Legacy Magazine

Kirk Carter Mona

Last Father’s Day weekend I packed up the car with my son, wife, and dog and we hit the road for Wisconsin to visit my in-laws. Being a birder, I had a secret agenda; there’s always a secret agenda for birders. I wanted to revisit a park in the backwaters of the Mississippi River that had repelled me away a year earlier when I’d come unprepared for the onslaught of mosquitoes. As best as I could figure, the park contained at least eight bird species that had yet to be added to my life list. Saturday morning, I set out for the park while the rest of the family headed to garage sales. Alone in the woods, I hiked down the old gravel trail. My slow pace would have driven a non-birder crazy. My ears picked out every bird call as I crept along and led my eyes to their hidden forms. Here’s a common yellowthroat near that wetland, there’s a yellow warbler in the trees. That’s a song sparrow in the bushes. What are those crows calling at in the distance? Ah, now I hear the red-shouldered hawk they are chasing.

It was a gorgeous day. The wind was just strong enough to ground most of the mosquitoes and the sun was shining in the sky. I’d hiked about a mile down the trail and had just added an indigo bunting to my daily bird tally when I came upon something unexpected: water. There’s a lot of water in this park. There are six large bridges crossing backwaters and streams of the Black River, but this water was covering the trail directly ahead of me. I suddenly remembered that on the previous Thursday we’d had huge storms passing through the region. There were reports of 35 tornadoes in Minnesota. That same massive line of storms dumped over three inches of water on the park. The crushed limestone trail dipped down below a pool of brown, tannin-rich water.

I have to admit my first thought was to turn back. “Wait a minute,” I thought. “I’m a naturalist!” There only appeared to be six inches or so of water and the trail resumed again 20 feet away. No problem. I stripped off my shoes and socks and waded into the cold water. I had to move slowly as my tender feet felt their way along the rocky bottom. The bright side of walking on sharp, crushed limestone was that at least my feet weren’t going to be muddy on the other side.

Successfully crossing the water, I put my socks and shoes back on and kept on hiking, all the while ticking off species of birds. I knew most people would have turned around so everything from here on out was my solo park. I was smiling as I hiked when I again came to a section of trail covered in water. Without much hesitation this time, I stripped my shoes and socks off and headed into the water. This time it was farther across and the water came up to my knees. On the other side, I tore one of my socks when I pulled too hard putting it back on my wet feet. Due to a packing error, it happened to be the only pair of socks I’d brought all weekend. Oh well, such is life. I hiked on until I came to the third place the trail disappeared under the water. This time, the sun was behind some clouds and I really couldn’t tell how deep the water was. I was also keenly aware that for every water crossing I made I’d have to repeat it on the way back. I had no idea how many more crossings there would be.

“Enough with this shoe and sock nonsense,” I thought. I hiked up my jeans and plunged into the water with my shoes still attached. I was pretty sure that was a mistake from about the second step. The one thing I was happy about was the extra height my shoes gave me. I’m six feet tall but the water was still just above my knees. I hiked on, watching birds and sloshing in my wet shoes. I made yet another water crossing and enjoyed myself until hunger and my watch told me I had to turn around. By the time I got to the car an hour later my shoes were soaked and I’d added 13 species of birds I wouldn’t have seen had I turned around when the trail submerged under water. None of them were any of the eight “lifers” I had been hoping for but I’d had a great morning none the less.

There are times in interpretation that are like that moment standing at the edge of the water. Turning around is so easy, so seductive. What was really holding me back, wet shoes? In life and interpretation we’re often more cautious than we need to be for reasons that amount to nothing more than wet shoes.

Plunge through the interpretive waters. I can’t guarantee better birds on the other side, but make sure your obstacles are real, not something as silly as wet shoes.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.

By Brett Dillingham

Interpreters (including naturalists and rangers) need to be storytellers. The Ranger Interpretation Handbook produced by the International Ranger Federation states that the first of 11 principles of high-quality interpretation is that interpreters must “develop an in-depth knowledge of the natural or cultural protected area that is being interpreted and [apply] that knowledge to build a range of relevant messages/compelling stories.” However, though interpreters usually have an excellent knowledge of their environment, few have been taught how to tell stories. If they have been taught, their instruction often misses the critical areas that they need in order to craft and tell interesting, compelling stories that delight and move their audience.

Interpreters are storytellers. Pictured here: Chuck Lennox of Seattle, Washington, has the audience in the palm of his hand. Photo by Charlotte Spang.

Below is a process—plus some tips—on how to become skilled in humans’ most ancient art, that of telling good stories and telling these stories well.

First, you need to have a story you feel passionate about. Sometimes a colleague has shared a story that just begs to be told, and has given you permission to tell it. Usually, however, despite interpreters’ knowledge, they have not sought out and crafted the stories that are most meaningful to them. These are the stories they will tell best because they come from the heart.

To create your story, have a simple brainstorming session with your colleagues. In a recent workshop for the staff of Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, some of the subjects interpreters suggested were sea otters, orcas, brown bears, clams, glaciers, Tlingit history, moose, hummingbirds, and mosquitoes. After they chose the subjects most meaningful to them they began to create their own stories. This was done by creating a simple graphic organizer or story map—I call this a Visual Portrait of a Story (VPS). The VPS has five main components: beginning, problem, solution, end, and picture (or drawing).

Contrary to how most of us are taught, you begin with the problem and solution (instead of the beginning) of your subject. Jot down a few words regarding the problem and solution. Then write a sentence or two for the beginning, and a sentence or two for the end. If you are at all artistic, you can draw a picture or pictures that remind you of the story.

Next, begin the powerful tell-and-retell process. Start by telling the story to another interpreter before actually writing the whole tale down from beginning to end. Do this while standing up so you can move your body and act it out as you tell. Ask your partner to tell it back to you (retell) using body movement, sound, and facial expressions. Your partner won’t use the exact same words, nor tell it just like you; that is what you want. You will see and hear your story in a different light and may use some of the words or storytelling techniques your partner used. Remember, what you are trying to do here is craft an excellent story, the best you can for your audience.

Honing Your Story Further
This is a constructive process, so it’s helpful to have someone model the language of response and criticism. I have used the following simple but very powerful discussion process effectively to teach others how to evaluate storytelling performances at all levels. When a teller finishes the story, he or she should ask, “What did I do to make this a good storytelling?” Colleagues provide specific feedback on what made the storytelling good—the sounds, facial expressions, and body movements. At the Glacier Bay workshop, one such response was, “I liked the way you moved when you stuck your [sea otter] head out of the water.” Another was, “You spoke loudly enough that everyone could hear you.” You want your colleagues to focus on how the story was told, not the content.

Critical feedback without using harsh words encourages the teller to grow and become more effective. After three or four positive comments have been shared ask, “What could I do to make the performance even better?” One response might be, “To make it even better, you might want to show the sea otter swimming” or, “Tell the story loud enough so that the people in the very back can hear you well—that way you know everyone can understand your story.” Another response might be, “Perhaps act like you are on your back and breaking the clams with a rock.” Two or three specific suggestions are optimal. This is where tellers begin crafting their story; they have a good idea of what works and what should be modified or left out. The storytelling will be better the next time it’s told.

Storytellers learn to use variations of the questions above. This language is polite yet direct and useful. This type of guided practice increases confidence and improves performance. With a few more rehearsals, you will find that you have a great story, you tell it well, and you know the process to create more stories for other audiences.

A good story can hardly be beat. Interpreters are in the enviable position of having incredible optimal environments—and often venues—for storytelling. By creating a story from your knowledge and passion, then crafting it with the help of your colleagues, you will delight your audience with a great story, well told.

Some Further Storytelling Tips

Know your audience and choose an age-appropriate story. Make sure the story you choose isn’t too child oriented for adults or too mature for children.

Be professional. Enter the performance space with a confident stance. Acknowledge the audience by smiling and making eye contact. Wait until you have their full attention. Introduce yourself, and give the story title.

Make sure your audience can see and hear you. Work as close to them as possible. The sound of your voice is your most important tool.

Use variety in your speech. For example, make your pitch higher to show excitement. Use a long pause to build suspense. Make the tone of your voice deeper to sound like an older or larger person or animal.

Use different voices for different characters. A donkey might have a deep, slow voice. A rabbit might have a fast, high-pitched voice. The narrator should have yet another voice.

Use expression. Do not speak in a monotone. The more familiar you are with the story, the more fluent you sound. Tell the story as naturally as a conversation with a good friend, not labored like when you read something unfamiliar. Try showing an emotion on your face before it comes out of your mouth. For example, open your mouth and eyes wide to show surprise.

Use deliberate movements and fill your space. Do not distract your audience with nervous mannerisms such as rocking back and forth, playing with your hair, or leaning against a wall. Do not be glued to one spot. Move in relation to your audience for a desired effect, such as leaning in with your fingers as claws to scare when telling a bear story.

Your hands are your best friends. Do not put them in your pockets—use them!

End your story as a professional. Remember to bow.

Brett Dillingham is a professional storyteller and author of the children’s book Raven Day and the textbook Performance Literacy Through Storytelling. Contact him at brett@brettdillingham.com.

By Kirk Carter Mona

As winter drew to a close I took an “active seniors” group on a snowshoe hike. It was the last snowshoe program of the year. We took off our snowshoes, stowed them away for the season, and came into the warmth of the building. We’d had a wonderful time exploring and learning. I finished off the program inside by answering just one more question and telling just one more story. Maybe it was because I was working with an adult group after working so much with kids, but I was on a roll sharing information. There is something cathartic about being able to expound on almost any topic on a deep level without worrying about going over the heads of the audience. I had already taught enough programs involving felt boards and monosyllabic words for the season. As I finished my program, we all walked upstairs and a woman asked in amazement how I knew so much.

I’d spent the last two hours chatting with the group as we strolled though the hilly terrain of our wooded property. I told them about snowshoes, owls, trees, forestry, ecological succession, black cherry burls, lichens, tornadoes, straight line winds, glaciers, ancient river valleys, groundwater movement, lake levels, animal hibernation, torpor, quinzee construction, winter camping, tracking, and probably a dozen other topics. She was clearly amazed by the varied string of knowledge I had at my fingertips. She asked very directly where I learned all this. It should not be an odd question, but it caught me off guard.

I stumbled and started to give the answer that part of my degree in college was in environmental studies, but that sounded silly as soon as it came out of my mouth. That’s the answer I gave fresh out of college trying to impress audiences that I really am a college graduate and, yes, this is really my job. I’ve been out of college for over a decade now and while I can’t be certain, I would guess nothing I learned in those four years made it into the actual information I gave out on that hike. So where do I learn then? How do I know what I know?

As in interpreter, I am constantly amazed by the resource I interpret. I explained in an interview with a journalist recently that the more I learn about the forest, the shorter distance I make it into the woods. I love to go on long, meandering hikes but sometimes it seems I only make it a few feet into the forest. There are simply so many interesting things to see that I’m constantly stopping to take it all in. There are trees, shrubs, herbs, fungi, lichens, insects, birds, mammals, rocks, soil, weather, and the signs of interactions between them all. I stop to look at and study each of these things but I use the other senses, too. There are things to hear and touch and smell and even taste in the world around me. All science begins with observation and there is much scientific learning to be had by simply observing. The best answer to give the woman when she asked me where I learned about the woods should have been “in the woods.”

I have learned to interpret the place where I work because I spend time studying and living with the everyday experience of the place. Learning is more than personal observation though. I can never see it all. To learn it all, or at least as much as we can, we have to share what we learn. I learn from my coworkers, I learn from professional journals and books, I learn from the experts I seek out, I learn from direct experimentation. For example, when the snow finally melted off the grass in the spring, it revealed a web-like frost on the ground. I wasn’t satisfied until I had touched it and studied it and checked references to learn what it was. It was a snow mold, and I’m glad I took the opportunity to study it, as the web-like mycelium had dried and nearly vanished a few days later.

Being an effective interpreter means you are constantly learning. You can’t help but constantly learn about a resource that continues to fascinate and compel you. “Where did I learn all this?” I learned all this working and living it in the field of interpretation.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.

By Allison Martin

I am a journalist who hated my journalism classes. Anyone else out there with me? I loved to write, to tell stories, and get people to think. In college, I used to hang out in our campus newspaper office long after hours “just because.” I started volunteering as a writer at a nonprofit organization to get more chances to put words to paper. But I could not stand my writing classes.

Don’t get me wrong—I learned some valuable information from my coursework. Proper punctuation, when to use digits and when to spell out numbers, and the difference between ensure and insure, entitled and titled (look them up—you probably misuse them yourself!). What I couldn’t stomach was the formulaic approach some of my teachers took to writing. From the lede (journalist talk for the first sentence of your article, pronounced “leed”) to the closing ’graph, my writing was consistently marked up in the name of making sure I was clear and concise, and that my product met the needs of my audience.

Those are qualities I desperately wanted my writing to possess, and yet I hated the training. I was consistently told what I needed to do, but I never understood why. I was given the outline, but I never understood the reasons the outline worked.

Until I became an interpreter.

In my journalism classes, I wasn’t taught to make connections, to provoke or evoke. But why not? After all, one of the goals of a working journalist is to write an article about something people want or need to know in order to, ultimately, sell your product (the publication for which you write). But the most compelling newspaper articles or magazine features are those that tell a story you enjoy, that connect to your own life experiences, and that stir in you a sense that you should do something. In the end, a great piece of journalism is one that makes you, the reader, tell your friends about it. Isn’t that the mark of a good museum exhibit, or park visit, too?

The Epiphany
I never thought about using NAI’s interpretive strategy in my freelance journalism until I was working on a particularly challenging article. I couldn’t think of very much to say, and the words I did manage to type out sounded dull and lifeless. At one point, I threw up my hands and hollered at my laptop, “I don’t even know what this article is about!”

To distract myself, I started filing some paperwork away, and among the files was my Certified Interpretive Guide packet. I started flipping through the explanations of how to craft an interpretive message. All of a sudden, I stopped flipping, turned to my computer, and began typing.

In the months since I experienced my interpretive-journalism epiphany, I’ve noticed the writing process getting easier and easier. Words come more naturally, and I find that when I write, I try to simply tell a story rather than get bogged down in form and function. As a result, I work more effectively and I turn in better content in the end. Specifically, I’ve noticed the following changes in how I work as a writer:

Identifying a Purpose and Theme
This sounds like something so simple, but making a conscious choice to identify these two elements in my writing provides a sense of direction as I write—a roadmap so I don’t get lost. Sometimes, I see my writing assignments as boring “must-dos” that pay the bills. Sometimes, I’m so interested in the topic I veer off on tangents. Knowing why I’m writing and the big idea I hope to communicate to the audience alleviates both of these bad habits of mine.

Using Better Mechanics
I’ve always been a fan of good grammar and punctuation. You know what I’m also a fan of? Run-ons: those long sentences that just go on and on and on without end. Since becoming a CIG, I now read aloud everything that I write, because if it can be said easily, it can be read easily. That’s not to say I write all my articles as if they were interpretive talks or speeches, but reading aloud helps me identify areas where I’ve let an idea or sentence go past its peak into the danger zone.

Knowing My Content and My Audience
Again, it sounds like something so simple—to know what you’re talking about and whom you’re saying it to. But I think many times journalists fall into the trap that humor columnist Dave Barry pointed out: “We journalists make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide variety of topics; this is how we stay objective.” I now keep a copy of the interpretive equation handy whenever I write: knowledge of your audience plus knowledge of your resource (or subject matter) plus appropriate techniques equals an interpretive (or journalistic) opportunity.

Deciding Why and How to Make an Emotional Connection
Emotional connections aren’t really something my journalism professors taught us. We were instead trained (sometimes repeatedly) that we needed to remain unbiased at all times. But since merging my journalistic and interpretive training, I’ve concluded that tapping into emotions and keeping yourself objective are not necessarily mutually exclusive. In Indiana University’s Eppley Institute for Parks and Public Lands courses in interpretation, students are given entire lists of techniques they can use to read their audiences’ emotions. Imagery, allusion, irony, quotation—those are at the heart of good storytelling, and at the heart of good journalism as well. Henry Anatole Grunwald, former editor of Time magazine, once remarked that journalism “must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph, and the signs of horror are still in the air.” What a boring article it would be if the journalist left those emotions in the air without acknowledging them on paper as well.

Paying Attention to the Beginning and End
The last thing that has really hit home for me concerns something I take a lot of pride in: the beginning and ending of my articles. These elements are often my strengths, and I am grateful to my CIG training for renewing the respect and care I give to these sections as I write. Eppley Institute’s course on Interpretive Talk states, “The beginning and ending of a talk are critical. What you say in the opening few minutes sets the tone for your presentation. It creates a first impression. In many locations audiences are able to come and go, so an effective introduction is essential to drawing in an audience.” The same is true in journalism. How many times do we start a newspaper or magazine article, read a paragraph or two, and move on? How many of us never even get past the headline? As a writer, my first priority is to grab an audience and make them want to stay with me through my whole story. That’s something my professors always told me, but never truly taught me.

Thanks, Mr. Tilden
It really should not surprise me that learning interpretation made me a better journalist. After all, Freeman Tilden himself was a newspaper columnist before he started working with the National Park Service. Ultimately, interpretation, journalism, and many other fields are, at their hearts, subsets of the discipline of communication. Knowing how to tell a story, exchange ideas, explore new concepts—and understanding how to do it well—are universal tools that live beyond any one profession. As I think about my two jobs—zoo interpreter and freelance writer—I realize that I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Tilden, and doubly so. We have many opportunities throughout the years to learn skills that will make us better at our jobs. It is a rare privilege to be given the chance to understand what your job, your passion, is truly about.

Allison Martin, CIG, is a play programs facilitator at Brookfield Zoo outside Chicago. She is also a freelance writer and part-time speech coach. Contact her at allison317@gmail.com.