In my neck of the woods, some places are absolute tick hot spots. If I need to photograph ticks or study their habits, I know exactly where to go.
But until last week, I didn’t know that a particular shrub was strongly associated with tick abundance. A new study found this to be true, and we can now add this species to the growing list of plants that sustain ticks.
What is this shrub? And why do ticks love spending so much time near it?
In a brand-new video, I answer these questions and discuss why we shouldn’t be too surprised to see things moving in this direction.
Before I share a brand-new video with you, I have some great news:
My newest online course, Elders: The Ecology of Old-Growth Forests, will be open for enrollment in two weeks!
I’ve spent the past 16 months filming, researching, and structuring this course to be a comprehensive guide to these incredible ecosystems. I’ve gone deeper into the science and soul of the forest than ever before, and I’m excited to finally bring this vision to life.
If you’ve been following the updates over the last few months, thank you for your patience.
Keep an eye on your inbox over the next two weeks. The official launch date is Monday, May 11.
In the meantime, I have some new information to share with you about a well-known member of the forest:
The black-legged tick.
So far this year, I’ve had more than two dozen ticks crawling on my body. [Fun fact: Not all these ticks surprised me. To capture video footage of ticks, I often have to intentionally walk through shrubs and tall grasses to find them.]
No matter how they end up on my body, I’m always left with the same question: Where are all these ticks coming from?
For a long time, we’ve been told that ticks are simply moving north as the climate changes. But interestingly, a recent preprint study challenges this assumption.
It turns out that the history of the tick on our landscape is far more complex and ancient than we realized.
In a brand-new video, I discuss the latest research and what it actually means for those of us living in tick territory.
I’ve spent a lot of time in wild places over the years. Something I’ve noticed is this:
Humans are place-based creatures. We thrive when we feel connected to certain landscapes.
I’ve also noticed that one of the best ways to develop this connection is to learn what makes each place unique.
Lately, I’ve been exploring mature and old-growth forests, and I’ve wondered:
What trees live here? How old are they? What do they do all day? Do they care that I’m filming them?
More recently, I’ve been wondering something else: How tall can these trees grow?
It’s a question that leads to an interesting realization: Forests in eastern North America are known for their exceptional biodiversity, but none of the trees that grow in these forests attain the heights that the tallest trees out west reach.
Why is this the case? Is it a lack of rain? Is it the soil? Or are there other factors involved?
P.S. My newest online course, Elders: The Ecology of Old-Growth Forests, launches in May 2026. This course explores the life and legacy of ancient forests, offering a deeper understanding of these extraordinary ecosystems. Stay tuned for more information.
When I was younger, I played piano. Rather than learning popular songs of the day, I studied the classics: Bach, Haydn, Chopin, Beethoven.
When I was in my 20s, I developed an interest in spirituality. Rather than looking to modern influencers for answers, I turned to older texts like the Bible and the Tao Te Ching.
By my 30s, I noticed a pattern. Whenever I wanted to learn something, I sought out older teachers. This approach also shaped how I procured food and medicine: older people taught me how to hunt, fish, and forage.
Over time, however, I noticed a discrepancy. For years, I had been documenting forests and spending time in them. Most of these forests were, ecologically speaking, young. They had regrown after land was farmed, logged, or mined.
Of course, I wasn’t quick to dismiss these ecosystems. But if I wanted to deepen my understanding of ecology, I knew I had to connect with older forests.
So I made a decision.
I immersed myself in old-growth forests — along the Congaree River, on the Niagara Escarpment, at the foot of Mount Rainier, and elsewhere — not as a passive visitor or as someone in search of personal gain, but as an active learner, committed to sharing what I learned with others.
After countless hours in these forests, I’m excited to report that I’m almost ready to share what I’ve learned with you.
Elders: The Ecology of Old-Growth Forests is my newest online course examining the life and legacy of ancient forests. Launching in May 2026, this course is designed to deepen your ecological literacy, help you recognize patterns embedded in older ecosystems, and change the way you experience forests.
In a time when youth is disproportionately exalted, Elders: The Ecology of Old-Growth Forests celebrates maturity and restores age to its rightful place — as a steward of continuity and wisdom.
I hope you’ll consider enrolling.
Stay tuned for more details, and thank you for your continued support.
Years ago, I started reading books on Taoism. One Taoist concept I learned early on was the inevitability of change. Nothing stays the same, Taoists tell us. Things move, shift, grow, and fade, whether we’re paying attention or not.
Years later, I became interested in ecology, and I began to wonder: how do forests change? Specifically, I began to wonder how forests in the northeastern United States have changed over the past 400 years.
Turns out, I wasn’t the only one wondering about this. Ecologists have been trying to figure this out for a long time. What they’ve found is somewhat surprising and even a bit paradoxical:
After 400 years of intense land use, the northeastern forest is both largely unchanged and completely transformed.
There’s a question that runs through my mind almost every single day:
Why do things look the way that they do?
Of course, I’m mostly referring to why things in nature objectively look a certain way — why a particular forest is coniferous, or why calcium-loving plants grow in certain wetlands.
I think a lot of people ask related questions, but what I’ve noticed over the years is that some of us frame these questions through a negative lens.
We might wonder, for example, why bad things are happening to certain ecosystems, why some landscapes look rough, and ultimately why humans are so disconnected from nature.
I don’t claim to know with absolute certainty why these things are happening, but I think the answer has something to do with this:
Paths I Walk 
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