Author: Michael Cravens, AWF's Advocacy and Conservation Director

Michael Cravens is the Advocacy and Conservation Director for the Arizona Wildlife Federation and Vice Chair of Arizona Backcountry Hunters and Anglers. A dedicated hunter and outdoorsman, he lives in Flagstaff with his wife, two kids, and their German short-haired pointer and wire-haired dachshund.

There is a unique irony in conservation advocacy. The work often happens in hearing rooms, congressional offices, and policy meetings far removed from the landscapes advocates spend their careers fighting to protect. Days are consumed by legislative language, regulatory comments, coalition meetings, and endless hours in front of a computer. Yet the credibility and the inspiration behind that work comes from somewhere entirely different.

It comes from mornings spent in a duck blind, long hikes into elk country, quiet evenings on a stream, the anticipation of a covey rise, or the simple joy of watching a trout rise to a dry fly.

For those who advocate for America's public lands and wildlife, spending time outdoors is not a distraction from the mission; it is the mission.

As the Advocacy and Conservation Director for the Arizona Wildlife Federation, I spend a lot of time in places like Capitol Hill that don't look much like the landscapes I'm working to conserve.

Much of my job is spent discussing legislation, reviewing policy, meeting with elected officials, and advocating for Arizona's public lands, wildlife, and outdoor heritage. Those conversations are critically important. Decisions made in Washington, D.C. can have lasting impacts on the landscapes that millions of Americans hunt, fish, hike, camp, and explore each year. 

Whether discussing public land management, habitat restoration, conservation funding, or wildlife policy, every meeting represents another opportunity to ensure Arizona's sportsmen and women have a voice in the nation's capital.

But once the meetings conclude, the briefcase is put up, the fly rod comes out, and the Potomac River becomes the next destination for chasing American shad or striped bass. To some, it might look like a chance to unwind after a busy day on Capitol Hill. While I certainly enjoy every minute on the water, that's not the real reason I go. I fish because it reminds me why I'm there.

I firmly believe that the best conservation advocates are the ones who actively hunt, fish, hike, camp, and recreate on the very lands they're working to protect. Conservation isn't something you can fully understand from behind a desk. You have to experience it. You have to watch the sun rise over a river, hear elk bugle across a canyon, feel the excitement of a fish taking your fly, and appreciate the simple privilege of spending time outdoors.

When I sit down with members of Congress to talk about protecting public lands, conserving wildlife habitat, investing in conservation programs, or ensuring access for hunters and anglers, I'm not speaking in abstract terms. I'm thinking about places I've hunted with my children, rivers we’ve fished, and public lands where families like mine are creating memories that will last a lifetime. Those experiences make the work personal.

Fishing for American shad in Washington, D.C. has become one of my favorite traditions because those fish represent something bigger than a day on the water. Their story is one of restoration. Once abundant, then diminished, and now returning in many rivers thanks to decades of conservation work, they are living proof that when we invest in habitat, improve water quality, and commit to science-based management, wildlife responds. Every fish I catch serves as a reminder that conservation works.

Striped bass tell a similar story. Their history has seen incredible successes as well as ongoing challenges, demonstrating that conservation is never finished. Healthy fisheries require continued stewardship, thoughtful management, and people who care enough to remain engaged.

Standing along the Potomac, it's impossible not to think about the connection between those fish and the meetings taking place just a few miles away. Decisions made in Washington influence conservation efforts across the country, including the places I call home in Arizona. That connection reinforces something I've always believed. Advocacy cannot exist in a vacuum. If we want to be effective voices for conservation, we have to stay connected to the resource. We have to keep hunting every fall, fishing every spring, hiking our public lands, introducing kids to the outdoors, and experiencing firsthand the opportunities we're asking our elected leaders to protect. That's where credibility comes from.

Hunters and anglers have always been among America's greatest conservationists. Through license purchases, excise taxes, volunteer work, and decades of advocacy, they've invested billions of dollars into wildlife conservation. More importantly, they've developed a deep understanding of why these places matter, not because someone told them they should, but because they've experienced them for themselves, and I consider myself fortunate to be part of that tradition.

Every trip to D.C. reminds me that conservation doesn't begin inside the Capitol. It begins on our public lands and waters. It begins with people who care enough to get outside. It begins with early mornings, muddy boots, sore shoulders from carrying a pack, and quiet moments on a river waiting for the next rise. Those experiences give purpose to every meeting I attend and every conversation I have with policymakers.

At the end of the day, I don't advocate for healthy forests because they look good in a report. I advocate for them because I've walked through them. I don't fight for clean rivers because the science tells me they're important, although it certainly does. I fight for them because I've stood in them with a fly rod in my hand. I don't work to protect public lands because it's simply my job. I do it because those places have shaped who I am.

Washington, D.C., may be where many conservation decisions are made, but the purpose behind those decisions will always be found somewhere else, on public lands, along riverbanks, in mountain forests, and across the wild places that define our sporting heritage.

The best conservation advocates don't simply argue for these places. They know them, they use them, they love them, and they never forget to enjoy them.