Most often, we don’t remember the loudest voices. The ones that stay with me speak with quiet strength. Their stories linger—like the smell of saltwater, or the feel of sun-warmed soil under your feet. This week, I found myself thinking back to three conversations that shaped me in ways I didn’t expect.

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro to save the elephants

I wanted to do a story about veterans on Veterans Day, so I reached out to a high school classmate.

I remember sitting with Dave Gilbert, his wife, Kris, and their friend Brian Johnson. They were telling me about climbing Mount Kilimanjaro to save the elephants. Seven days. Freezing nights. Thin air. But the reason they climbed was even bigger than the mountain. They did it to raise awareness for elephant conservation in Kenya—and to honor veterans back home.

Dave told me, “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, including active duty.” But there was no drama in his voice, just honesty. They made the climb together. Step by step, carrying the weight of their backpacks and their mission. It wasn’t about checking something off a list. It was about remembering that what we do, even far from home, can echo in the life of another.

Being stewards of the Chesapeake Bay

Then there was Emily Thorpe. She didn’t need a mountaintop. Her work happens in the quiet corners of Cumberland County. She works by the streams and in the fields. She works with young people who haven’t yet learned how much power they hold.

Emily worked with the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. She taught students to care for the land and water around them. To get their hands dirty. To plant trees, test the water, and feel what it means to be part of something larger than themselves.

She said something simple that stuck with me: “We show students how to take action in their own backyards.” And she does. Every time she spoke, she showed me a new way of seeing the world. That’s the positive perspective she shares with us. She gives a piece of it back to all of us.

Martavis Washington tells me about the life of a commercial fisherman

He took me out on the water with nothing more than his voice. He told me about crabbing and oystering with his father and grandfather. I liked the analogy that Martavis said his father used: “. . . it was like farming… just wetter.” He didn’t just describe a way of life, he carried it, held it, honored it.

The legacy of a commercial fisherman in his family runs deep. It’s about survival. It’s about pride. And it’s about stories that don’t always get passed down, especially when the world moves on without asking permission. Martavis’ story follows a lengthy line of African American commercial fishermen. They found it easier to find work in the Chesapeake than in other areas.

Today, Martavis works at the Pennsylvania House of Representatives Archives. But the water still runs through him. His story reminded me that what we inherit isn’t always written down. Sometimes, it’s sung. Sometimes, it’s held in calloused hands. Sometimes, it’s shared in a single conversation that you carry with you for years.

The importance of oral stories before they are forever lost

These guests, these stories, they reminded me why I started The Wandering Pen Podcast in the first place. Not to chase headlines or spotlight fame. But to listen. To witness. To record what could otherwise be lost.

So, if you’re new to the podcast, these three episodes are a good place to start. They’re not just about elephants, waterways, or boats. They’re about real people doing the work, quietly and purposefully. People who live their values and lift others as they go.

You can find each story mentioned here:

Climbing Kilimanjaro to Save the Elephants

The Environment and the Chesapeake Bay

A Day In the Life of A Commercial Fisherman

These are people who remind me how much stories still matter.