When Conservation Becomes an Ego Trip

He suddenly slammed his hand on his desk, the sharp sound crackling through the Zoom audio.

"This isn't about science anymore," he said. "This is political. You can't just give conservation funding away to Indigenous groups because it's trendy."

The virtual room went silent.

I had just reviewed the latest research showing that Indigenous-managed lands are among the most biodiverse in the world. The data was clear: lands stewarded by Indigenous communities often have better conservation outcomes than government-protected areas.

The problem wasn't the science. The problem was who held the power.

For decades, conservation in the United States has been dominated by a Western, top-down model that assumes nature thrives best when human activity is minimized. This philosophy led to the creation of national parks and wildlife refuges, often at the expense of Indigenous communities who had long stewarded these lands. While this model has protected millions of acres, it is no longer the only viable path forward. A growing body of research confirms what Indigenous nations have long known: people are not separate from nature—people are part of it.

Recent studies reaffirm that Indigenous-led conservation is key to tackling biodiversity and climate crises. In the Western U.S., we see this in action. The Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapaho tribes have successfully reintroduced bison to Wyoming's Wind River Indian Reservation, restoring a keystone species after more than a century of absence. In South Dakota, the InterTribal Buffalo Council, headquartered in Rapid City, now manages over 20,000 bison on more than one million acres of tribal lands, strengthening cultural and ecological resilience.

In Montana, the Blackfeet Nation fought for decades to secure permanent protection for the Badger-Two Medicine area, a sacred site once threatened by oil and gas development. That victory, achieved in 2023, ensures that an ecologically and culturally vital landscape remains intact. Meanwhile, Yellowstone National Park has expanded its Tribal Heritage Stewardship Program, incorporating Indigenous knowledge into land management decisions and recognizing the historical and ongoing relationship between Native nations and the park. In Colorado, Indigenous-led climate conservation projects have received increased funding through USDA partnerships, reinforcing the role of traditional ecological knowledge in addressing climate change.

Blackfeet tribal lands, Browning, MT

These examples show how Indigenous stewardship is not just symbolic—it is effective, science-backed conservation. Yet despite these successes, some conservationists still resist the idea that Indigenous leadership should be at the center of modern conservation efforts.

Many of these same figures present themselves as champions of Indigenous knowledge, weaving Native spirituality into their work and messaging. They quote Indigenous wisdom, speak of balance and interconnectedness, and claim to respect traditional ecological knowledge—until Indigenous leaders begin to take the reins. Then, suddenly, the rhetoric shifts. Efforts to increase Indigenous leadership in conservation are framed as "politicizing" the field or "indigenizing" funding, as though redirecting resources to historically excluded communities is an attack rather than a long-overdue correction.

Critics argue that some Indigenous nations engage in logging, mining, or other resource extraction that appears to contradict conservation goals. But this argument ignores the economic reality many Indigenous communities face. Historical injustices and systemic exclusion from wealth-building opportunities have forced some tribes to make difficult economic choices, including resource extraction, to sustain their communities. Even so, research consistently shows that Indigenous-managed lands—whether strictly protected or mixed-use—maintain higher biodiversity and ecosystem health than non-Indigenous lands under similar pressures. When tribes have the resources and autonomy to lead, they overwhelmingly choose conservation over exploitation.

This contradiction is harmful to conservation itself. The field needs Indigenous leadership now more than ever. The Trump administration's recent environmental rollbacks have made one thing clear: we are running out of time. In January 2025, President Trump signed Executive Order 14162, directing the immediate withdrawal of the U.S. from the Paris Agreement and other international climate commitments. In March 2025, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) initiated one of the largest deregulatory actions in U.S. history, rolling back dozens of environmental protections aimed at reducing greenhouse gas emissions and safeguarding public lands. The administration also repealed the methane fee from the Inflation Reduction Act, weakening efforts to curb methane emissions—a major driver of climate change. And the U.S. withdrew from the Loss and Damage Fund, an international climate compensation initiative designed to assist vulnerable nations impacted by climate change.

Federal environmental policy is moving backward, and conservation efforts cannot afford to be trapped in outdated power structures. We need every effective conservation tool available, and Indigenous land stewardship has already proven itself to be one of the strongest.

Conservation must evolve. That means embracing Indigenous co-management of public lands, expanding funding for Indigenous-led initiatives, and removing systemic barriers that have long excluded Indigenous communities from decision-making in environmental policy. This is not about tearing down the legacy of conservationists who came before us. It is about ensuring that conservation itself evolves to be as effective as possible.

The future of conservation depends on collaboration, not control. The question is not whether we should embrace this change. The question is whether we are willing to let go of control in order to save the planet.