There’s a common misconception that nature does best when left alone. It’s an appealing idea—to step back, let things grow wild, and allow nature to run its course. And once, long ago, that was largely true. Before European contact, the landscape that we now call Iowa was shaped slowly by time, weather, wildlife, and the knowledgeable stewardship of Native Americans. These early inhabitants didn’t dominate the land but worked with it—using tools like prescribed burns to maintain prairie health and encourage diversity.
But the arrival of European settlers changed everything.
In a relatively short period of time, massive shifts began to unfold. Wetlands were drained to make way for agriculture. Riverbank timber was harvested to fuel steamboats. Homesteads carved the land into fenced parcels. Species that were popular in European gardens were brought over without thought for their impact.
These changes weren’t temporary—they altered the natural balance in ways that cannot simply be undone by waiting. The ecosystems we’ve inherited today are fundamentally different from those that existed a few hundred years ago. And the idea that we can now step back and let nature “fix itself” is no longer a viable option.
In short, we broke it—and now we have to help fix it.
This is the challenge and responsibility of modern conservation. It’s no longer about staying out of nature’s way. It’s about stepping in, wisely and intentionally, to heal what has been damaged.
One of the clearest examples is fire. Historically, fire was a vital force across the Midwest, clearing out underbrush, recycling nutrients, and making room for native grasses and wildflowers to flourish. Oak savannas and tallgrass prairies depended on regular fire to stay healthy and open. But with settlement came the suppression of fire. What had once been a natural and beneficial process was now seen as a threat to property, crops, and livestock.
Without fire, the landscape began to shift. Shade-loving species crept in. Invasive plants—many of them early bloomers—began to crowd out native seedlings. Today, prescribed fire is being reintroduced to the landscape as a vital management tool, and with it comes the return of healthier prairies and more balanced forests.
Another ongoing battle is the removal of invasive species. These plants, like honeysuckle or garlic mustard, were brought here for ornamental or agricultural purposes and have since taken over entire ecosystems. Unlike native plants, they offer little to no value to the insects and animals that depend on native vegetation.
And that’s the key: Native plants are the foundation of the entire food web. Insects rely on specific host plants, nearly all of which are native. Birds feed on those insects. Mammals and reptiles rely on a mix of all of the above. When we lose native plants, the whole system starts to crumble.
Take the oak tree. In Iowa, oaks are a keystone species, supporting over 1,000 other species. But oaks need sunlight to reproduce. The acorn must feel the warmth and light of the sun to germinate and grow. Invasive shrubs or fire-intolerant trees can crowd the forest floor, casting deep shade and choking out oak regeneration. Walk into a forest with towering oaks but no young saplings, and you’re not in a thriving ecosystem—you’re in a forest that’s slowly dying.
It’s not unlike a community. You can tell a town is struggling when you see only one generation represented—when there’s no mix of young and old, no new families, no energy of the next generation. The same is true for forests. Diversity of age and species is a sign of health. And sometimes, reaching that level of health requires humans to intervene.
That intervention doesn’t always look pretty. Conservation work can sometimes resemble destruction. Chainsaws, herbicide, fire, and even mulching machines might be part of the process. But conservation work isn’t landscaping. It’s not about neat rows or curb appeal. The goal isn’t to make it look nice—it’s to make it work again.
So when you walk through a natural area and see something that looks messy, recently cut, or out of place, ask: What is the end goal? Because when we start with the end in mind—whether that’s forest health, native plant recovery, or supporting pollinators—the process begins to make a lot more sense.
Nature has changed, and so must we. Conservation today means standing in the gap. It means helping where help is needed. It means remembering that we’re not separate from nature—we’re part of it. And the health of our wild places depends on us making the right choices now, for the generations that will follow.
