Every summer, I return with my family and my siblings’ families to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. It is a place we know by heart—where we spend a week living simply, in nature, surrounded by forests and water. Mornings begin with the call of a Common Loon echoing across the water—always the first sound I listen for. Later in the day, the drumming of a Pileated Woodpecker might carry through the trees. It is a place that reminds me how much birds belong to the places that shape them—and how much we do, too.
It is not a remote wilderness or a protected refuge. But it is a place that holds memory, meaning, and connection. And it reinforces the urgency of protecting places like it across the hemisphere—because when we protect a place, we are protecting all the life it sustains.
It is in the specificity of place—coastal dunes, wide-open grasslands, remote tundra—that our work becomes real.
At Audubon, our mission is to protect birds and the places they need, today and tomorrow. I think about that every day—and I often find myself coming back to “the places.” Because it is in the specificity of place—coastal dunes, wide-open grasslands, remote tundra—that our work becomes real. Birds do not exist in the abstract. They need intact marshes to feed their young, tree canopy to hide their nests, open skies to follow the maps etched into their DNA.
This issue includes stories about some of those places: a stretch of shoreline along the Great Lakes where Piping Plovers are making a comeback; a remote corner of Oklahoma where eagle feathers are protected with reverence; a fragile Arctic landscape that, if lost, could never be reclaimed. These places are as varied as the species that depend on them. Yet they share a fundamental truth: Conservation is grounded in science, in the earth beneath our feet, in the waters that sustain life, and in the people who care enough to protect them.
As Audubon celebrates its 120th anniversary, each of these landscapes reminds us how much hangs in the balance. One storm can wash away a nesting colony. One shortsighted decision can erase a habitat that took centuries to form. These moments of loss are real—and often they are irreversible. That is why we do this work. Because we still have a chance to hold on to what matters. To protect what cannot be replaced.
And when we succeed—when we set aside a refuge, restore a wetland, or bring a species back from near extinction—we are not just saving birds. We are safeguarding the places that shape our own stories, too.
This piece originally ran in the Summer 2025 issue as the Audubon View. To receive our print magazine, become a member by making a donation today.
