There’s little in Alaska that feels familiar to a city girl.

Sometime within the whirlwind of this past month, I found myself at the edge of a community bonfire in one of Prince of Wales’ numerous coastal towns, striking up conversation with a local resident, Frank. As we exchanged pleasantries, I disclosed to him that I was from New York, to which a most startled Frank asked frankly:

“—are you lost?”

I can see how that might be the case. The Tongass National Forest, I’m finding, is a place of extremes. In this temperate rainforest, there are trees that tower over you with an ease that demands respect, bracken ferns (Pteridium aquilinum) alongside skunk cabbage (Lysichiton americanum) that inch past your eye-level everywhere you turn, and devil’s club (Oplopanax horridus) with leaves the size of your face—alongside thorns in charitable quantities—undoubtedly ready to catch the next unlucky hiker who uses their sturdy branches to cushion a fall.

For the plants with limited access to resources, they tend to lead smaller lives. Not in the sense that their existence is less rich or impressive, but because typically, they are best appreciated from on your knees, and sometimes with a hand lens. Beds of moss define the spongey floors of muskegs, and are often found side-by-side with lingonberry (Vaccinium vitis-idea), bog cranberry (Vaccinium oxycoccos) and the inconspicuous—yet carnivorous—round-leaved sundew (Drosera rotundifolia).

All of this to say that the Tongass is nothing like the skyscrapers and subway rats of home, even if both of those things are undeniably extreme in their own respects.

In Alaska, I am constantly asking questions. Simple ones, theoretical ones, stupid ones, and many, many icebreakers. There is no benefit to faking what you don’t know (it really could just kill you out here), especially when you have everything to gain by accepting that you might know nothing at all.

Without a doubt, I am grateful that college academia introduced conservation to me through a variety of principles, models, and research. I used those teachings to build myself a foundation. But now I get to revise it, and that’s worth appreciating as well. Because as a favorite professor of mine would often remind me: things will always be different in the field.

As efforts into scouting and collecting native seed begin, I have no doubt that my professor will prove right and that I will be challenged by all that I don’t know. I may find myself lost in the most literal sense…once or twice or three times. Ultimately though, what matters is that I focus on emulating the very same qualities pursued after in all conservation and restoration work—adaptability and resilience. I want to grow. So it’s hard to feel lost, because I believe Alaska is exactly the place I need to be to do that.

See you on the flip side!