On the afternoon of March 13, 2018, a friend showed up at my front door unannounced. Jarol Fernando Vaca—one of the best naturalists I know—was standing there with a grin, a rain jacket, and a daypack slung over his shoulder. The kind of visit that feels like a rare bird landing on your porch.
We hugged like always—me a Gandalf, him a Frodo—and he came straight in. Fernando doesn’t need settling in. He just lands. The rain had started again, light and steady, the usual afternoon mist that coats the hills of Mindo in this not-quite-cold, not-quite-tropical cloud forest zone.
My place back then was quiet—real quiet. No neighbors yet. The garden was its own tiny jungle. The kind of place a guy like Fernando feels immediately at home.
We sat at the tiny kitchen table, bare bulbs glowing against the grey. The fridge hummed its tired little song, and the room smelled like earth, rain, and whatever was on the bottom of my boots. He didn’t waste time.
“Have you heard of this thing, iNaturalist?”
“No,” I said. “But you know me. I hate cell phones and apps.”
He laughed. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned forward and said, “Open your computer.”
Now, that I’ll do.
Right away, I saw what he meant: maps, photos, date stamps, ID suggestions. Not junky images or clickbaited galleries, but real observations. Placed in space and time. The kind of thing I’d dreamed about back when I was leading student groups through Ecuador. All those kids with their fancy cameras—capturing amazing moments and then doing nothing with them. Maybe a slideshow for a bird club. Maybe a folder that rots on a hard drive. Then nothing.
But this was different. These photos didn’t die.
Here, they became data.
Fernando was pumped. He wanted to go out the next morning and start uploading. I was intrigued, but not sold. Not yet. We stayed up late clicking through the site. He pointed out the “Projects” tab—how anyone could start one. That caught me. The gears in my brain started to lurch forward.
Still, I went to bed skeptical. I always do. I need to test something before I trust it.
The Next Morning: Hook, Line, and Orchid
Rain again. Not surprising—it’s March. But the smell of coffee brewing in the dark kitchen steadied me like it always does. Outside, the channel running in front of my house was gurgling with fresh rainwater, and the wrens were already singing from the thickets of bananas and bougainvillea. This is how I’ve woken up for years: with birdsong, damp air, and coffee.
Fernando and I talked about where to go. No real plan. That’s the point. You walk with a good naturalist, and you’re guaranteed—strike that—you’re likely to discover something. But the rain was picking up, and we didn’t want to risk our phones. That’s when Vaca suggested the orquideario.
Just ten minutes away. Part shade, part greenhouse. Hugolino ran the place—an old friend, the same guy who’d asked me to teach aspiring guides back when the Mindo Naturalist Association still meant something. Plus, the guy had a serious orchid collection.
Sold.
By 9 a.m., we were there. Dogs barking, motorcycles buzzing past, shit to dodge on the sidewalk. Typical small-town Ecuador. The light was muted—thick cloud cover, the kind that makes even mid-morning feel like dusk. Inside, it smelled faintly sweet. Orchids don’t throw perfume, but they whisper.
Alicia, Hugolino’s wife, welcomed us and gave a quick tour. She knew me well and knew what I liked. No big, showy orchid theft-magnets. She led me to a tiny one. “Rudy, smell this. What does it remind you of?”
A faint sweetness. Almost like vanilla. Barely there.
Perfect.
That’s my kind of orchid: unheralded, subtle, overlooked.
We didn’t need a tour. Alicia let us wander. That’s when the phones came out.
Frustration immediately: low light, tiny flowers, garbage cameras. We both know how to take a decent shot, but this wasn’t ideal. Still, we fought for it. One photo. Then two. Then a dozen. Long enough in there to feel like we were earning it.
Back home, after a meal, we started checking the app.
That’s when the magic hit.
IDs were already rolling in. Some were generic: “Plant.” Others got bolder: “Orchid.” And then—some high school kid from Maine or Montana, clearly obsessed with orchids, started dropping genus names. Not species, but close enough to blow our minds.
Then came the message.
Not an ID. A note. A real human reaching out. That alone was thrilling. And when I saw the username, I nearly choked—it was Bitty Roy from Oregon. A botanist. The one who’d brought student groups to Ecuador.
Here’s what she said:
“Dear Rudy, so nice to see you’ve joined the platform. It looks like you were at a garden today, but none of your observations are marked as ‘captive.’ We identifiers have to wade through a lot of trash to get to the good stuff, so be sure you check the ‘captive’ option for any garden stuff. This is a platform for wild things, so let’s keep it clean.”
Oof.
A friendly slap. And it stung.
But I liked it. I like learning the hard way. Especially when it’s real.
That message made it clear: this platform wasn’t just about uploading pretty pictures. It was about getting it right. It was about data. Integrity. Community.
That’s when it started to click.
What was the moment when a tool or platform “clicked” for you—when it stopped being just an app, and became something more?
I am glad I was gentle enough in my phrasing that you kept adding to iNat. It is tricky to correct users in such a way that they don't take it too hard, but make better observations the next time. Just like with students!-Bitty
Rudy, Very enjoyable reading. Keep up the great writing and send more!
Best