it is often the relationships formed within those landscapes that leave the most lasting impression.

What they discover is not simply new content to teach. They rediscover curiosity—the feeling that drew many of them into education in the first place.

At New River Gorge, that curiosity carried educators from streams to rivers and from daylight into darkness. After spending the morning collecting scientific data, participants paddled the New River on stand-up paddleboards, explored one of the longest steel arch bridges in the world, and later gathered around illuminated moth sheets as insects emerged from the surrounding forest. Conversations flowed easily, questions led to more questions, and learning felt less like work and more like exploration.

That distinction matters because most professional development takes place inside conference rooms, hotels, or school buildings. National parks offer something fundamentally different. They invite people to step directly into the subjects they are studying. Ecology is no longer a chapter in a textbook when you're standing in a stream beside a scientist. History feels different when it is told by someone who lives and works in the place where it happened. Conservation becomes personal when you've experienced a landscape firsthand.

The parks themselves benefit as well. Over the years, Expeditions in Education has partnered with more than 220 National Park Service sites and partner public lands through educational programs, livestreams, field experiences, and collaborative projects. Every educator who develops a deeper connection to a park becomes a storyteller for that place. The lessons learned beside a river in West Virginia or beneath a canopy of stars in Tennessee often find their way into classrooms hundreds or even thousands of miles away.

A ranger's story becomes a classroom discussion. A scientific investigation becomes a student project. A park that once felt distant suddenly becomes real for students who may never have considered visiting a national park before.

The ripple effect is difficult to calculate, but it is easy to imagine. One educator may teach hundreds of students each year. Over the course of a career, that number grows into thousands. The influence of a meaningful experience in a national park extends far beyond the individuals who attend.

What has surprised me most, however, is how often these experiences impact the people working in parks as much as the educators themselves.

During a recent visit to New River Gorge, one of our bridge walk guides shared that life had changed dramatically since we had last seen him. After nearly five decades of marriage, he had lost his wife. The grief was still fresh, and he spoke honestly about the loneliness that followed. Throughout the afternoon he did what he had always done—guided visitors across the bridge, told stories, and helped people overcome their fears of walking hundreds of feet above the river below.

At the end of the tour, he paused before saying goodbye and quietly said, "You gave me hope today." His words lingered with many of us long after the week had ended.

We often talk about what parks give to visitors: recreation, education, inspiration, and opportunities for reflection. Moments like that remind us that these relationships are rarely one-sided. Visitors bring something too. They bring curiosity, appreciation, conversation, and community. They remind park staff why their work matters, just as park staff remind visitors why these places deserve our attention and care.

In a world that often feels rushed, fragmented, and increasingly disconnected from the natural world, national parks remain places where people can gather around a shared sense of wonder. They preserve extraordinary landscapes, but perhaps their greatest contribution is preserving opportunities for human connection—to nature, to one another, and to the stories that help us understand our place in the world.

For educators, those opportunities can be transformative. A week in a national park will not solve every challenge facing education. It will not eliminate burnout or erase the pressures teachers face when they return home. What it can do is provide something many educators desperately need: time to breathe, space to reflect, and the chance to remember what it feels like to be inspired.

Beneath every great teacher is a learner, and sometimes the best way to remember why we teach is to spend a few days learning again—standing in a stream, asking questions, sharing stories, and rediscovering the wonder that started it all.

About the Author

Dacia Jones is a writer, educator, and outdoor learning advocate who co-founded Expeditions in Education with her husband, Steve Jones. Together, they have spent years helping educators and students experience national parks as places of discovery, connection, and wonder. Their nonprofit's programs—including STEAM in the PARK and Crossing America—have connected millions of learners with public lands through immersive experiences, storytelling, and place-based education. Learn more at expeditionsineducation.org.