Former Dutch athletes preserve Iowa prairie one fire at a time

Alone on a warm, early summer day, Kody Wohlers ’05 occasionally lets his gaze drift across the gentle slopes of the western Iowa Loess Hills. A thrill washes over him, as sweet as the pure feel of bat meeting ball on the 10 home runs he clubbed as a Central College baseball player.

There are no cheering spectators, no high fives from jubilant teammates sharing the moment. But when he sees native prairie plants like compass plant, lead plant and purple prairie clover beginning to flower in once-charred soil where invasive cool season grasses and dogwoods had taken over prior to a prescribed burn he directed, it’s a small win that shines as brightly as runs on a scoreboard.

“I would say that’s the most gratifying part of the work, is seeing that response,” he said. “A year after the fire, seeing what new plants are showing up, what it stimulates.”

Wohlers is Loess Hills Land Stewardship Director for the Iowa Natural Heritage Foundation, among four former Dutch athletes, and seven Central grads overall, working for the organization last year. Created in 1979 with the help of Governor Robert Ray, the INHF works with private landowners and public agencies to protect and restore Iowa’s land, water and wildlife. Supporters and staff have protected more than 190,000 acres of Iowa land.

For Wohlers it’s not a job but a lifelong mission, spawned as a small boy watching his grandpa install small check dams on his farm to minimize erosion while also slowing the release of water, so precious to a cattle farmer.

“He was very conservation-minded,” Wohlers said. 

Contrast his grandfather’s efforts to channel a gently flowing creek on an Iowa farm with Wohlers helping combat an angry wildfire racing unpredictably across a Colorado mountainside, endangering not only trees and wildlife but homes and lives.

Fire brings danger and destruction, but in the fight to restore slivers of Iowa’s natural prairie to its vibrant 18th-century grandeur, free of ever-encroaching invasive species, it’s also among the most valuable weapons in a conservationists’ arsenal. Understanding how to best use it can be accelerated through wildfire fighting, typically in the western U.S. 

“Whenever we go west, we bring something back to INHF, we bring something back to Iowa and the people that are in the crews we’re managing to implement prescribed fire here in Iowa,” said Derek Miner ’15, another former Dutch baseball player now serving as an INHF land stewardship associate. “You get to utilize fire in different ways and use the tools around wildfire in different ways. You just bring back a whole suite of knowledge, and safety is a big part of that, too.”

The fires they direct can restore prairie health.

“Prescribed fire is a really big tool for us as land stewards in Iowa bringing back that natural process, that natural stressor to the environment that a lot of our ecosystems rely on and they're dependent on fire regimes,” Miner said. 

“But it can’t be the only tool, with our fragmented landscape. We talk about land restoration a lot of times in terms of what it used to be 300 years ago. 1,000 years ago. But we’re not operating these ecosystems in the same kind of environment. They’re smaller, they aren’t as fluid and dynamic as they once were, or as diverse. So prescribed fire can almost be too much of a stressor in certain cases. So we need to use it wisely and intentionally. It’s a huge tool for what we do, but it’s not the silver bullet. There are other things we need to consider.”

Over 16 years of training and study, Wohlers earned a Prescribed Burn Boss Type 2 credential through the National Wildfire Coordinating Group. He’s one of just eight Iowans with that credential and is close to becoming a qualified taskforce leader for the NWCG.  He’s directed or partnered more than 900 prescribed burns over 80,000 acres. And he’s also been deployed to battle more than 40 wildfires over 550,000 acres in 11 western states and two countries.

“It is a high-stress environment because when a fire is burning, you’re always on a ticking clock,” Wohlers said. “And a fire can change direction. It’s a very dynamic environment.”

At those times, Wohlers is directing the defense, much like he did as a catcher for the Dutch, positioning fielders as a dangerous hitter strides to the plate.

“I think it absolutely helps to be an athlete,” Wohlers said. “Because you're used to having that crew dynamic, that partnering, that cohesiveness, that dependence on somebody watching your back. And then, through my leadership skills as a two-year captain at Central, being used to being in that leadership role and being willing to take the reins and direct people and having a lot of communication, I think, played a big part in my career.”

His work out west, when he’s on loan from the INHF, is usually only a few weeks a year. But wildfires can strike even in Iowa. A fire started in the Loess Hills State Forest April 13, 2023, a hot day in a period of prolonged drought.

“We had 45-mph winds that burned just shy of 3,800 acres in about 36 hours,” Wohlers said. Wohlers, who also serves as coordinator for the Loess Hills Fire Partners, quickly sought help.

“With a couple of phone calls and my email distribution list, I was able to round up 57 firefighters to help fight that fire,” he said. “It got to the point where the local fire department basically said, ‘You guys take over, we’re just here to support you now.’ Because of our expertise, our knowledge of the topography and the local knowledge of people, we’ve worked enough together that everybody just fell into place. We just went to work and it was truly a great thing to see.”

Even prescribed burns carry risks.

“Every fire is different,” Wohlers said. “Every day is different. And it’s a living, breathing thing. I always take the perspective of not taking it for granted. Respect it.”

Melanie Louis Schmidt ’12 recently left her position as INHF volunteer coordinator to work with the North America Fire Program through The Nature Conservancy. While Wohlers is playing defense, during tense moments on the fire line, Schmidt’s mind flashes back to her days on the cross country course with the Dutch, pressing her body to its limits. 

“The best way I can describe it is that race-day feeling when you’re kind of sweaty and your heart’s pumping and all of your senses are heightened,” she said. “And you just have to stay calm and collected because you can’t lose your train of thought. You really have to be in touch with what’s going on, inside your body and outside.”

It can mirror the way soldiers describe warfare, days of tedium interspersed with moments of horrific violence.

“Sometimes things can happen in an instant where you’ve got to go, but most times you’re kind of waiting for assignments,” she said. “But when things are happening, they’re happening really fast.”

Yet she downplays the risk.

“This is always what I have to tell my parents, because they definitely weren’t in favor of me doing this,” she said with a laugh. “But because we are a crew that gets put together once a year and we’re a group of people who have never worked together, typically we’re not put in high danger situations. That’s typically saved for the hotshots (full-time firefighters who are on the front lines of the most treacherous fires), or people who are working seasonally together. I’m not saying the work is not dangerous. Any time you’re working with uncontrolled fire, there’s always danger. But there’s so much training that goes into preparing wildland firefighters. We’re constantly being reminded of things to keep an eye on and, especially when you’re on a crew, you’re constantly looking out for each other.”

Schmidt’s husband, former Dutch football defensive back Ryan Schmidt ‘12 followed Wohlers into wildland firefighting and the descriptions he shared of the rigorous, demanding work excited her. 

 “After hearing about his experience out west, I just knew I had to try,” she said. 

She began as a member of a 20-person hand crew.

“They’re hiking into the areas where fire suppression or any other kind of work is needed and where the fire engines can’t go,” she said. “It’s typically physical work like digging line, laying out hose, digging trenches and things like that. So it’s more physical, which in my personal opinion is way better.”

It’s a grueling experience.

“It’s a lot of sacrifice,” Wohlers said. “You’re usually gone from your families for a minimum of 16 days, but it’s also taken me to parts of the country that I would have seen on my own dollar.”

Albeit with long hours, Melanie Schmidt adds.

“It is very exhausting,” she said. “We probably get up between 4:30 and 5 (a.m.) and then we're on the land out around the fire until about 7 at night and we're crawling in bed by like 9 or 10 (p.m.). So they're 16-to-18 hour days. And you're typically camping. You're sleeping outside at an area that they designate as fire camp and you’re basically eating, sleeping and breathing the fire environment.”

Sleep doesn’t always come easily, she said, and not only because she’s sleeping on the ground, faintly illuminated by the glow of the distant fire.

“The first couple of days, it’s really hard to shut your mind off but after day two or three, you’re so physically and mentally exhausted that your body just knows what to do," she said. "And they feed you so much food that I’m sure half of it is probably food coma, which is fine because you burn so many calories.”

Schmidt marvels at how efficiently those calories are delivered.

“They’ll have semi trucks and it’s essentially a huge kitchen and they just cycle people through the food line like crazy,” she said. “It’s pretty impressive to see how well organized it is. It’s almost like a wedding, but everyone’s a little bit grosser, hasn’t showered and just wants to eat.”

Beyond the physical demands, Schmidt must overcome the rigidly held notion that it’s not a field where women can succeed. Schmidt is determined to prove otherwise.

“For me, I feel like there’s a drive to help other females feel empowered to do this kind of work,” she said. “Typically, I don’t see myself as wanting to be out there as a leader but I know I never had any females to look up to in this kind of field. I don’t know if it’s a calling or what, I but I just felt this desire and passion to help build other women up and if I can be an example for women, then I’m willing to keep training myself and get those skills.”

Yet it’s still male-dominated work.

“One in every 10 wildland firefighters is female,” Schmidt said. “And when you look at leadership roles, it’s even less. Every hand crew of 20 that I’ve ever been on, the most females we’ve had was three. And on engine crews, I’m typically the only female. They’re trying to make efforts to make it more of an inviting, welcoming environment but it’s a really hard area to get into as a female. Trying to break that barrier a little bit and be a positive role model is, I think, the thing that drives me the most.”

Many co-workers are encouraging. Yet others send the clear message that women don’t belong.

“It’s definitely made me question whether I want to keep doing it,” Schmidt said. “There have been some really hard learning opportunities where I’ve had difficult crew members that kind of undermined me and I’ve even had leaders that made made me question my abilities and put doubt in my mind. It’s probably one of the hardest things that I’ve done, physically, yes, but also mentally. But I’m pretty stubborn. So I suppose I can’t accept that women aren’t able to do this kind of work. I will challenge that.”

And when she does, Schmidt feels the same endorphin rush she received when she crossed the finish line for her first marathon.

“That first year I really had no idea what I was getting into,” Schmidt said. “I was really, really nervous because I didn’t want to make females look bad but after that first year, I’m like, ‘Wow, I’m capable.’ I was way more prepared than I realized. It’s still very physically difficult but I just realized I’m very capable, I can do this and make a difference.”

For all wildfire fighters, returning to the land of daily commutes, emails and fixing supper, after a couple of adrenaline-drenched weeks in the wilderness, can be jarring.

“It’s really a culture shock in some ways,” said Wohlers.  “Getting back in touch with your family, your friends, your daily job, yeah, it’s a different world. When you’re out west, you’re not listening to the radio, you’re not seeing any national news. You’re focused on the task at hand. You’re essentially on an island of your own and very focused on that island, not what else is going on in the world.”

“It’s rough,” Melanie Schmidt said. “You’ve created this family-like bond with the people you spent the last 20 days with 24/7 and it’s a little bit emotional. You’re saying goodbye to this and coming back to your daily duties. The best way I can describe it is I got to study abroad in college and that reentry of just realizing people have no idea what you experienced no matter what you tell them or how you explain it.”

Even the more routine work for INHF staff members is physically taxing, Miner said. Yet that doesn’t substitute for the same kind of disciplined training he endured as a baseball player in the Schipper Fitness Center.

“I do keep a good workout regimen just to keep my body in balance,” he said. “If I didn’t work out in the gym or do things outside of work, I’d be very one-dimensional and it can lead to some imbalances in my shoulders and my hips. So if I take a few months off from the gym, I actually start to feel some pain at work. But if I’m in the grind of a workout program, that’s when I’m feeling the best at work.”

The roads that led the Central grads to the INHF differ, but the common thread for most is the inner curiosity about the natural world awakened by Central biology faculty members Russell Benedict, Paul Weihe and Anya Butt.

“Dr. B (Benedict) was a huge inspiration in my life to get into prairie research that he was doing and learning more about plant species and things like that,” Melanie Schmidt said. “That kind of started that interest and then the internship helped determine my career path after that.”

Central typically sends at least one intern to the INHF annually, a long-standing partnership, according to Benedict. It can be a life-changing opportunity.

 “It kind of all opened my eyes to what is out there and there’s actually a career here if I work hard enough to go out and get it,” Miner said. 

It altered Melanie Schmidt’s perspective as well.

“I was really interested in animal ecology, which a lot of people are when they think about protecting the environment,” she said. “But as I learned more about Iowa’s landscape and the plants that make it so special, I definitely turned into a prairie nerd. I would never would have thought I would be as into plants as I am now.”

That’s a common transformation, Benedict said, often sparked by work at Central’s 80-acre Carlson-Kuyper Field Station.

“If there’s already a bit of a seed there, once you get kids out and immerse them in nature, it’s fairly easy to ignite that fire,” he said.

“I always had an interest growing up in being outdoors and in wildlife through hunting and fishing and my grandparents had a couple farms where I was able to get out and experience the outdoors,” Ryan Schmidt said. “But I always say going to Central took it to the next level. It took an interest and turned it into a passion. That came through coursework but also through experiences like spending time with Dr. Benedict.”

For INHF employees, that passion is fueled by a love for Iowa. The state maximizes use of its fertile soil to raise the crops and livestock that sustain the agriculture economy. But that use comes at a price. The state that was once blanketed with natural prairie and abundant wildlife between its two mighty rivers is forever changed.

“Iowa is the most altered state in the union,” Wohlers said. “We have 1/10 of 1% of remnant prairie remaining. The more we protect now, and protect long term, that’s the benefit I see going forward. Especially because I want my kids to be able to see and enjoy these lands--and hopefully my grandkids and future generations. But if we keep turning them over with a plow or a bulldozer, you can’t return a remnant prairie to what it was. Once it’s disturbed and turned over, it’s done.”

Yet as Wohlers pauses to survey the western Iowa landscape, it’s still possible to catch glimpses of an Iowa that no longer exists, seen now only in paintings and in the mind.

“I regularly catch myself doing that,” he said. “You know, standing on a hilltop. Most of the time when you look out over across a valley or a river bottom, it's all agricultural now but I think, what was it like without all the deciduous trees or the cedar trees on that hill, when all the river bottoms were 6 to 8 feet tall and native prairie? I try to picture in my head seeing prairie all the way to the to the horizon. It’s tough to imagine, but something that excites me. It would have been fantastic to see.”

It’s an image seen most clearly with the eyes closed. Protecting what’s left of it, finding ways to restore the health of an increasingly fragile environment one fire, one plant at a time, keeps these conservationists energized, even while some political leaders shrug off the steady stream of frightening news about the planet’s future.

“It can be super depressing,” Melanie Schmidt said. “You’ve just got to find the little wins and the people that are trying to make a difference. Everything we do matters.”