Tag: The Wilds

I like the Ostrich: A little chaos usually makes things better

I had been telling stories about visiting The Wilds, that impressive safari park and conservation center affiliated with the Columbus Zoo out in the hills of Ohio. It is one of those places worth the drive no matter where you are in the state, a sprawling expanse of reclaimed land turned into something that feels close to the real thing—vast pastures under open sky, exotic animals moving with room to stretch their legs. They have rhinos and giraffes in good numbers, along with camels, zebras, cheetahs, and others, all managed with a light enough hand that the illusion of wild freedom holds up pretty well from the back of an open-air safari vehicle.¹

You climb aboard one of their customized tour buses or trucks—solid machines built for the terrain—and set out through a series of large paddocks. The gates are there for a reason. They control movement between sections so the animals do not mix in ways that would cause trouble, and the whole operation runs on a balance between giving the creatures space and keeping things workable for keepers, vets, and paying visitors who want the Serengeti experience without the actual risks of the real wild. Supplemental feeding stations and strategic placement of water to help keep the herds where the staff wants them for health, breeding programs, and viewing. It is wildlife management at a high level, about as good as you are going to get when you are dealing with dangerous and valuable animals on thousands of acres that used to be strip-mined ground.²

The compliant animals make it easy. The rhinos—those massive southern white rhinos—graze and wallow near the resources provided for them, powerful but predictable in their routines. The giraffes tower elegantly, moving between browse stations and open pasture in ways that fit the management plan. Camels shed their coats in season, zebras stay in loose groups, and the whole scene looks like freedom while functioning inside a carefully designed system of fences, gates, rotations, and incentives. It is not a cage, but it is not the true untamed wild either. It is managed pasture with the look of the wild, and most of the animals play their part without fuss.³

That is what made the ostrich stand out to me.

I noticed him early, standing apart from the clusters near the food and water. Tall, alert, head turning with that sharp, curious rhythm ostriches have. While the rhinos and giraffes and camels stayed close to what the keepers had laid out for them, this bird was watching the vehicle. As we moved from one paddock into the next, the gate system did its job—or tried to. The tour vehicle went through, the mechanism closed behind us, and there he was again on the other side. He had figured it out. He waited, timed his approach, slipped in close behind the bus or jeep as it passed, and crossed into the fresh section before the barrier fully secured. Now he was loose in new territory, running with a different group, exploring ground the plan had not assigned him that day.⁴

The reaction from the staff told the whole story. You could hear it in the radio chatter and see it in the quick deployment of groundskeepers in another vehicle. They had to go after him, work him back toward his proper paddock without stressing the other animals or ruining the tour for the people who had paid to see a smooth, wild-like experience. It was not the first time. The bird had made a habit of it. One fence, one gate at a time, and he had learned the vulnerability. He did not need the food station to stay content. He wanted novelty, new company, the chance to impose his own will on the layout the humans had built.⁵

I was rooting for him the whole time.

Here was an animal refusing the script. The other creatures accepted the pasture as given—the convenient food, the predictable safety, the lanes they were expected to occupy. The ostrich treated the whole setup as a puzzle to solve. He used the tour vehicle itself, the thing the keepers relied on to move visitors through their controlled world, as his ticket to the next field. He did not stay near the bowl. He risked the chase, the herding, the temporary disruption, because something in him wanted to see what was over there and who else was around. That kind of ambition is rare in a managed environment, and it is exactly what makes systems better when you let it play out instead of crushing it on sight.⁶

It struck me then, and has stayed with me since, how perfectly this mirrors what I have seen over decades in aerospace and manufacturing. We build our own versions of The Wilds every day. We lay out departments like paddocks, write procedures like fence lines, and place compensation, titles, benefits, and job security like feeding stations to keep people content and predictable. We install gates—approval chains, compliance checklists, annual audits, legacy safety rules—and we staff them with officers whose job is to make sure nothing slips through unplanned. Most people, like most animals in the park, adapt. They stay near the resources, do the expected work, and the machine runs smoothly enough from a distance. Visitors and shareholders see order and productivity.⁷

But then there are the rebels and learning the actual work from the ground up, often see the single-gate weaknesses first. They know which rules came from someone who retired twenty years ago and never got revisited. They spot the places where the process has become theater—compliance for the sake of compliance, documentation that protects no one and slows everything. When they point it out or, worse, quietly work around it to get the real job done, it can be deeply disconcerting to layers of management that have never turned a wrench or stood on a shop floor during a real problem. Knowledge from the ground threatens the illusion of total control. So the system often responds the same way the keepers responded to the ostrich: more rules, more oversight, more “training,” or direct pressure to get back in the assigned pasture.⁸

The cost of that approach is enormous and mostly invisible until you add it up. Direct spending on regulatory compliance labor alone runs into the hundreds of billions annually across American business, with manufacturing carrying a heavy share. Broader economic drag—capital and talent diverted from productive work into compliance bureaucracies, innovations delayed or abandoned because the approval path is too long, small and mid-sized firms crushed under burdens that larger players can absorb—pushes the true opportunity cost into the trillions over time. We lose competitiveness, we lose resilience, and we lose the very people who could have fixed the problems if we had listened instead of herding them back into line. It is not dramatic like a factory closing overnight. It is the slow erosion of capability, the quiet decision by talented hands-on people to stop trying or to leave for places that still value initiative.⁹

SpaceX has shown what happens when you refuse that model. Elon Musk walks into meetings and asks the questions most compliance cultures are designed to avoid: Who wrote this rule? Why did they write it? Does it still make sense, or is it just legacy that nobody wants to touch? A shocking number of requirements get deleted or radically simplified once you trace them back to their origin. The company builds, tests, fails in public view, learns fast, and iterates. Reusable rockets, vertical integration, rapid launch cadence—these did not come from following the old aerospace playbook of exhaustive upfront documentation and risk aversion at every step. They came from treating the rulebook as a starting point to be challenged, not a sacred pasture to remain inside.¹⁰ The results speak for themselves in cost per launch and flight rate. The ostrich approach, applied at scale, forces the entire system to get better.¹¹

I have always had a soft spot for the ostriches in any workforce. I advocate for them on purpose. The ones who will not stay in their lane, who figure out how to get behind the jeep and into the next field, are usually the same people who reveal where the real weaknesses are and who come up with fixes nobody on the compliance side would have imagined. Sometimes they bite you—disrupt schedules, question authority in uncomfortable ways, make the tour guides nervous. That is the price of having them. The alternative is a pasture full of well-fed, predictable animals that look impressive when the bus drives by but generate very little genuine progress or resilience. Their souls get crushed under the weight of never being allowed to test the fence, and the organization slowly loses the capacity to adapt when the real world stops cooperating with the plan.¹²

In my own years moving from hands-on roles into executive responsibility, I saw this pattern repeat across programs and companies. The people who had done the work with their own hands carried an instinctive understanding of what was theater and what was necessary. They were often the first to spot when a procedure had become detached from reality or when a new requirement was solving a problem that no longer existed. Management that lacked that grounding sometimes viewed them as threats to order rather than assets to be unleashed. The organizations that protected and empowered those voices moved faster and solved harder problems. The ones that prioritized perfect compliance and predictable behavior above all else eventually found themselves defending processes that nobody could explain anymore, while competitors who tolerated a little productive rebellion pulled ahead.¹³

The same dynamic shows up far beyond factories and boardrooms. Education systems that reward sitting still and repeating approved answers over curiosity and independent problem-solving. Government bureaucracies where the safest career move is to add another layer of review rather than remove an obsolete one. Cultural institutions that present curated narratives as the full range of choice. We all live inside versions of The Wilds at times—the illusion of open range while the fences, feeding stations, and gate protocols quietly shape what is possible. Most days it feels normal. Then something like that ostrich reminds you that the system only works as well as it does because enough creatures choose not to test the boundaries too hard.¹⁴

What I liked most about watching that bird work the tour was how it improved the keepers. They had to confront the limitation in their current gate setup. They had to think about whether single-point control was enough or whether double-gate airlock procedures, better behavioral enrichment, or adjusted resource placement would reduce the escapes without turning the place into a tighter prison. The ostrich was not just causing trouble; he was doing unpaid consulting work for the management team. He showed them where their assumptions about animal movement and motivation had gaps. A purely compliant population would never have forced that improvement. The rebel paid for his freedom by making the whole operation a little sharper.¹⁵

I left The Wilds that day still thinking about him. The rhinos were impressive in their size and presence. The giraffes were beautiful against the sky. The cheetahs carried that coiled power that makes you respect the food chain. All of them cool in their own ways, and all of them content to operate inside the lanes the humans had drawn. The ostrich was the one I kept coming back to—the non-compliant one, the rule-questioner, the creature willing to go where the keepers did not want him and to accept the temporary chase as the cost of exploration. He did not need the easy food to stay interested in life. He wanted new ground and new company, and he found a way to claim it using the very system designed to contain him.¹⁶

That is the quality I look for and try to protect in the people around me, whether in aerospace programs, manufacturing operations, or just everyday life. Give the ostriches some room. Listen when they show you the weakness in the single gate. Accept that a little productive chaos now and then is cheaper than the long-term stagnation of perfect compliance. The organizations and societies that figure this out keep their edge. The ones that treat every deviation as a threat to be chased back into the assigned pasture eventually discover that their well-managed animals have lost the capacity to handle real trouble when it arrives.¹⁷

I have no interest in living in a world where the only acceptable animals are the ones that stay near the bowl. I would rather deal with the occasional escape, the radio calls, the groundskeepers earning their pay, and the improvements that come from being forced to see the system through the eyes of someone who refuses to accept it as final. That ostrich at The Wilds was doing exactly what the best innovators and problem-solvers do everywhere else: he treated the fence not as an absolute limit but as a problem to be solved, and in doing so he made the entire managed landscape a little more honest and a little more capable.¹⁸

When people ask me now what my favorite animal was on that visit, I do not hesitate. The big ones were impressive. The compliant ones were easy on the eye and the schedule. But the ostrich—the tall, curious, gate-hacking rebel who would not stay in his lane and who spent half the tour where he was not supposed to be—was the one that mattered. He reminded me why I have always had more respect for the people who figure out how to get behind the jeep than for the ones who never leave the feeding station. Encourage that spirit where you find it. Protect it when the compliance officers come with their herding tools. The future does not belong to the perfectly pastured. It belongs to those willing to test the gate now and then, accept the chase, and show the rest of us what we missed by staying comfortable.¹⁹

This experience at The Wilds lingered in my mind long after I returned home, connecting to deeper patterns I have observed across my life and work. The managed illusion of freedom in those paddocks is not so different from the structures we encounter in corporate America, where layers of policy and oversight create the appearance of progress while often stifling the very innovation needed to survive. In aerospace, where I have spent much of my career, the contrast between traditional approaches and more agile ones is particularly stark. Legacy programs can become bogged down in requirements that originated decades ago, defended not because they remain relevant but because changing them would require admitting that the original rationale might no longer hold. Hands-on experience reveals these disconnects quickly, yet articulating them can mark you as difficult rather than valuable.²⁰

Consider the broader implications for American manufacturing. When compliance becomes the primary metric of success, resources flow toward documentation and auditing rather than research, development, or process refinement. Studies have documented how regulatory burdens disproportionately affect smaller firms, creating barriers to entry and expansion that favor incumbents who can afford dedicated compliance departments. The result is slower adoption of new technologies, reduced experimentation on the shop floor, and a workforce trained more in navigating bureaucracy than in solving novel problems. The ostrich in such an environment would be quickly reassigned or sidelined, and the whole system suffers for it.²¹

Elon Musk’s approach at SpaceX offers a compelling counterexample, one I have followed with great interest. By insisting on first-principles thinking—breaking down every assumption to its fundamentals and rebuilding only what proves necessary—the company has achieved breakthroughs that seemed impossible under conventional paradigms. Reusability was not just an engineering challenge; it was a direct challenge to the accepted economics of spaceflight, where expendable vehicles and massive cost-plus contracts had become the norm. Questioning those foundations required a culture that rewarded the kind of boundary-testing the ostrich exemplified. The payoff has been dramatic reductions in launch costs and an unprecedented cadence of operations, reshaping the industry.²²

In reflecting on these matters, I often draw parallels to larger questions of human agency and the systems that seek to channel or constrain it. The ostrich’s refusal to remain content within the provided pasture speaks to something fundamental in the created order: a drive toward exploration, adaptation, and the exercise of will that resists overly deterministic management. In my ongoing work exploring the Politics of Heaven and the deeper spiritual and historical currents shaping human affairs, such metaphors take on added resonance. Just as the keepers at The Wilds maintain an illusion of wildness for educational and conservation purposes, larger forces in society—whether economic, cultural, or institutional—often construct environments that prioritize predictability and control over the messy vitality of genuine freedom. Individuals who, like the ostrich, find ways to slip through the gates challenge those illusions and force reevaluation.²³

This is not to romanticize chaos or dismiss the need for structure. Successful wildlife management at The Wilds demonstrates that boundaries serve important functions: protecting animals, enabling breeding programs, ensuring visitor safety, and advancing conservation goals. Similarly, in business and society, rules around safety, quality, and ethics are essential. The problem arises when those rules multiply unchecked, when compliance officers outnumber innovators, or when the original purpose of a regulation fades from memory while its enforcement mechanisms grow ever more elaborate. The ostrich does not demand the removal of all fences; he demonstrates the value of testing them and adapting the system in response.²⁴

My own background has given me a particular vantage on this tension. Having worked my way up through various roles in industry, from tasks requiring direct physical engagement to overseeing complex programs, I have witnessed how domain knowledge from the “shop floor” often clashes with abstract managerial frameworks. Those who have turned wrenches understand intuitively where procedures add value and where they have become ritual. Encouraging such perspectives requires leadership willing to tolerate temporary disruption for long-term gain—much like the keepers who, instead of permanently punishing the ostrich, likely considered improvements to their gate protocols or enrichment strategies.²⁵

Culturally, the pattern repeats in media and entertainment, where narratives often reinforce managed expectations rather than celebrating the disruptive questioner. From my observations of shifts in popular music and storytelling over decades, there has been a movement away from themes of individual agency and moral courage toward more passive or hedonistic portrayals that keep audiences comfortably within prescribed emotional and ideological lanes. The ostrich disrupts that too, by refusing the easy feed of convention and seeking fresh territory.²⁷

Politically and economically, the stakes are high. Over-reliance on compliance culture contributes to the kinds of institutional failures I encountered during grand jury service, where layers of bureaucracy sometimes obscured accountability and human judgment. Challenging stupid rules is not rebellion for its own sake but a necessary corrective to systems that drift toward self-perpetuation at the expense of their intended purposes. In local Ohio contexts, from school levies to commissioner races, I have seen similar dynamics: entrenched approaches defended vigorously, while innovative voices advocating for accountability and efficiency are treated as threats to the established order.²⁸

Ultimately, the lesson from that lone ostrich at The Wilds is one of balance and appreciation. Systems need structure to function, but they thrive when they incorporate the energy of those who test the edges. In manufacturing, this means streamlining regulations that no longer serve their purpose and empowering frontline workers to propose and implement improvements. In broader society, it means fostering cultures that value inquiry and agency over rote obedience. As someone who has long championed self-mastery, resilience, and the imposition of individual will on challenging circumstances—symbolized in my own life by the whip as a tool of precision and discipline—I see the ostrich as a kindred spirit. He navigates the managed wild with determination and ingenuity, improving it in the process.²⁹

When I share this story, people often smile at the image of the bird sneaking through gates and evading keepers during the tour. But beneath the humor lies a serious point about human flourishing. We are not meant to be permanently pastured, content with provided resources and predictable routines. The drive to explore, to question, to innovate—even at the risk of temporary conflict with authority—is part of what makes progress possible, whether in conservation parks, factories, or the grander arenas of history and spirit. I prefer the company of ostriches, even if they occasionally complicate the tour. They keep things alive, force adaptation, and remind us that true freedom, however constrained by reality, involves the courage to move beyond the feeding station and into the next field.³⁰

So the next time you find yourself in a system that feels overly managed, remember the ostrich at The Wilds. Look for the single gate, time your move, and be willing to run when the keepers come calling. The disruption might just lead to better management for everyone involved. In my experience, it almost always does.

Footnotes

¹ Official descriptions of The Wilds as a 10,000+ acre conservation center with open-range safari experiences, emphasizing educational value and animal welfare. See The Wilds website resources on mission and operations.

² Details on reclaimed strip-mined land conversion, paddock management, and gate systems for species separation and rotational grazing in large wildlife parks.

³ Visitor accounts and park literature highlighting predictable behaviors of rhinos, giraffes, and other megafauna near supplemental feeding and water sources.

⁴ Observations of ostrich curiosity and vehicle-following behavior in safari settings, consistent with ethological studies of ratite intelligence and learning.

⁵ Reports from guides and staff on recurring challenges with individual animals exploiting procedural gaps during tours.

⁶ Analysis of problem-solving in captive animals and its implications for enrichment strategies in conservation management.

⁷ Corporate analogies drawn from organizational behavior literature on incentive structures and departmental silos.

⁸ Personal reflections informed by decades in aerospace, noting tensions between experiential knowledge and administrative layers.

⁹ Quantitative assessments of regulatory compliance burdens, including labor costs and opportunity losses in U.S. manufacturing sectors.

¹⁰ Public statements and case studies on SpaceX’s first-principles engineering methodology and requirement rationalization processes.

¹¹ Industry analyses of launch cost reductions and operational cadence improvements attributable to iterative, challenge-based approaches.

¹² Discussions of innovation cultures versus compliance-oriented management in business strategy texts.

¹³ Insights from program management experience in aerospace regarding the value of shop-floor perspectives.

¹⁴ Broader applications to educational and governmental institutions, drawing on critiques of bureaucratic inertia.

¹⁵ Principles of adaptive management in wildlife conservation, where outlier behaviors drive procedural improvements.

¹⁶ Comparative evaluation of animal temperaments in managed environments and their contributions to system dynamics.

¹⁷ Recommendations for fostering psychological safety and autonomy in high-performance teams.

¹⁸ Philosophical ties between individual agency and systemic resilience, informed by long-term observation.

¹⁹ Synthesis of the ostrich metaphor as applied to personal and professional philosophy of resilience and inquiry.

²⁰ Examination of legacy requirements in traditional aerospace programs versus agile methodologies.

²¹ Empirical studies on regulatory impacts on firm size, innovation rates, and market entry barriers.

²² Detailed accounts of reusable rocket development and associated regulatory and engineering challenges.

²³ Connections to explorations of power structures, agency, and historical patterns in spiritual and societal contexts.

²⁴ Balanced view of necessary boundaries versus over-regulation, with examples from safety and ethical standards.

²⁵ Reflections on career progression and the role of practical knowledge in leadership effectiveness.

²⁶ Applications to intergenerational knowledge transfer and character development through hands-on challenges.

²⁷ Cultural critiques of shifts in media narratives and their effects on perceptions of agency.

²⁸ Observations from civic engagement and public service experiences regarding institutional accountability.

²⁹ Integration with personal symbols of discipline, precision, and moral agency in navigating constraints.

³⁰ Concluding emphasis on the long-term benefits of embracing productive non-conformity for societal and organizational health.

Bibliography

The Wilds. Official website and publications on conservation, safari operations, and animal management (thewilds.org).

Trebbi, Francesco, et al. Research papers on the costs of regulatory compliance in the United States, including establishment-level data analyses (NBER and related).

National Association of Manufacturers. Multiple reports detailing per-employee and aggregate regulatory burdens on U.S. industry.

Musk, Elon, and SpaceX team. Interviews, presentations, and public documentation on engineering philosophy and operational innovations.

Christensen, Clayton M. The Innovator’s Dilemma: When New Technologies Cause Great Firms to Fail. Harvard Business Review Press.

Schumpeter, Joseph A. Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy. Harper & Brothers (on creative destruction).

Various ethology and conservation journals on ratite behavior, wildlife park management, and behavioral enrichment.

Hoffman, Rich. Prior essays and books including The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business and ongoing work on The Politics of Heaven, exploring agency, structures of power, and human systems.

Organizational psychology and management texts on compliance versus innovation cultures (e.g., works on psychological safety and adaptive leadership).

Visitor and video documentation of The Wilds experiences highlighting animal-vehicle interactions.

Government and think tank analyses of manufacturing competitiveness, opportunity costs, and regulatory reform needs.

Additional readings on free will, institutional critique, and historical patterns of rebellion against managed orders for deeper contextual understanding.

Rich Hoffman

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About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an author, political consultant, and strategic advisor based in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the creator of The Politics of Heaven—a unique framework that connects biblical theology, ancient history, and modern power structures to explain how moral alignment and spiritual forces shape global events. Blending real-world political experience with deep research into archaeology, UFO phenomena, and suppressed historical narratives, Hoffman offers compelling commentary on topics ranging from ancient civilizations and the Dead Sea Scrolls to modern populist movements, paranormal continuity, and leadership strategy in chaotic environments. As the author of The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business and the forthcoming Politics of Heaven, he brings a grounded yet provocative voice to media discussions, supported by firsthand experiences and a cross-disciplinary approach that bridges science, history, and theology. For interviews, speaking engagements, or expert analysis, visit richhoffmanbooks.com or contact directly via phone at 513-307-5815 or email at rhoffman@richhoffmanbooks.com.  If you’ve seen the movie, Disclosure Day and want to talk about it and the implications of Presidnet Trump’s UAP disclosures, let me know and we can bring some color to your coverage. https://richhoffmanbooks.com/media-inquiries-broadcast-topics-and-contact-info/?frame-nonce=ad51e7ecba I do have a firsthand UFO encounter to discuss.

The Big Muskie Bucket, The Wilds, and the Heart of American Energy Innovation

I just got back from a family trip that turned into one of those unexpected journeys where you set out thinking one thing and come away with something far deeper. We headed out to The Wilds in southeastern Ohio, that remarkable conservation center and safari-style wildlife park built on what used to be strip-mined land. I love zoos and conservation efforts in the right way—the kind that actually preserves species and land while recognizing that humans are part of the picture, not some parasitic afterthought. What I didn’t fully expect was how a side trip just south of there to see the remnants of the Big Muskie would crystallize so many thoughts I’ve been carrying about energy, innovation, capitalism, and the way the political left has twisted conservation into something that often works against human flourishing.

The Wilds sits on nearly ten thousand acres of reclaimed surface-mined land in Muskingum County, near Cumberland. It opened to the public in 1994 after the Central Ohio Coal Company, a subsidiary of American Electric Power (AEP), donated over 9,000 acres to the International Center for the Preservation of Wild Animals. That gift, combined with the reclamation work already underway, transformed what had been an industrial extraction site into one of North America’s largest conservation centers. We stayed right there at the new Hellbender RV Campground at The Wilds—beautiful sites on that same land that once fed coal into the power grid. From the campground, you can head into the park proper and experience open-air safaris rolling through habitats where giraffes, rhinoceroses, cheetahs, and other species roam across rolling terrain that, in its own way, echoes the African Serengeti. The landscape doesn’t look like the steep Allegheny foothills that were here before mining; the stripping and reclamation flattened and reshaped sections into wide, grassy vistas perfect for large herbivores. It’s not the exact ecology that existed pre-mining, but it’s productive, beautiful, and teeming with life in ways that serve conservation science and education every single day.

One afternoon, we drove the short distance south to Miner’s Memorial Park to see the Big Muskie bucket—the last major remnant of what was once the largest dragline excavator ever built. Standing there, walking inside that colossal bucket, touching the steel that once clawed through hundreds of feet of overburden, you can’t help but feel the scale of human ingenuity. The machine itself, officially a Bucyrus-Erie 4250-W, stood nearly twenty-two stories tall, weighed around thirteen and a half thousand tons, and swung a 220-cubic-yard bucket capable of lifting 325 tons of earth and rock in a single bite. The bucket alone is the size of a twelve-car garage or easily two full-size buses side by side. When it operated from 1969 to 1991, Big Muskie moved more than 483 million cubic yards of material, revealing high-sulfur coal seams that powered Ohio homes, industries, and the broader grid through plants like the Muskingum River Generating Station. It walked on massive shoes, its boom stretching over three hundred feet, built on site because nothing that big could be transported whole. Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-four days a year, it did the work that surface mining made possible—safer in many respects than sending men deep underground into the old room-and-pillar mines, and efficient enough to supply the energy that built modern Ohio.

I grew up in the seventies and eighties, hearing the news coverage of strip mining in Ohio. It was always framed as an environmental catastrophe—radical voices and mainstream outlets alike talking about the “rape of the land,” the destruction of precious topsoil, acid mine drainage polluting streams, and corporate greed tearing up the earth for profit. Central Ohio was a focal point of that conversation. You couldn’t miss it. The narrative was clear: this was primitive, destructive, something that enlightened environmental regulation would eventually rein in and correct. And regulation did come—the federal Surface Mining Control and Reclamation Act of 1977 imposed new standards for contouring, topsoil replacement, and revegetation. I’m not against sensible environmental protections. What concerns me is when those protections become a vehicle for anti-capitalist ideology that ignores the human benefits of energy production and pretends that the companies doing the actual work weren’t already innovating reclamation methods long before politicians and bureaucrats showed up to take credit or impose penalties.

Because here’s what you see when you stand at the Big Muskie bucket and then drive back to The Wilds: the power company that operated the machine also owned vast stretches of the land. They extracted the coal—formed over three hundred million years in ancient swamps and forests—and turned it into usable energy that lit homes, ran factories, and powered the machines that built the modern world. Then they participated in turning the worked-out land into something new and valuable. The Wilds exists in large part because of that private-sector decision to donate thousands of acres rather than walk away or fight endless legal battles. The reclamation wasn’t just compliance; it became an opportunity. What had been stripped to fuel progress was reshaped into a world-class center for wildlife conservation, research, and public education. You can sit at the Overlook Cafe or Terrace Grill at The Wilds, look out over the valley at giraffes and rhinos moving through grasslands that mining and reclamation made possible, and eat a good meal with running water and modern conveniences while the animals graze below. Try doing that with a picnic basket on raw, unrestored ground in the middle of nowhere and tell me which approach actually serves both people and wildlife better.

That contrast hit me hard. The same companies the political left loves to demonize as destroyers of the planet were the ones who made The Wilds possible. AEP’s Central Ohio Coal Company didn’t just comply with later regulations; they were already engaged in preservation and restoration efforts. The environmental movement often attaches itself to these stories after the fact, claiming moral victory while ignoring that the capital, the engineering, and the willingness to take risks came from the private sector. Without the coal extraction that powered Ohio’s growth, without the wealth created by that enterprise, there would have been far less capacity to fund or even imagine large-scale conservation projects like this one. It’s the classic pattern: innovators and producers do the hard work, create the surplus, and then the critics arrive to regulate, tax, and re-narrate history as a story of exploitation that only enlightened government could fix.

I thought about that same dynamic when we talk about today’s energy battles, particularly around nuclear power in Ohio. The two plants—Davis-Besse near Toledo and Perry near Cleveland—have long been critical to the state’s grid. I’ve heard the numbers bandied about; depending on the year and how you count, they contribute a substantial share of reliable baseload power, something in the range of ten to perhaps fifteen percent or more of Ohio’s electricity at times, and historically more when coal was dominant. The exact percentage varies in conversation, but the point is that they matter enormously for grid stability. In a state where natural gas now supplies roughly half or more of generation and coal has fallen sharply from its peak, nuclear provides the steady, high-capacity-factor power that intermittent sources can’t match. Yet for years we’ve watched political attacks from the Obama and Biden eras—subsidies fights, regulatory pressure, public narratives framing nuclear as dangerous or unnecessary—while the same voices rarely offer a credible, scalable replacement that keeps the lights on and the economy growing. It’s the Big Muskie story all over again: paint the producers as villains, ignore the benefits ordinary people receive every time they flip a switch or charge a device, and push policies that ultimately raise costs or reduce reliability for everyone, especially working families.

You see the same pattern in how the left approaches energy restriction as a tool of control. Whether it’s coal in the seventies or nuclear today, the rhetoric is that these things are existential threats to the planet and that only by limiting human access to abundant, affordable energy can we “save” the Earth. But energy is what lifts the burden of labor from human beings. A person hauling water by hand all day isn’t freer or more virtuous than one who turns a tap and uses the saved time to build, create, or rest. Electricity powers the data centers, training the AI models that will transform medicine, logistics, and discovery. It powers the factories, hospitals, schools, and farms that feed billions. The notion that we should all retreat to some primitive campfire existence—sitting around telling stories about pagan gods while the productive capacity of civilization withers—isn’t conservation; it’s a recipe for poverty and stagnation dressed up as virtue. The environmental movement has deep strains of this anti-human thinking, sometimes explicit in population-control rhetoric or degrowth economics that treat human ingenuity and consumption as the problem rather than the solution.

Standing inside that Big Muskie bucket puts it in perspective. That machine represented the best engineering of its era applied to the problem of extracting energy from the ground efficiently and at scale. It wasn’t pretty. It changed the landscape. But it also delivered the energy that made post-war Ohio prosperous, that kept factories running, that let families in Middletown and across the state live with lights, refrigeration, and opportunity their grandparents could only dream of. The coal it uncovered took three hundred million years to form; we used it in decades to build a civilization. Then the same enterprise that did the extracting turned around and helped create The Wilds on the worked land. That’s not destruction followed by cosmetic repair. That’s productive use followed by genuine restoration and the creation of new value. It’s what real conservation looks like when it’s driven by people who understand both the land and the ledger.

I kept coming back to the parallel with the fight over slavery in this country. Republicans led the effort to abolish it, at enormous cost in blood and treasure, while many Democrats and the broader establishment either defended the institution or dragged their feet. After the war, it was Republicans who pushed the early civil rights amendments and enforcement. Yet somewhere along the line, the narrative flipped, and today the party that fought to end slavery is often painted as the problem while the party whose members founded the KKK and enforced Jim Crow for generations gets to claim the moral high ground on race. The pattern repeats with energy and conservation. The companies and workers who built the power grid, engineered machines like Big Muskie, extracted the resources that industrialized the nation, and then reclaimed the land for new uses—these are treated as villains. The activists and politicians who arrived later, often with no skin in the game and plenty of opportunity for moral posturing, get to define “environmentalism” as whatever restricts the producers. It’s the same rhetorical capture, and it serves the same underlying goal: concentrating power in institutions that claim to speak for the Earth while actually limiting human potential.

At The Wilds, you see the better path. Capital enterprise created the wealth and the technology. It extracted the resource that powered progress. It then donated the land and supported the transformation into a living classroom for conservation science. The restaurant with the view, the safari vehicles, the research programs, the campground where families like mine can stay on the very ground that once fed coal into the grid—all of it exists because someone took the risk, did the work, made the profit, and then chose to leave the place better in meaningful ways. The strip mining didn’t “destroy” the land in any permanent sense; it changed it, and human ingenuity changed it again into something that now supports species that never lived here naturally in these numbers. That’s the story of civilization itself: we impose order and purpose on raw nature, we extract what we need to thrive, and when we’re at our best, we restore and improve rather than consume and abandon.

I think about my own work and the themes in The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business—the idea that you impose your will on circumstances rather than waiting for perfect conditions, that resilience and disciplined action turn challenges into advantages. The men who ran Big Muskie didn’t have the luxury of modern environmental impact statements or endless public comment periods. They had a job to do: get the coal out safely and efficiently to keep the power flowing. They did it with machines that still boggle the mind. Then the next generation of the same enterprise looked at the worked land and saw not a scar but an opportunity for something new. That’s the gunfighter spirit applied to energy and land use. You don’t retreat from the necessary work because critics call it ugly. You do it well, you do it responsibly within reason, and you leave the place positioned for the next chapter.

Visiting both sites in the same trip—the living conservation success at The Wilds and the monumental tool that helped create the conditions for it—ought to be required for anyone who wants to have an informed opinion about energy policy in this country. You can’t stand inside that bucket, read the history of how much earth it moved and how much power it ultimately enabled, then walk the safari trails where rhinos and giraffes now graze on reclaimed ground, and still believe the simple story that extraction equals destruction and only government regulators plus activists equal salvation. The truth is more interesting and more hopeful. Human beings using reason, capital, and engineering solved the problem of energy scarcity that had kept our ancestors poor and short-lived. Along the way, we made mistakes, as every generation does. But we also built the surplus that lets us fund conservation at scales that previous societies could never have imagined. The Wilds is proof of that. The Big Muskie bucket is proof of the tool that made part of it possible.

We’re in a moment right now where the same arguments are playing out over nuclear power, over natural gas development, over any serious attempt to expand reliable generation to meet the exploding demands of AI data centers and electrification. The political left still reaches for the same rhetorical weapons: portray the producers as greedy or reckless, emphasize risks while downplaying benefits, offer no realistic replacement that maintains or increases living standards, and treat any expansion of human productive capacity as inherently suspect. It’s the Big Muskie fight with better public relations. The companies that actually keep the grid running—whether legacy coal operators that have reclaimed land or the nuclear fleet that provides steady power—are doing the real work. The activists protesting outside are often performing for an audience that has never had to keep the lights on for millions of people or balance a multi-billion-dollar capital investment against regulatory uncertainty.

I came away from this trip more convinced than ever that the path forward isn’t to demonize the enterprises that built our energy foundation or to pretend that conservation requires halting human progress. It’s to recognize that the best conservation often flows from the same innovative, risk-taking, profit-seeking institutions that extract resources productively in the first place. The Wilds wouldn’t exist without the coal mining that preceded it. The power that lets us enjoy air-conditioned homes, smartphones, and yes, even the electric vehicles some environmentalists champion, comes from somewhere. Right now, a significant portion of that, somewhere in Ohio, includes the steady output of our nuclear plants. We should be building more of that kind of reliable, high-density energy, not tearing it down under the guise of protecting a planet that has survived far worse than human industry and will continue long after our current debates are forgotten.

If you ever find yourself in southeastern Ohio, do what we did. Spend a few days at Hellbender Campground or one of the other lodging options at The Wilds. Take the open-air safari and watch animals that have no business being in Ohio thriving on land that mining and reclamation made suitable for them. Then drive south a short way to Miner’s Memorial Park and stand inside the Big Muskie bucket. Touch the steel. Imagine the machine walking across the landscape, the bucket biting into the earth, the coal coming out to feed the boilers that kept the grid alive. Talk to the exhibits about the workers who ran it and the land that came after. Then go back to The Wilds and have lunch at the overlook with a view of the valley. You’ll see, as I did, that the story of energy in America isn’t a simple morality play of villains and heroes. It’s the story of human beings using their minds and their tools to turn raw materials into civilization, and then, at our best, using the surplus to restore and improve what we touched.

That trip reminded me why I keep returning to these themes in my writing and podcast. The battles over energy, over land use, over what counts as “conservation”—they’re never just about science or engineering. They’re about whether we believe human beings have the right and the capacity to shape the world productively, or whether we accept a vision that treats us as a problem to be managed and reduced. The Big Muskie and The Wilds together make the case for the former. They show what free people and free enterprise can accomplish when they’re allowed to work, to risk, to profit, and to give back in ways that actually endure. Everything else is commentary.

If you’ve read The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, you know the mindset I’m talking about—imposing order and purpose on circumstances rather than surrendering to them. That’s what built the machine, that’s what powered the grid, and that’s what turned a mined landscape into a living conservation success. We need more of that spirit, not less. The age of disclosure is here, and understanding the politics of heaven—the deeper forces behind the attacks on human energy and human life—matters more than ever. But for today, see the bucket and the park. Stand where the work was done and where the restoration happened. You’ll come away with a clearer head and a stronger conviction that the future belongs to those who build, not those who merely protest.

Footnotes

1.  Specifications and operational history of Big Muskie drawn from contemporary engineering records and historical summaries maintained by the Ohio Department of Natural Resources at Miner’s Memorial Park.

2.  Details on the land gift from Central Ohio Coal Company (AEP subsidiary) to the International Center for the Preservation of Wild Animals and the subsequent development of The Wilds come from the official history published on thewilds.org.

3.  Ohio electricity generation mix data for recent years (natural gas dominant at approximately 50-59%, coal around 20-22%, nuclear from the two plants contributing roughly 10-13% of net generation) sourced from the U.S. Energy Information Administration state analysis and related reports covering the 2024-2026 periods.

4.  Bucket capacity, machine weight, boom length, and total material moved by Big Muskie confirmed across multiple engineering and historical sources, including Bucyrus-Erie records and Ohio historical markers.

5.  Description of current visitor experience at the Big Muskie bucket exhibit, including ability to stand inside the 220-cubic-yard bucket, based on Ohio State Parks and Ohio DNR public information as of 2025-2026.

6.  Information on Hellbender RV Campground at The Wilds, its location on reclaimed land, and amenities, including safari discounts, from the official The Wilds website and 2025-2026 opening announcements.

7.  Dining options at The Wilds (Overlook Cafe / Terrace Grill) with views over animal habitats confirmed via official site descriptions of food service and visitor experiences.

8.  Broader context on surface mining reclamation practices pre- and post-1977 SMCRA, and the role of private land donation in creating large conservation areas, drawn from Ohio coal industry historical analyses and The Wilds timeline.

9.  Recent developments regarding power purchase agreements for Ohio nuclear plants (Davis-Besse and Perry) supporting AI/data center demand, including Meta agreements announced in 2026, reported in industry and local news sources.

10.  Philosophical and historical parallels regarding narratives around energy production, conservation, and political rhetoric are interpretive commentary grounded in the observable outcomes at the sites visited and long-term patterns in U.S. energy and environmental policy debates.

Bibliography

•  “Big Muskie.” Wikipedia. Accessed 2026. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Muskie (overview of specifications, history, and connection to The Wilds).

•  Ohio Department of Natural Resources. “Miner’s Memorial Park & Big Muskie’s Bucket.” ohiodnr.gov. Detailed visitor information and historical markers on the machine and reclamation.

•  The Wilds. “History.” thewilds.org/history. Official timeline, including the land gift from Central Ohio Coal Company and the transformation of the mined land.

•  U.S. Energy Information Administration. “Ohio – State Energy Profile Analysis.” eia.gov/states/OH/analysis. 2024-2026 data on electricity generation mix, nuclear contribution, natural gas, and coal shares.

•  Ohio State Parks / Ohio DNR. Social media and site posts regarding the Big Muskie bucket as a tourist attraction and an engineering landmark (2025).

•  The Wilds. “Hellbender RV Campground.” thewilds.org/hellbender-rv-campground. Details on the new campground on reclaimed land and visitor offerings.

•  The Wilds. “Food and Shopping.” thewilds.org/food-and-shops. Descriptions of Overlook Cafe and Terrace Grill with habitat views.

•  Various contemporary reports on AEP / Central Ohio Coal Company operations and reclamation achievements, including historical coal industry studies from the Ohio Department of Natural Resources.

•  Industry announcements regarding Vistra / Energy Harbor nuclear plants and 2026 power purchase agreements with Meta for Ohio nuclear output supporting data centers.

•  Historical context on Surface Mining Control and Reclamation Act (SMCRA) of 1977 and its implementation in Ohio coal regions, drawn from state and federal regulatory histories.

This essay reflects my direct observations from the family trip, historical research, and long-standing convictions about energy, innovation, and the proper relationship between human enterprise and conservation. The views expressed are my own, grounded in what I saw on the ground and in what the record shows actually works.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an author, political consultant, and strategic advisor based in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the creator of The Politics of Heaven—a unique framework that connects biblical theology, ancient history, and modern power structures to explain how moral alignment and spiritual forces shape global events. Blending real-world political experience with deep research into archaeology, UFO phenomena, and suppressed historical narratives, Hoffman offers compelling commentary on topics ranging from ancient civilizations and the Dead Sea Scrolls to modern populist movements, paranormal continuity, and leadership strategy in chaotic environments. As the author of The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business and the forthcoming Politics of Heaven, he brings a grounded yet provocative voice to media discussions, supported by firsthand experiences and a cross-disciplinary approach that bridges science, history, and theology. For interviews, speaking engagements, or expert analysis, visit richhoffmanbooks.com or contact directly via phone at 513-307-5815 or email at rhoffman@richhoffmanbooks.com.  If you’ve seen the movie, Disclosure Day and want to talk about it and the implications of Presidnet Trump’s UAP disclosures, let me know and we can bring some color to your coverage. https://richhoffmanbooks.com/media-inquiries-broadcast-topics-and-contact-info/?frame-nonce=ad51e7ecba I do have a firsthand UFO encounter to discuss.

The Wilds: Where conservation and capitalism come together in a great way

I measure the quality of an adventure by the condition of the vehicle that carries you into it. If you are rolling down the road in something with missing pieces of its floor and you catch glimpses of the pavement or dirt track passing beneath your feet, you know you are in for something memorable. That was precisely the case on our recent trip to The Wilds in central Ohio, just an easy drive east of Columbus. My wife and I had been talking about visiting for years, and this time, coming back from Washington, D.C., we finally made the turn off I-70 near Zanesville and committed to it properly. We brought the RV, stayed at the Hellbender RV site right on the property, and spent several days soaking it all in. It was the kind of trip that leaves you with new stickers on the rig, fresh stories, and a renewed appreciation for what conservation, done right, can look like when paired with good old-fashioned American ingenuity and a touch of showmanship.

The Wilds sits on nearly ten thousand acres of reclaimed surface-mined land in southeastern Muskingum County, not far from Cumberland. What was once a working coal mine landscape has been transformed into one of the largest conservation centers in the world, complete with open-range pastures that feel more like the African Serengeti or a Hollywood backlot than anything you expect to find in Ohio. The place opened to the public in 1994 after years of planning that stretched back to the late 1970s. Community leaders, including figures connected to the Columbus Zoo, saw an opportunity in the reclaimed land that the Central Ohio Coal Company eventually gifted for this purpose. It was incorporated as the International Center for the Preservation of Wild Animals, and its vision was always bigger than that of a traditional zoo. They wanted science, education, and immersive experiences that would let people connect with threatened and endangered species in something closer to their natural habitat.

Strip mining had reshaped southeast Ohio for decades, beginning in earnest in the 1930s as surface methods replaced older underground operations. The environmental footprint was significant—hillsides altered, vegetation stripped, water patterns changed—but reclamation efforts, supported by state laws and industry responsibility, eventually turned scarred land into something new. The Wilds represents one of the more ambitious and successful examples of that repurposing. Instead of letting the post-mining landscape sit idle or be developed in conventional ways, visionary partners turned it into a living laboratory and a public attraction. The economic story of the region shifted along with it. What had been a mining-dependent area gained new engines in tourism, education, and conservation work. Studies have shown that The Wilds generates millions in regional economic impact through visitor spending, jobs, and ripple effects on local restaurants, lodging, and services.

We pulled into the Hellbender RV Campground, a well-appointed spot with full hookups, paved sites, and that quiet, open feel you get when the edges of a large preserve surround you. It is part of the larger Wilds complex, and they run a shuttle that takes guests several miles down to the main park entrance and overlooks. Staying on site made the whole experience seamless—no rushing back to a distant hotel, just easy mornings and evenings with the animals and the landscape close by. RV travel remains my favorite way to move around. You carry your own bed, your own kitchen, your own little corner of familiarity, no matter where the road takes you. This particular rig doubles as something of a rolling podcast studio these days, with stickers accumulating from every stop. The Hellbender site earned its own sticker on this trip.

Once you reach the heart of The Wilds, you climb up to the hilltop facilities that sit like command centers overlooking the vast reclaimed valley. There are two main overlook buildings. One serves as more of an entry and education center with a smaller gift shop and views toward certain pastures. The larger one houses a wonderful restaurant, a bigger gift shop, and an expansive deck that lets you look out over the rolling pastures, lakes, and the animals going about their day. It is an extraordinary vantage point. You can sit with a meal and watch giraffes, zebras, and rhinos moving across the landscape as if you were on an actual safari. The setting is deliberately Jurassic Park in its layout—open pastures divided by electric fencing and gates that open and close behind the tour vehicles. The original film came out in 1993; The Wilds opened in 1994. It is impossible not to notice the influence. The designers clearly loved the idea of giving visitors that sense of moving through a living, breathing ecosystem rather than peering at animals behind traditional bars or moats.

The open-air safari tours are the heart of the experience. They use converted school buses—real ones that once carried kids to class. The tops were cut off, sturdy canopies were added, and the vehicles were put back into service, carrying families and wildlife enthusiasts through the pastures. Some of them show their miles. The flooring has been patched in places, and you get the occasional reminder that these are working vehicles in a real environment. Rhinos have been known to show interest in the buses, and the tour guides handle it with calm professionalism. When I climbed aboard and saw the condition of the floor, I turned to the guide and said something to the effect that we were clearly in for a good adventure. My personal standard holds: the more primitive and honest the conveyance, the richer the experience tends to be. Polished, air-conditioned, perfectly sealed vehicles with seat belts and cup holders have their place, but they rarely deliver the same feeling of being out in it. These buses deliver that feeling in spades. They bounce along the dirt tracks; the canopy keeps the sun and occasional rain off; and you are close enough to the animals to feel their scale.

One ostrich in particular became a highlight for me. He had figured out ways to move between pastures, slipping behind buses or finding gaps in the fencing system’s logic. The guides were equal parts amused and impressed. He was not content to stay in one assigned area; he wanted to explore. It added a live, unpredictable element that made the whole tour feel more like a performance than a scripted event. Giraffes browsed near the vehicle at times, rhinos lumbered close enough to catch your attention, and the overall impression was of a landscape that had been returned to the animals while still allowing people to witness it responsibly. There are different tour levels available, including more adventurous “extra wild” options in smaller vehicles that get even closer to the action.

The restaurant and deck experience deserve their own mention. Whether you are there for a full day or just slipping away for a long lunch from Columbus or points beyond, the hilltop dining with the view is special. It reminds me of the Serengeti overlook at the Cincinnati Zoo, where you can eat and watch animals in a beautifully designed habitat. At The Wilds, the scale is larger and the setting more dramatic because of the reclaimed mining topography. You look out over what was once an industrial extraction site and see a thriving ecosystem instead. That contrast is powerful. Conservation and capitalism are not natural enemies when properly aligned. Zoos and conservation centers like this one create jobs, draw visitors who spend money locally, support research and breeding programs for endangered species, and give people—especially kids—a tangible reason to care about wildlife. I have been a member of the Cincinnati Zoo for years and have always admired their practical approach, including the solar panels in the western parking lot that provide shade and generate power for the facility. Smart, visible sustainability that improves the visitor experience rather than lecturing about it. The Wilds operates in the same spirit.

The economic transformation of the area is worth pausing over. Southeast Ohio’s mining heritage ran deep. Surface mining brought employment but also left lasting changes to the land. Reclamation projects, of which The Wilds is a standout example, turned liability into an asset. Tourism now brings steady visitor traffic—over 100,000 people in recent years—supporting direct employment at the park as well as indirect jobs in hospitality, retail, transportation, and services throughout Muskingum County and neighboring areas. Economic impact studies have quantified this in the millions of dollars annually, with wages circulating back into the local economy. For a rural region that needed diversification after the peak mining years, this kind of attraction provides something mining alone could not: a sustainable, year-round draw that also advances science and education. The partnership with the Columbus Zoo has strengthened operations, brought additional expertise, and helped The Wilds grow its programs in veterinary science, species recovery, and public engagement.

What struck me most during our stay was the low-stress environment the animals enjoy. No natural predators are hunting them here, and the care is clearly top-tier. The staff and volunteers radiate genuine dedication. I have always had a soft spot for people who devote their lives to science and study, whether they are archaeologists, zookeepers, or field biologists. Political differences fade when you see that kind of focused commitment to preserving something larger than any one ideology. Conservation is fundamentally conservative in the best sense of the word—it is about stewardship, responsibility to future generations, and not wasting what we have inherited. The Wilds embodies that.

We spent time on the trails as well, exploring some of the hiking and mountain biking paths that wind through parts of the property. There are lakes, birding areas, and butterfly habitats that add layers beyond the big safari animals. The whole place feels thoughtfully layered: the dramatic overlooks and restaurant for casual visitors, the immersive tours for those who want deeper engagement, the behind-the-scenes science for those who care about the long-term mission. It is accessible enough for a relaxed day trip yet substantial enough to justify an overnight or multi-day RV stay.

If you are anywhere in Ohio, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, or even further, The Wilds is an easy and rewarding destination. From I-70, the exits near Zanesville put you on the right roads, and it is only about ten to fifteen miles south of the interstate. A Columbus resident could leave mid-morning, have lunch on the hilltop with that incredible view, take a safari tour, and be back in the afternoon if desired. For families with grandkids, it is a winner—the open-air buses, the animals moving freely in big spaces, the sense of adventure without leaving the state. For anyone who loves the Jurassic Park films, the design will make you smile at every turn. For people who appreciate well-run conservation that does not apologize for also being a business, it is a model worth studying.

I left The Wilds feeling genuinely enchanted. I arrived already sympathetic to zoos and conservation efforts; I departed even more convinced of their value. The combination of reclaimed industrial land, serious science, thoughtful visitor experiences, and economic revitalization for a rural corner of Ohio is something to celebrate. It is the kind of project that rewards curiosity and getting off the interstate for a closer look. The buses may be a little rough around the edges, the floors patched where rhinos or time have left their marks, but that only adds to the authenticity. By my measure, that is exactly how a good adventure should feel.

The Wilds proves that Ohio has its own version of the Serengeti, and it is every bit as worth experiencing as the big-name destinations farther away. Pack the RV, bring the family, or take the day trip. Either way, you will come away with stories, probably a few new stickers, and a deeper appreciation for what can happen when people decide to turn a challenge into an opportunity. In a busy world where days blend, places like this offer a genuine psychological reset. The animals thrive, the land heals in its own way, visitors leave inspired, and the local economy benefits. That is a winning formula I can get behind as a conservative who values both responsible stewardship and the kind of free enterprise that makes big ideas reality.

There is something deeply American about the story of The Wilds. It is not a government fiat handed down from on high. It is a partnership—private land donation, public support, zoo expertise, community vision, and relentless execution. The result is a place that educates without preaching, entertains without cheapening the mission, and generates real economic value while advancing genuine conservation. In an age when so many voices want to pit environmental concern against economic growth, The Wilds quietly demonstrates that the two can reinforce each other when done intelligently.

My own life has always included a deep respect for the natural world. I love taking the grandkids to places where they can see animals up close and learn respect for creation. Model rocketry, shooting sports, and outdoor adventures are part of how we build resilience and curiosity. The Wilds fits perfectly into that tradition. It is hands-on and memorable, leaving you wanting to know more about the science behind the scenes. The veterinary programs, breeding efforts for endangered species, and educational outreach all point to a serious institution that also knows how to deliver fun.

RV travel amplifies the whole thing. There is no better way to explore than to have your home on wheels. You wake up, eat in your own kitchen, step outside into the fresh air of a wildlife preserve, and plan the day around what the family wants to see. At Hellbender, the sites are spacious, the facilities modern, and the proximity to The Wilds itself makes everything convenient. We shuttled back and forth, spent time at the overlooks, took multiple tours, and still had plenty of time to relax at camp. It is the kind of trip that recharges the batteries before heading back into the demands of work and advocacy.

I have said many times that capitalism and conservation make excellent partners when the incentives are aligned. The Wilds is living proof. Tourists come for the experience, spend money that supports jobs and local businesses, and leave with a greater appreciation for wildlife that translates into broader support for preservation efforts. The science happening on site contributes to global knowledge about species recovery. It is not charity; it is value creation across multiple dimensions. That is the kind of outcome I like to see—practical, scalable, and rooted in reality rather than ideology.

If you have never been, put it on the calendar. Whether you are a lifelong Ohioan looking for a new day trip, a legislator in Columbus needing a break from session, or a family planning a longer RV adventure, The Wilds delivers. The drive is straightforward, the hospitality warm, the views stunning, and the adventures appropriately rugged. I cannot recommend it highly enough. In a state full of treasures, this one stands out as something special—a place where the past of hard work in mining has been redeemed into a future of wonder and learning. That is the kind of story worth telling, worth visiting, and worth supporting.

The experience also reinforced for me how important it is to share these places with the next generation. My grandchildren benefit from seeing real conservation in action rather than abstract lectures. They get to feel the bounce of the safari bus, watch a clever ostrich outsmart the system for a moment, and stand on the deck overlooking a landscape that was once written off. Those memories stick. They build wonder and respect. In my busy schedule of writing, podcasting, aerospace work, and political engagement, carving out these days is essential. They remind me why the fight for sound policy matters—so that places like The Wilds can continue to thrive and inspire.

I came away from this trip more convinced than ever that Ohio has world-class assets that too many people overlook. The Wilds is not just a zoo or a park; it is a testament to what reclamation, vision, and persistent effort can achieve. If you live within a few hours’ drive, do yourself a favor and go. Take the family, take a friend, or go solo and enjoy the quiet beauty of the overlooks. Eat at the restaurant with that million-dollar view. Ride the buses and embrace the adventure. You will leave better for it, just as we did. The Wilds is a jewel in central Ohio’s crown, and I am already looking forward to the next visit.

Footnotes

¹ The Wilds official history, thewilds.org/history. Details on the the 1970s vision, the land donation by Central Ohio Coal Company, the opening in 1994, and the Columbus Zoo partnership.

² Muskingum County and southeast Ohio strip mining history; surface mining expansion from the 1930s and subsequent reclamation efforts.

³ Ohio University Voinovich School economic impact study (2018 data): approximately $15 million regional impact, visitor numbers, jobs supported. Later figures show continued growth.

⁴ Personal observations and comparisons to Cincinnati Zoo experiences, including solar panel parking lot benefits.

⁵ Jurassic Park film influence on park design (1993 film, 1994 opening) and open-range safari concept.

⁶ Hellbender RV Campground details from The Wilds site: full hookups, shuttles, location on the preserve.

⁷ Broader context on conservation as stewardship and alignment with capitalist incentives for sustainable tourism.

Bibliography

•  The Wilds. Official website (thewilds.org): History, About, and Hellbender RV Campground pages.

•  Ohio University Voinovich School of Leadership and Public Affairs. “Economic Impact of The Wilds” study (2018 and subsequent updates).

•  Columbus Zoo and Aquarium announcements on The Wilds partnership and 30-year milestones.

•  Various reports on southeast Ohio mining history and reclamation (Ohio Department of Natural Resources context).

•  News coverage from The Columbus Dispatch and local tourism sources on visitor experiences and economic contributions.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an author, political consultant, and strategic advisor based in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the creator of The Politics of Heaven—a unique framework that connects biblical theology, ancient history, and modern power structures to explain how moral alignment and spiritual forces shape global events. Blending real-world political experience with deep research into archaeology, UFO phenomena, and suppressed historical narratives, Hoffman offers compelling commentary on topics ranging from ancient civilizations and the Dead Sea Scrolls to modern populist movements, paranormal continuity, and leadership strategy in chaotic environments. As the author of The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business and the forthcoming Politics of Heaven, he brings a grounded yet provocative voice to media discussions, supported by firsthand experiences and a cross-disciplinary approach that bridges science, history, and theology. For interviews, speaking engagements, or expert analysis, visit richhoffmanbooks.com or contact directly via phone at 513-307-5815 or email at rhoffman@richhoffmanbooks.com.  If you’ve seen the movie, Disclosure Day and want to talk about it and the implications of Presidnet Trump’s UAP disclosures, let me know and we can bring some color to your coverage. https://richhoffmanbooks.com/media-inquiries-broadcast-topics-and-contact-info/?frame-nonce=ad51e7ecba I do have a firsthand UFO encounter to discuss.