As journalism continues to evolve, we’re experimenting with alternative storytelling formats to help the public access important information they might not find anywhere else.

Earlier this month Wisconsin Watch published Supreme Costs, a three-part series by freelancer Larry Sandler explaining why our state’s Supreme Court elections are so expensive and what can be done about it. The series included graphics from data reporter Hongyu Liu highlighting how astronomical the $144.5 million spent on the 2025 race was compared with past elections.

Last week we published a condensed version of the nearly 11,000-word series for those who are into the whole brevity thing. The short version clocked in at about 2,600 words.

Today we’re condensing the story even further with a short video of Larry explaining the key points of his series. The video was created by Wisconsin Watch video producer Trisha Young.

Whether you want to dive deep into a subject, peruse the highlights or only have five minutes to spare, Wisconsin Watch has a story for you.

Watch: Why Wisconsin Supreme Court elections are breaking national records is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Kahya Fox knows a solution to Wisconsin’s housing crisis won’t fall from the sky. But she has seen a crane suspend one in the air. 

The Habitat for Humanity of the Greater La Crosse Region executive director watched this summer as semitrucks pulled into the Vernon County city of Hillsboro, population 1,400. Instead of bringing materials to build a traditional home, they each carried a preassembled half of a house.

Workers removed the wheels that carried them down the interstate. Then, a crane hoisted them up and onto a concrete foundation. 

The scene illustrated a transformation within Habitat for Humanity, which has since the 1970s relied on community members to help construct homes from their foundations to the roofs. But even with volunteer labor, construction costs have skyrocketed over the years. That has prompted the nonprofit to introduce factory-built homes as an option, finding savings that allow it to develop more affordable homes for first-time buyers and working-class families. 

Habitat’s La Crosse affiliate was early to embrace the factory-built model, which is spreading to affordable housing organizations nationwide. But the organization hasn’t gotten all Wisconsin municipalities and residents on board.

Some local governments use zoning laws to prohibit manufactured home developments like the one in Hillsboro. Others require extra work or alterations before allowing manufactured housing projects. Some green-light developers that restrict factory-built housing from filling empty lots where they build.

Several states require local governments to allow manufactured homes alongside site-built single-family housing. Wisconsin is not among them. 

Critics of the model still associate manufactured housing with cheaply built and short-lived mobile homes built in the 1960s and 1970s — before the government started to regulate construction, Fox said.

But construction must now follow a federal building code, and manufactured homes can appreciate in value at similar rates to traditional homes, a Harvard University study found. 

The cheaper cost of developing factory-built homes does not reflect poorer quality, Fox said. Savings come from finding scale in mass production, with factories buying materials in bulk and cutting down material waste through computer design. Building can unfold faster in factories than on site, where builders face unpredictable weather.

While Fox said building a traditional Habitat home can take professionals and volunteers longer than a year, four homes trucked to Hillsboro this summer were placed in one day.

Fox highlighted farmhouse sinks and stainless steel appliances as she walked through each house — features already assembled as the crane lifted the homes into place.

A seam in the laminate wood floors split the kitchen from the living room, the only interior evidence of how the home arrived. Drywall and floor boards will eventually cover the seams, making the Hillsboro homes look similar to any site-built development, Fox said. 

“It’s not until you see them standing there and get in and walk through and touch things that you’re like, ‘No, this is like any other house,’” Fox said. “It’s beautiful.”

‘The place that I can leave my family’

Russell and Katie Bessel expected to learn the fate of their Habitat for Humanity application on May 28. By 1 p.m. on May 29, Russell started calling friends and family to tell them they must not have been chosen for a new home.

The family was getting used to bad news. A motorcycle crash in 2024 paralyzed Russell from the waist down, around the same time Katie started dealing with a cancer diagnosis.

But just as Russell finished speaking with his mom, Katie walked through the door crying. She showed him an email once she managed to stifle her sobs: They would move to Hillsboro in 2026.

It didn’t feel real until they saw one of the Hillsboro homes this summer, Katie said.

“Beautiful countertops, cabinets, flooring. It’s gorgeous,” Russell said.

And most importantly, the home will be wheelchair-accessible, unlike the family’s current apartment.

Russell sleeps, bathes and eats in the living room because his wheelchair can’t fit through narrow halls and doorways. He can’t maneuver to the dining table, forcing him to watch from his chair or bed as his wife and three children eat dinner.

“I’m tired of that,” he said. “I want to sit down and have a family meal.”

Their new home will have a giant kitchen island where he can eat next to his kids. 

The family will move into one of 10 manufactured homes in Habitat’s Hillsboro development — three of them for traditional Habitat homeowners, including the Bessels, who must work a set number of hours for the nonprofit and earn less than 60% of the local median family income, $95,400 in Vernon County. 

Three other homes are for first-time buyers who earn less than 80% the median income and will receive down payment assistance. Families earning no more than 120% of the local median income will be eligible to purchase four homes, which Habitat listed this spring during the rendering stage for about $350,000.

The tiered system benefits families with different levels of need, Fox said. Proceeds from Habitat’s sale of the four homes will help finance the rest of the development. The nonprofit has attracted interest in the homes since posting photos of their move-in-ready state, Fox said. 

The city of Hillsboro will pay Habitat up to $206,000 if the development is finished by July 2026, according to its contract.

No- or low-interest loans will help keep the Bessels’ mortgage payments affordable. But the family will ultimately pay for the full value of their home, like any other buyer.

“It’ll be the place that I can leave my family,” Russell said. “I don’t have to worry about when I do pass from this earth, that they’re gonna struggle.”

Factory-built models catch on

A crane will do most of the work once the trucks with the Bessel home arrive in Hillsboro. That doesn’t eliminate the need for volunteers and future homeowners to work at the sites, Fox said. They will help landscape the nearly half-acre lots for the traditional Habitat recipients and construct two-car garages attached to each home. 

“The beauty of local businesses putting teams together and retirees showing up and picking up hammers is a piece of Habitat for Humanity that’s been there since the very beginning, and it runs through everything that we do,” Fox said.

Still, less reliance on volunteers helps at a time when fewer people are volunteering for nonprofits nationwide, said Kristie Smith, executive director of St. Croix Valley Habitat for Humanity.

Smith’s affiliate started its final site-built home last year. This year, it’s developing six factory-built homes — all purchased through the La Crosse affiliate.

So far, St. Croix Habitat has developed only modular housing, building homes inside a factory but for a specific plot of land in line with specific state and local building codes.

Modular housing cuts the affiliate’s costs and time spent by 30%, Smith said. Manufactured housing like what’s being developed in Hillsboro would be even more affordable.

Unlike modular housing, manufactured homes are built to a federal building code, allowing for larger-scale building with fewer customizations. The average manufactured home in 2021 cost half the price per square foot than a site-built home, according to the Urban Institute, a nonprofit research firm.

The Hillsboro homes are a relatively new manufactured housing model called CrossMod — built to federal code, but with room for amenities typically associated with a site-built home. The Hillsboro development will feature the first CrossMod homes placed on full basements. They will be more energy-efficient than traditional homes.

Stigma and barriers persist

Thirty minutes away from Hillsboro, however, Reedsburg’s zoning ordinances prohibit mobile and manufactured homes outside of mobile home parks, where homeowners pay a monthly fee to rent a lot. It is among many municipalities to limit such housing. 

“People want affordable housing, but they want it in the next town over,” said Amy Bliss, executive director of the Wisconsin Housing Alliance, a manufactured housing trade association.

Other local governments say they allow manufactured homes in single-family neighborhoods, but reject them in practice, Bliss said.

And the Habitat development isn’t unanimously popular in Hillsboro. Several local homeowners strongly opposed it, arguing that the city does not need more housing or should add it to a different neighborhood, according to previous reporting by Hillsboro Sentry-Enterprise.

A decades-old federal policy bans zoning that discriminates against manufactured housing, industry leaders say. But a lack of government enforcement leaves developers and customers to fight the restrictions in court, a costly, rarely pursued process, Bliss said, adding that projects like the one in Hillsboro should help ease any stigma surrounding nontraditional homes. 

“Some municipalities are coming around because they realize that that’s the only way to get housing that is affordable for their workers,” Bliss added.

A new start 

The Bessels’ 8-year-old daughter isn’t thinking about how her house will be built.

“When we have the yard, we can play tag. We could play whatever game we want,” she said. 

With months left until the move, she’s already planning summer barbecues in a new yard. Her parents will cook while she rides bikes with her siblings and new friends.

Russell hopes this will be the last time his kids must start over after bouncing around Wisconsin in search of housing. They’ll finally lay down roots in the Hillsboro home.

“This is the end of the road for us,” Russell said. “This is finally ours.”

Addie Costello is WPR’s 2024-2025 Mike Simonson Memorial Investigative Reporting Fellow embedded in the Wisconsin Watch newsroom.

Trisha Young of Wisconsin Watch contributed to this report.

Editor’s note: This story has been updated to clarify that a federal policy bans zoning that discriminates against manufactured housing, rather than against factory-built housing more broadly. Manufactured housing is a subset of factory-built housing.

‘Finally ours’: Factory-built homes help families realize ownership dreams. But stigma and barriers persist. is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

As immigration enforcement increases in Milwaukee, some community members want to better document the activities of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE.  

Comité Sin Fronteras, an arm of Voces de la Frontera, is training people to serve as “community verifiers,” who confirm or deny reports of ICE actions and document incidents when they do happen. 

A key element of the project, dubbed “La Migra Watch,” is to raise awareness about the hotline anyone can use to report possible ICE activity, said Raul Rios, an organizer with Comité. 

“That is how, statewide, we can get involved and get on the ground to help each other,” Rios said. 

In the video above, Rios explains how the verification process works, and we follow a verifier after a call to the hotline is made. 

Video: How ‘community verifiers’ work to inform residents about ICE is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Jimmy Novy grew up on a farm with corn, cattle and chickens in Wisconsin’s smallest municipality. Yuba, in the Driftless Area northwest of Madison, covers a third of a square mile. Novy correctly quotes its population in the last census: 53.

In 1967, at age 19, married with a child, Novy got a job at the Rayovac plant in nearby Wonewoc. It made batteries used in walkie-talkies in the Vietnam War. 

In his late 20s, Novy learned he had been exposed to manganese, a key component in batteries. He suffered neurological problems that affected his left leg, severely limiting his ability to walk or even maintain his balance. 

“The nerves from the brain to my leg, they can’t do nothing about that,” he said.

With four children to raise, Novy turned to Wisconsin’s first-in-the-nation worker’s compensation system. After three years of legal back-and-forth, the state agreed that Novy was permanently and totally disabled (PTD), meaning he was among the worst-off of Wisconsin workers injured on the job. As a result, he qualified for worker’s comp checks for life.

But there was no guarantee of how often those checks would increase.

Now 77, widowed, remarried and using hearing aids and a cane, Novy hasn’t seen an increase in his $1,575 monthly worker’s compensation check — nor have the other more than 300 other PTD recipients — since 2016.

“I can’t make it,” Novy told Wisconsin Watch in mid-July. “I got $8 left in my checkbook right now to last me through the last week of the month.”

“The wife buys food and stuff, otherwise I’d be starving to death,” he added.

Had Novy’s worker’s comp payment kept pace with inflation, which rose 34%, he would have received nearly $21,000 more over the past nine years, according to calculations by University of Wisconsin-Madison economist Menzie Chinn.

Meanwhile, Wisconsin employers have seen their premiums for worker’s compensation insurance decrease 10 years in a row, saving them $206 million in the past year and over $1 billion since 2017, according to the Wisconsin Hospital Association, which is part of the state Worker’s Compensation Advisory Council.

Twenty-three states, including Illinois, Michigan and Minnesota, provide automatic cost-of-living raises for PTD recipients. In Wisconsin, raises have been provided only when they are included in a wide-ranging worker’s compensation “agreed bill,” proposed every two years, and only if the bill becomes law.

That moment might be at hand.

The advisory council has recommended raises for PTD recipients in the next agreed bill, which is being drafted. 

The bill still has to be approved by the Republican-controlled Legislature and signed by Democratic Gov. Tony Evers.

Making history, creating PTD raises

In 1911, Wisconsin became the first state to adopt a comprehensive worker’s compensation law that was upheld as constitutional. Before that, the burden was on the worker to prove that a job injury was the employer’s fault. Now it’s a no-fault system. Workers injured on the job can receive regular payments based on their salary, plus coverage of medical bills to treat their injuries. 

Wisconsin’s system has received high marks for getting injured workers back on the job quickly and for worker satisfaction in health care for their injuries.

The money for worker’s compensation checks comes from worker’s compensation insurance companies and from employers who are self-insured for worker’s comp. No tax dollars are involved. 

About 21,000 people annually receive Wisconsin worker’s comp checks, the vast majority of them for a temporary period. Only about 500 people receive PTD benefits, and only 300 of them, like Novy, are eligible for raises. 

That’s because the 2016 agreed bill limits raises, known as supplementary benefits, only to PTD recipients injured before Jan. 1, 2003. 

How PTD raises are decided

The process that determines whether PTD raises are granted is not unlike the bargaining that an employer and a union do to reach a contract. Both sides have priorities, and there is horse trading and eventually compromise, at least on some issues.

The Worker’s Compensation Advisory Council is composed mainly of five representatives from management and five from organized labor, though it also includes nonvoting members representing insurance, health care and the Legislature. 

Every odd year, the council develops a bill proposing multiple changes to worker’s comp. The process typically takes months of negotiations, said John Dipko, the council’s non-voting chair and administrator of worker’s compensation for the state Department of Workforce Development.

If approved by the Legislature and the governor, the bill becomes law the next year. 

That process has produced 11 PTD raises since 1972. The 2016 raise put the maximum PTD payment at $669 per week. 

‘The most severely changed’

Circumstances have left PTD recipient Scott Meyer better off financially than Novy, but delays in raises have forced Meyer to dip into savings and, as his health conditions worsen, worry about the future.

Meyer grew up outside of Milwaukee, playing in the woods and farm fields of rural Washington County. He was a member of the hockey team at West Bend West High School. 

In 1993, at age 19, Meyer was working on a loading dock when a co-worker backing a semi-trailer pinned Meyer between the trailer and the dock. Meyer closed his eyes and tried to remain calm, thinking his right leg was broken.

“One of the paramedics in the ambulance thought that I was unconscious and said to the other paramedic that this was going to be his first fatality call,” Meyer recalled. “And I immediately then knew that something more major had happened.”

Meyer underwent multiple surgeries, spent more than a year in the hospital and dropped to under 100 pounds. He was left a paraplegic. 

Though unable to work, Meyer became an Alpine skier in Colorado, where he now lives, competing in the 2014 Paralympics in Sochi, Russia.

Meyer, 51, said he receives about $2,300 per month from worker’s compensation – nearly $370 per month less than what he was paid on the job in 1993. 

Meyer, who owns a condominium with his wife, a mental health therapist, said he has been able to live comfortably only by preserving savings, including from a one-time payout he received from his former employer for his injury. But with no raises in nine years, he has had to dip into savings to get by. 

Earlier this year, both Novy in an email and Meyer in a video asked the Worker’s Compensation Advisory Council to recommend raises for PTD recipients. 

“These are people whose lives are the most severely changed and are legitimately dependent upon these funds,” Meyer told Wisconsin Watch. “We’re talking about pennies on the dollar to the kind of money that is in the system.”

The process that results in PTD raises involves negotiations on a variety of worker’s compensation issues. That has made the road to another raise rocky in recent years.

Delayed raises and a possible breakthrough

The Worker’s Compensation Advisory Council’s agreed bill for 2018 would have raised the maximum weekly PTD payment to $711 from $669 and made more PTD people eligible for raises. But the bill also proposed a “fee schedule,” generally opposed by health care organizations, to limit how much health care providers can charge for worker’s comp care. The bill did not pass the Legislature.

Since then, the labor side of the advisory council continued to propose PTD raises, while the management side continued to seek a fee schedule. Wisconsin is one of only a handful of states without one. The two sides did not agree to include PTD raises in their 2020, 2022 and 2024 agreed bills. 

A key barrier was cleared when a fee schedule for worker’s comp was included in the 2025-27 state budget adopted in July. 

Days later, the advisory council proposed raises for current PTD recipients and made more PTD recipients eligible for raises. 

Under the 2026 agreed bill, the injury date for PTD recipients to be eligible for raises would change from Jan. 1, 2003, to Jan. 1, 2020 — making an estimated 210 more people eligible for raises. 

The bill would also raise the maximum weekly benefit for PTD recipients to $1,051 from $669 effective Jan. 1, 2026. 

And it would add raises each Jan. 1, though those amounts would not be set until shortly before they become effective. 

For individuals, the raise amounts would vary based on when they were injured. 

For example, a PTD recipient injured in 1985 and receiving $535 a week would get a 57% increase to $840. The increase would amount to nearly $16,000 per year.

Once it’s drafted, the new agreed bill would need a final vote from the advisory council, which is expected in September. Then the bill would be submitted to the labor committees of the state Senate and Assembly. 

Council management representatives didn’t reply to calls and emails requesting comment. Wisconsin AFL-CIO President Stephanie Bloomingdale, the lead labor representative, said she understands the frustration over delayed raises. But she said the advisory council system, with management and labor hashing out worker’s compensation issues, provides stability.

Without it, “it would be up to the Legislature, and the whims of the political winds would determine the policy,” she said.

Dipko, the DWD administrator, said the department is sympathetic. 

“We agreed that an increase is overdue,” he said.

After waiting this long, Novy isn’t sure what to think. He’s happy he and wife share a $125,000 brick house they own “with the bank,” as he puts it, and for his monthly $1,635 Social Security check, which increases each year. But he has filed for bankruptcy three times, most recently in 2020. He feels that at this stage of his life, he should be more secure, and a raise in worker’s comp would help.

“The Legislature should be — forget Republican, Democrat — just vote for what’s good,” he said.

“I can’t see how come they can’t give us a little raise every year,” he added.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

As Wisconsin companies saved $1 billion in rate cuts, severely injured workers haven’t had a raise in 9 years is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

The federal budget bill that passed this month has drawn much attention for polarizing Medicaid work requirements, cuts to food aid and new funding for immigration enforcement. But one item tucked into the lengthy bill has been on bipartisan wish lists for more than a decade. 

It allows eligible Americans to use Pell grants, the federal government’s largest grant program for undergraduates, to pay for shorter workforce training courses than what previously qualified. 

Such courses could train a range of workers, including welders, truck drivers, emergency medical technicians and cybersecurity analysts, though exactly which programs will be eligible for funding hasn’t been decided. 

In Wisconsin, where many such jobs regularly go unfilled, proponents say the grants could set low-income residents on a path to better jobs, while also aiding the employers and the communities that rely on those workers. Meanwhile, a small group of critics say the new program could lead some students down a dead end road of low wages. 

Who qualifies for the grants? 

Like existing grants, the new Workforce Pell grants are available to students who demonstrate “exceptional financial need.” Funding will vary based on the number of hours or credits of the training, hovering below the maximum annual Pell grant of $7,395, according to Jobs for the Future, a national nonprofit focused on education and workforce issues. 

Unlike the existing grants, Workforce Pell is open to people who already have a bachelor’s degree, as well as those without. People who hold graduate or professional degrees are still barred. Students apply by filling out the Free Application for Federal Student Aid (FAFSA).

The grants, which can be used for qualifying courses of eight to 14 weeks and are expected to serve 100,000 students a year, are supposed to be available starting in fall 2026. Jobs for the Future calls that timeline “aggressive” and warns that the Department of Education, which the Trump administration has sought to dismantle, may need more time to implement the program. The U.S. Supreme Court on Monday ruled that the administration may follow through with plans to fire nearly 1,400 education department employees, with plans to assign duties to other agencies.

Leaders at the state’s 16 technical colleges have pushed for such a Pell grant expansion for years, said Layla Merrifield, president of the Wisconsin Technical College System.

“It’s a good idea to expand access to workforce credentials and help entry-level employees who are trying to join a career and get themselves into a better place economically,” Merrifield said. “This could be really important for moving folks into careers.”

Boost for in-demand jobs like truck driving

The funding could allow tech colleges to train more students for in-demand jobs like truck driving, Merrifield said. Wisconsin truck drivers earn a median salary just over $50,000, and Wisconsin employers are projected to hire more than 6,000 of them in each of the next seven years. That puts truck drivers at the top of the state’s “Hot Jobs” list. 

But training those drivers is expensive, Merrifield said, so colleges can’t necessarily afford to enroll more students. 

“You start to see employers starting their own (commercial driver’s license) programs because there’s such a tremendous need for folks with this credential out in the industry,” Merrifield said. 

Roger Stanford saw those challenges during his time as vice president of instruction at Chippewa Valley Technical College, where students had to pay around $5,000 up front for truck driving training, no matter their income. 

Thirty-two states directly fund short-term credential programs by supporting students or schools, but Wisconsin isn’t one of them, according to a report by higher education consulting firm HCM Strategists.

Students in some programs can apply for federal student loans, and all students can apply for scholarships if their college offers them. 

“When you’re coming out of poverty or you’re a single parent, it’s just impossible to come up with the cash. And so we were really limiting how many people could go into that program,” Stanford said. 

Still, some experts worry about using federal aid to fund such programs. A 2016 analysis by the left-leaning think tank New America found two in five adults with a short-term credential didn’t have jobs, and half of those who did earned $30,000 a year or less. 

“Obtaining only a short-term certificate is not a likely vehicle towards economic mobility for the average student,” the authors wrote. Earnings were particularly low for Black and Latino adults. 

The Workforce Pell legislation requires programs to meet wage and employment benchmarks to qualify, but experts disagree about whether that sufficiently protects students and taxpayers. 

More options for working parents and ex-incarcerated

A 2011 experiment previews the potential effects of the new grants. In the pilot program, the U.S. Department of Education offered Pell grants for short-term training for students who wouldn’t otherwise qualify and compared their outcomes to those without grants. The study found people who were offered the grants were more likely to enroll in and complete training, but long-term wages and employment rates were similar across the groups. 

Chippewa Valley Technical College was part of that pilot. Suddenly, Stanford said, more students started signing up to become truck drivers. 

“It makes people go, ‘Oh my gosh, if I can get financial aid for this, I’ll go into truck driving.’ It helps you fill those programs which are all tied to good jobs,” Stanford said. 

Today, Stanford is president of Western Technical College in La Crosse. Western Tech doesn’t train truck drivers, but the college predicts a handful of its programs will be eligible for the new grants. That could include training in welding, emergency medical services, auto repair, advanced manufacturing and dental care.

Workforce Pell grants will be especially helpful for adults returning to school while working or taking care of children, Stanford said.

“We probably all know some people that just can’t commit to a two-year program right now … Or they look at a two-year program and say, ‘I’ll take three credits each term.’ That puts them on a trajectory of five or six years, and they never finish,” Stanford said. Data show that students who attend school part-time are less likely to graduate than their full-time counterparts. 

“If we can put them on a trajectory to get them a credential in eight or 10 weeks, people can get their life around it,’” Stanford said, like by tapping relatives to watch their kids for a couple months. 

“They can say, ‘Wow, this is going to be hard, but I know at the end of it, there’s 24 bucks an hour, and I can do that,’” Stanford said. 

Another group that can benefit from access to shorter courses: recently incarcerated people.

“When you’re coming out of jail, you don’t have two years,” Stanford said. “If we could turn around and say, ‘We can take you right from the jail and give you 10 weeks and put you into a job that has life-sustaining wages, that helps (lower) recidivism.”

Pathways in construction, IT, auto repair and more 

The new grants will encourage colleges to expand their short-term training opportunities to fill other workforce gaps by parceling longer academic programs into stand-alone “stackable” courses, which would let students earn a credential, get a better job and then decide whether to pursue a technical diploma or associate degree, Stanford said. 

That model could work well for most of the building trades, Stanford said. About 15 students finished Western Tech’s yearlong program in building construction and cabinetmaking last year, but local construction companies need about five times that, Stanford said. He estimates a “modularized” approach could prepare 60 to 80 students to start working sooner.

Stanford also sees promise for fields like information technology, where the college could offer stand-alone courses in cybersecurity, programming or networking. The same could apply in machining, auto repair or mechatronics, an automation-related field that combines multiple types of engineering. Colleges could prepare students to start in operator jobs making $40,000 or $50,000 a year, with the potential to double that pay after earning a degree, Stanford said.

“I think in the next decade, you’re going to see probably less emphasis on diplomas and associate degrees and more on direct job credentials and certifications that get people (on the job) quicker, and then pathways to associate degrees,” Stanford said. “This is a really, really big opportunity for us … I think it really will help change the economic mobility of so many people that are struggling.”

Filling rural EMT gaps

The grants could help Wisconsin address some of its most serious labor shortages, including in health care. Rural Wisconsin communities have struggled for years to maintain adequate emergency medical services. 

Western Tech trains students to work as emergency medical technicians, providing life-saving care and transporting patients to hospitals. The median EMT salary in Wisconsin is just over $43,000, according to federal data, though many rural departments rely on volunteers. 

Western Tech’s EMT program trained more than 100 EMTs last year. The region could use far more. 

“Say we offer four sections a year right now. We could easily offer eight, and they would all have work, because there’s just so much demand,” Stanford said. 

Sometimes rural fire departments or hospitals wait months for new recruits to start training because the college can’t afford to run a class for just a couple students. Stanford expects the new grants will encourage more students to join the field.

“That’ll help across the whole country,” Stanford said. “EMT (training) is needed everywhere.”

Wisconsin lawmakers have also sought to fill the gap. The budget Gov. Tony Evers signed earlier this month includes $3.5 million to reimburse tech colleges for emergency medical services training.

Other Pell changes off the table for now

An earlier version of Trump’s bill would have allowed Workforce Pell grants to be used at unaccredited training providers, stirring fears that unscrupulous entities might take advantage. 

Lawmakers removed that provision, leaving existing accreditation requirements in place. 

Meanwhile, other headline-grabbing Pell proposals didn’t make the cut. House Republicans previously proposed raising the credits required to receive the maximum award and making students enrolled less than half-time ineligible.

Merrifield, the Wisconsin Technical College System president, was relieved to see those provisions removed from the final bill. She estimates around 7,000 students would have lost all aid and thousands more would have seen their aid amounts cut. 

“While Workforce Pell would be helpful on the margins, ending part-time Pell would be tremendously harmful to technical colleges and our students,” Merrifield said. 

Natalie Yahr reports on pathways to success in Wisconsin, working in partnership with Open Campus.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

New financial aid for career training: What to know in Wisconsin is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Back in May, the federal agency AmeriCorps was hit hard when the Trump administration placed 85% of its staff on administrative leave, terminated nearly $400 million in federal contracts for the National Civilian Community Corps and reneged on over $550 million of congressionally approved funding for 2025. 

Actions at the federal level don’t always have immediate local impact, but in this case, organizations across Wisconsin were in shock as funding that they had been counting on suddenly disappeared. We invited people who were affected to get in touch with Wisconsin Watch video journalist Trisha Young. Within a day, she had multiple interviews lined up. 

Just as we were getting ready to publish a video with those interviews, a federal judge ruled that funding commitments for this year had to be honored for states – including Wisconsin – that had collectively sued the federal government over the AmeriCorps cuts. 

Trisha quickly got in touch with the people she’d interviewed, many of whom were still processing the news. We decided that this roller-coaster experience was a critical part of the story — or in some ways, the main story — and we reshot the interviews. 

We learned a lot from reporting this story, and we hope that viewers will consider a few questions as they watch the video: How much did you know about AmeriCorps and the programs it funds in Wisconsin? If you think these programs are doing valuable work, then how should they be funded?

You can say share your thoughts by emailing Cecilia at cdobbs@wisconsinwatch.org or Trisha at tyoung@wisconsinwatch.org.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

‘Harder to rebuild than it is to destroy’: AmeriCorps regroups in Wisconsin after judge restores funding that Trump cut is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

On Oct. 27, a Durand police officer responded to a suspicious person call. He made contact with a woman who had committed no crimes but had nowhere to stay on a cold night. 

She told the officer she was from Fargo, North Dakota, and waiting for a ride, but couldn’t explain how she arrived in Durand.

When that ride didn’t show, the officer asked if she had a credit card, which local hotels require homeless individuals to put down when using a motel voucher to stay overnight. She said she didn’t and didn’t know what to do. 

There are no homeless shelters in Durand or Pepin County.

The officer then suggested she go to Sojourner House, a shelter in Eau Claire about 40 minutes away. She agreed to be transported in handcuffs, in accordance with what the officer said was department policy. He called several other shelters in communities outside of Durand, all of which were full for the night. Sojourner House didn’t answer, but he offered the woman a ride there anyway. She asked if the shelter was open.

“It’s hard to say. Once I get you up there, they might not even have a bed for you to go,” the officer told her, according to body cam footage obtained by Wisconsin Watch. “Once you get up there, ask them for resources — see what else is available to you up there.” 

The officer dropped her off and left without contacting the shelter staff or Eau Claire city officials. 

According to Eau Claire County Corporation Counsel Sharon McIlquham and City Attorney Stephen Nick, the shelter was full, and Eau Claire city police later took the woman to a hospital. She then had a run-in with UW-Eau Claire police for indecent exposure. 

“They still found themselves homeless in an unfamiliar community and committed crimes — had to get medical attention,” Nick told Wisconsin Watch, referring to multiple people who have been dropped off in Eau Claire. “So not a good outcome for them or our community.” 

But what started as a conflict between local agencies is now a legal question being posed to Wisconsin Attorney General Josh Kaul: Should police departments in Wisconsin be allowed to transport someone experiencing homelessness out of their jurisdiction?

Nick said the problem has persisted for years in Eau Claire and extends far beyond the three examples cited in his January letter to the attorney general, asking his office to weigh in on the legality of these drop-offs.

“This is the first time we’ve received a communication along these lines, certainly since I’ve been attorney general,” Kaul told reporters at WQOW. “But I can say more broadly, some of the issues raised are ones that I think are true around the state.”

Democratic Gov. Tony Evers said the drop-offs display a need for more rural resources.

The letter pointed to instances of homeless individuals from neighboring counties being dropped off in Eau Claire by other agencies including the Menomonie Police Department and the St. Croix County Sheriff’s Office. McIlquham and Nick called it “a practice driven by a lack of good options,” but said the drop-offs are “unlawful at worst and unprofessional at best.” 

“None of the individuals we referenced actually received care, and that is the most common outcome from these sort of transports,” Nick said. 

Durand Police Chief Stanley Ridgeway said if his department is barred from carrying out these kinds of transports, the city’s human services department would have to pay other agencies or organizations to transport those in need of shelter. He added that rural communities like Durand lack rideshare services, public transportation or homeless shelters. 

“In the end, it will increase our cost,” Ridgeway said. “Our hands will be tied.” 

A statewide problem

The situation is not unique to Eau Claire. Police chiefs in Waukesha, Green Bay and Appleton told Wisconsin Watch they have dealt with a similar problem. 

“For as long as I can remember, we have struggled with people from outside the Fox Valley coming to this area to utilize this invaluable resource,” Appleton Police Chief Polly Olson said. “We know they … may be given rides by other, outside law enforcement, or they find out through word of mouth about the shelters and resources in this area.”

Green Bay Police Chief Chris Davis told Wisconsin Watch these drop-offs happen occasionally, but he has asked agencies outside the county not to transport people because it strains local resources and makes it difficult for the homeless to return to their city of origin.  

Drop-offs are also prevalent in Waukesha, with unhoused individuals coming from surrounding areas like Delafield, Hartland, Chenequa, Pewaukee and New Berlin. But Chief Daniel Thompson said the issue is complicated because the city is a hub for resources such as hospitals, mental health clinics, trauma centers, charitable organizations and shelters.

He said it makes sense that people experiencing homelessness in smaller, rural jurisdictions would come to Waukesha for services because their own communities often don’t have any.

But it’s a problem when other municipalities drop their homeless off in Waukesha simply because they don’t want to deal with them. This is particularly a problem at Waukesha Memorial Hospital, Thompson said.

In December, Wisconsin Watch reported that the state’s estimated homeless population has been rising since 2021, following national trends. It rose from 4,861 on a single night in 2023 to 5,037 in 2024. In rural Wisconsin, the increase was 9%, according to the annual homeless count. 

Despite accounting for over 60% of the state’s homeless population in 2023, every Wisconsin county besides Milwaukee, Dane and Racine collectively contained just 23% of the state’s long-term housing with on-site supportive services, which experts say is the best way to address chronic homelessness.

‘Only because we have such poor options’

Police departments in Durand and Menomonie quickly responded to the letter sent to the attorney general, emphasizing the transports were voluntary. Police footage from both departments confirms the officers didn’t coerce the individuals, but did suggest the destination. Neither individual knew where Eau Claire was. 

“They’re not looking to come here, they’re being asked if they want to come here,” Nick said. “When that’s being done by a uniformed police officer — that changes the circumstances quite a bit in terms of how voluntary that is.”

In the letter, McIlquham and Nick cited another example in which they say a woman who was a frequent source of contact for St. Croix County sheriff’s officers was dropped off at a gas station in Eau Claire without receiving any services. Eau Claire EMS, the county sheriff’s office and the city police department later responded to multiple complaints regarding the individual, who did not have ties to Eau Claire. 

St. Croix County Sheriff Scott Knudson described the incident to WEAU as a “courtesy ride.” He did not respond to Wisconsin Watch’s interview request. 

“I feel bad for Eau Claire that the facilities that we have available to us are in their jurisdiction, so sometimes they have to deal with the aftermath,” said Ridgeway, the Durand police chief. “But it happens a lot. That’s where the services are.”

Ridgeway told Wisconsin Watch the Durand Police Department will continue this practice as long as the attorney general allows it, adding that his department is not responsible for crimes these individuals may commit in Eau Claire. Asked how those individuals get back to where they came from, Ridgeway said that’s “out of our control.”

“These facilities receive funding from the federal government, state government, grants, donations — they’re not just receiving funding from Eau Claire County residents or city of Eau Claire residents,” Ridgeway said. “This is a service for all of western Wisconsin, and we’re going to take advantage of that service whenever we can.” 

He defended the decision to drop a woman off in front of a shelter that was either full or not open.

“You might not tonight have a place, but they can tell you what time they open tomorrow so you can be in line to get services,” Ridgeway said. “We’ll continue to call and try to get a bed verified as being available, but if a person wants to be dropped off there, we’ll do so.”

In a March 11 press release, Catholic Charities of the Diocese of La Crosse said it is facing a potential decision to reduce Sojourner House’s operations from year-round to just six months, citing a loss of funding and a shortage of volunteers.

On one night in January, Dale Karls of the Western Dairyland Economic Opportunity Council told WEAU, Sojourner House, which has a normal capacity of 53, opened overflow spaces and housed 77 people.

Nick said he doesn’t doubt the officers were trying to help these people, “but the message needs to get out that they weren’t helped.” There’s been a growing need for homeless services since the pandemic as temporary services and funding have been rolled back, he said. 

In the state’s 2023-25 biennial budget, the Republican-controlled Legislature rejected Evers’ recommendations to spend $24 million on emergency shelter and housing grants, as well as homeless case management services and rental assistance for unhoused veterans.

The Legislature also nixed $250 million Evers proposed for affordable workforce housing and home rehabilitation grants.

This year, Evers recommended another $24 million for homeless prevention programs in the 2025-27 state budget. Republican lawmakers who control the powerful budget committee vowed to throw out the governor’s budget and start from scratch this spring.

“The issue here is the disinvestment by the state and needed resources regionally,” Nick said. “It’s a law enforcement issue, but only because we have such poor options.” 

A California city has outlawed the practice

In 2024, the city of Santa Cruz, California, outlawed the practice of transporting homeless people into the city without authorization. Mayor Fred Keeley told Wisconsin Watch the local ordinance has pressured surrounding communities to ramp up their own resources for the homeless. 

The drop-off ban was sparked by an incident last summer when Hanford police drove a homeless woman with a disability nearly 200 miles to Santa Cruz — a city similar in size to Eau Claire — and left her outside a local shelter. 

“I know that for decades, other cities in our county bring people and dump them in the city of Santa Cruz,” Keeley said. “Nobody should do this to us because we would never do it to you without a prior conversation.” 

Keeley said these drop-offs almost never solve someone’s housing problem and instead shift the responsibility to another city. Santa Cruz is sympathetic to smaller municipalities with limited resources that are willing to coordinate with the city to arrange a transport, Keeley said, but that person should have some community ties. 

Keeley said the city’s investments in permanent supportive housing and other programs have reduced the city’s street homelessness by more than 50% in the last two years. 

Now, a bill has been introduced in the California Legislature that would ban local law enforcement agencies from transporting homeless individuals to another jurisdiction without first coordinating shelter or long-term housing for them. Keeley said he’s glad the issue is being taken up at the state level.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

‘A practice driven by a lack of good options’: Homeless drop-offs in Eau Claire showcase need for state action is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Wisconsin residents are heading to the polls for another pivotal and closely watched election. 

Wisconsin Watch is a nonpartisan, nonprofit newsroom with a statewide focus, and one of our goals is to ensure that Wisconsin residents have access to reliable information before they head to the polls on April 1. 

We also know that most of you are busy people, which is why we’ve pulled together a short list of resources from our newsroom and other reliable sources. 

Here are the key statewide races: 

State Supreme Court

Candidates Susan Crawford, a Dane County judge backed by the court’s current liberal members, and former Attorney General Brad Schimel, a Republican judge from Waukesha County, are vying to replace longtime liberal Justice Ann Walsh Bradley, who is retiring.

• What you need to know: This election will determine whether the Wisconsin Supreme Court maintains a guaranteed liberal majority until 2028 or shifts to a 3-3 split, with conservative-leaning swing vote Justice Brian Hagedorn holding the deciding vote. Read our coverage here.
  
• Helpful resources: In addition to our reporting on why this race matters, we recently fact-checked the candidates’ campaign ads.
  
• Want more? Wisconsin Watch hosted a free, live Zoom discussion about the Supreme Court election with statehouse reporter Jack Kelly on March 26. Watch a recording of the discussion here.

State superintendent of public instruction

Incumbent Jill Underly, backed by the Democratic Party, faces education consultant Brittany Kinser, who is supported by conservative groups advocating for private school voucher programs.

• What you need to know: Underly has faced criticism from Republicans for adjusting the state’s proficiency benchmarks for standardized tests. She argues the changes better reflect what students are learning. Kinser’s platform focuses on expanding school choice statewide.
  
• Helpful resources: For a closer look, read our coverage from the primary and this deeper dive into the candidates’ platforms. Or, if you prefer video, we’ve got that on our YouTube channel. 

Constitutional amendment

Voters will also decide on a proposed constitutional amendment that would require individuals to present valid photographic identification to vote, with exceptions allowed by law.

• What you need to know: Proponents argue it safeguards election integrity, while critics warn it could disenfranchise groups less likely to possess valid photo IDs, particularly marginalized communities. The outcome could have lasting implications for future elections in Wisconsin.
  
• Helpful resources: Our partner Votebeat has written about the ballot measure. 

To find your polling location and see what local positions are on the ballot, visit MyVote Wisconsin. All you need to know is your address — the site will guide you through the rest.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

What you need to know before voting in April 1 election is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

*** A reporter’s view ***

Bennet Goldstein: Water cooler conversations rarely get as quirky as strategizing the best ways to obtain photographs of cute, occasionally destructive rodents. But for nearly a month it was all I could discuss.

From equipment purchases to road trip plotting, our team’s preparation to spot a beaver was either a lesson in steadfast resolve or overkill.

With a car weighed down by plenty of granola, trail mix and Goldfish crackers, Wisconsin Watch photojournalist Joe Timmerman, videographer Trisha Young and I spent a stretch of October driving through Wisconsin’s Driftless Area and Central Sands to report a series of solutions-focused news stories. We sought to learn how beavers and their dams could mitigate severe flooding and drought, which Wisconsin and other Midwestern states increasingly face due to climate change.

I could not write about beavers without capturing one on camera, a task that has even on occasion flummoxed The New York Times. 

Thankfully, a grant from the Solutions Journalism Network helped fund this undertaking.

We splashed through streams, bushwhacked through brush and hopscotched through reed grass to locate dry land where we might capture an image of our elusive furry target.

***

Last summer, I took a reporting trip to Viroqua for a different story with colleagues from the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk. There, former Vernon County Conservationist Ben Wojahn described a dilemma facing western Wisconsin communities as they consider removing failing flood control dams constructed by the federal government in the mid-1900s.

Maintaining the structures would cost more than their value, according to evaluations, but cutting gaps into them without backup protections left residents feeling insecure and unprepared for future floodwaters. 

In an ideal world, Wojahn suggested, the county could bring in  wood-chomping beavers to slow the flow by building nature’s dams.

What would that take?

Beaver relocation has happened before. Natural resources officials in Idaho and California famously parachuted the critters into hard-to-reach mountainous regions in the late 1940s and 1950s.

Such measures probably don’t make sense in Wisconsin, where beaver colonies polka-dot the state.

But how to find one?

Scientists warned me spotting beavers in the wild is exceptionally difficult, adding that they are typically active in the wee morning hours and at dusk.  Their astute smelling and hearing senses warn them of peepers.

Then again, these researchers had not attempted to disguise themselves as piles of grass.

I initially considered purchasing ghillie suits, but the thought of spending hours commando-crawling in an outfit meant to resemble foliage sounded unappealing. 

We ruled out the prospect of wading into lake shallows because Joe had rented a camera lens worth $10,000. Shrouding ourselves beneath synthetic netting would create too much noise when we stopped to pick our noses or stretch a hamstring.

I turned to wildlife photographers. 

Blogs offered many tips. One professional recommended hiding in shrubbery and shadows, but he urged the adventurous to be wary of ticks.

Then it dawned on me I might be overthinking this exercise. I could instead take inspiration from hunters who have plenty of tools for quietly stalking prey. I settled on a pop-up blind and silent swivel chair.

We needed only to locate a beaver lodge and lurk.

***

One October afternoon, Joe and I canoed across a pond near the village of Rio. We passed pond scum and lily pad patches before arriving at a rickety duck hunting stand, its wood warped and spotted with exposed nails. 

I steadied the canoe as Joe lunged for a foothold on the water-encircled platform. It wobbled under his weight. We eased the gear atop the stand as the sun hung low in the sky. 

“What’s going on?” I said, bobbing in the canoe as he unfurled the blind.

Joe laughed.

“Is this the first of many firsts of the lengths to which we’re going?” I asked, recording the moment on a GoPro. “You’re going into a special wildlife viewing tent with a hunting chair and hunkering down for the next hour in hopes of spotting a rodent.”

Joe had spotty cell reception, so we agreed I would return at dusk if I didn’t hear from him first.

Birds chirped as I paddled back to the car, periodically banging into submerged logs.

I hunched in the front seat, hoping to avoid agitating our host’s yappy dogs, who might scare the beavers. Perched in the host’s living room window, the canines stared me down.

“I’m in my car so they don’t hear me or smell me,” I texted Joe.

A mix of dread and boredom set in as I waited, praying this would be our only beaver-spotting attempt.

An hour passed. Sandhill cranes warbled in the distance.

Joe texted.

“It just barely stuck its head above water then dove back down but I got pictures of one!!!!”

*** A photojournalist’s view ***

Joe Timmerman: As my heartbeat quickened I shifted the camera’s gears, quietly racing to document our first beaver sighting without disturbing the natural moment.

I’ve photographed surveyors in the world’s longest cave on 16-hour expeditions, woken up hours before dawn to see Indiana’s returned bison under the rising sun and hovered inches away from bats suffering from white nose syndrome in Texas. But I had never undertaken an assignment like this. 

When Bennet asked how I felt about the lengths we had taken to photograph these cunning Castorids, all I could do was laugh. 

Spend pieces of a month traveling across south-central Wisconsin’s beautiful landscape to prove skeptical experts wrong — and serve our readers — by returning with photos of North America’s largest rodent?

I was all in.

After our first surprise sighting near Rio we tested our luck at an additional site. 
A shared hunch told us we could return home with an even better image. A few days later when we visited Jim Hoffman’s wide-spanning property at Goose Landing, I descended again into Bennet’s hunting tent before dusk.

An hour passed. The sun’s setting silhouetted the once-golden, green and yellow surroundings. Then another 30 minutes. My eyes darted between the beavers’ lodge across the pond and their trail to some felled trees nearby that Hoffman had showed us. 

A slight movement caught my attention. My eye recognized the  unmistakable slicked-back head of a beaver swimming across the pond. Then a second head popped up, and a third.

I zoomed in all the way, pushing our old company camera to the max in the darkening conditions. The mere seconds of opportunity etched the beaver images into the memory card before the animals disappeared beneath the water’s surface.

I waited another 30 minutes before calling it quits due to the lack of natural light. I stepped out of the tent and began packing up our gear, somewhat content but wanting more. 

That’s when I saw a beaver swimming directly toward me. I fumbled to pick the camera off the ground, manually spinning the sight into focus when the beaver’s tail slapped the water, sounding a thunderous echo that made me jump. 

After spending 11 hours that day making over 1,200 images, I couldn’t believe my sleepy eyes. I flipped through the first few pictures of the tail slap only to discover they were comically out of focus.

Moments later, a reprieve. The beaver re-emerged, seeming to look at me as  it swam nearby — offering a fresh opportunity to make a better picture.

“All three of them are swimming like 20 feet away from me right now slapping their tails,” I texted Bennet and Trisha as they hid in their car. 

“You could probably walk over and come see them.”

After all our silent stalking, the beavers had found us. Rather than rushing away, though, they were lingering — slapping the water to warn others of our presence. As the evening’s first stars appeared above, two swam parallelly in the pond below, putting on a show in trying to shoo us away.

“On our way!” Trisha replied.

*** A videojournalist’s view ***

Trisha Young: By the time Bennet and I rushed to the pond where Joe was photographing, about five or six beavers were making their rounds on the water. Our arrival seemed to increase their resolve to show us who was boss.

Thwack! The sound of the tail slap made me jump, stopping all of us in our tracks. A short while later, another thwack, then another. The beavers would beeline toward us, slap, then circle back and repeat the admonition.“What brave creatures,” I thought. Their boldness was intimidating, and the idea of being tail-slapped or bitten by their massive teeth was terrifying. Yet I was truly starting to like these hydraulic engineering rodents.

Bennet assured Joe and me that beavers would struggle to catch us on land. So I imagined falling to my fate into the dark, beaver-infested waters. 

I’ve interacted with beavers before, always while kayaking. I was accustomed to the tail slap, which I always interpreted as a signal that I should keep it moving. But this was something special: a whole colony of beavers. 

As I watched one pair of beavers swim side by side — one small, one large — I wondered whether Mama Beaver was showing her youngster how to lay down the law and make their authority known.

The sky turned far too dark for our cameras. We remained captivated by the furry varmints’ antics for about half an hour before finally obliging to their demand.

We headed back to the car, giddy with excitement despite the tiring day  reporting at Goose Landing. The encounter was invigorating, even if our cameras couldn’t fully capture the magic we witnessed in the darkness.

The interaction reminded me of something Hoffman emphasized as we traversed the land with him: Beavers have been here for thousands of years.

The Ojibwe tell stories of Amik, a giant beaver who was given an extraordinary tail and reshaped land across the Midwest. In these stories, the beaver holds a place of significance alongside the wolf, bear and muskrat.

The fur trade in Wisconsin centuries ago decimated millions of beavers and other fur-bearing animals, forever altering ecosystems and Native livelihoods. Tribes were forced to compete with traders for resources, disrupting traditional ways of life.

Now, another shift is underway in wetland conservation, reviving a story about the symbiotic relationship between beavers and humans. I was grateful to glimpse these creatures and document how humans are trying to mimic their engineering to restore Wisconsin wetlands.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

Dam lucky: How we caught a beaver (on camera) is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Nancy Roppe, 64, has advice for anyone speaking at a Portage County Board meeting: Write your statement down, rehearse it ahead of time and keep it under three minutes.

As she leaves home for each board meeting, her husband Joe offers his own advice to his wife: “Don’t get tased.”

Roppe, a self-described “five foot nothing, crippled little old lady,” fiercely opposes selling Portage County’s public nursing home to a private bidder. She’s spent years causing “good trouble” in voicing that opinion to elected board members. Deputies have escorted her out of meetings “more than once,” she said.

Board members say the county can no longer afford to operate the nursing home. They see Roppe differently, describing her as caustic, extremely loud and unproductive. But it’s hard to deny the impact she and other organizers have achieved. The nursing home remains in county hands — for now.  

During years of debate over the Portage County Health Care Center’s fate, organizers successfully landed two referendums on the ballot to increase its funding, both of which voters approved. And after Roppe and her colleagues in 2024 highlighted the poor reputation of one  potential buyer, the board chose not to accept its offer.

Several grassroots campaigns across Wisconsin aim to halt the privatization of county-owned nursing homes, which tend to be better staffed, have higher quality of care and draw fewer complaints than facilities owned by for-profits and nonprofits, as WPR and Wisconsin Watch previously reported.

Portage County, whose nursing home holds a perfect 5-star federal rating, was one of at least five Wisconsin counties last year that considered selling, started the sales process or sold their county-owned nursing homes citing budgetary concerns. 

Proponents of keeping nursing homes in county hands have created social media pages, yard signs, T-shirts, and petitions and led protests — all dedicated to slowing and stopping sales. 

A for-profit company decided against buying Lincoln County’s nursing home after an organizer and board member sued the county over the sale. Organizing in Sauk County has drawn federal regulators’ attention. Public nursing home supporters in St. Croix County packed a meeting where board members ultimately voted against selling.

But some of those victories may prove short-lived. Sauk County’s board approved a buyer last year, Lincoln County is looking for new buyers, and the Portage County Board voted in December to again consider a sale.

“If I can throw a monkey wrench in what they’re trying to do, I’m going to exhaust every possible avenue to do that,” Roppe said in an interview.

But after years of fighting the sale, she might be running out of options. 

Sister’s memory fuels advocacy

Roppe’s older sister Carol could make friends with complete strangers.

“That was one of her best things,” Roppe recalled. “She just knew everybody.”

Carol, a longtime nurse, was 57 years old when she began needing care following a kidney cancer diagnosis. She lived at home between treatments — until the day she fell. The cancer had deteriorated her spine, which the small slip fractured. With no way for her family to give her proper care at home, she moved into the Portage County Health Care Center. 

Roppe visited her every day until Carol died in 2015.

When the Portage County Board started discussing selling the nursing home, Roppe started to speak up at its meetings, tapping her comfort with public speaking.

“I got a big mouth and I use it,” she said.

In 2018 Roppe and other organizers campaigned for people to vote in favor of a ballot referendum to raise taxes to keep the nursing home in county hands.  

Voters approved it with 61% of the vote. 

But Portage County board members worry about more than just operating costs. The center was built in 1931 and hasn’t been significantly updated in 30 years. The building needs major renovations, board members and advocates acknowledge.

A 2022 referendum asked voters whether they would take on higher taxes to build a new facility. That passed, too, earning 59% of the vote. 

But county leaders haven’t moved forward with construction. They say the county can’t afford it, even with the voter-approved levy, due to rising construction costs. The board rejected advocates’ calls for yet another referendum. 

“Is this a business that Portage County should be in?” That’s what Portage County Board Chair Ray Reser asks. He says the county board is focused on keeping the nursing home beds in Portage County, even if the county no longer owns them. The groundswell of support for the nursing home doesn’t surprise him.

“It’s a really beloved institution in the county,” Reser said, while adding that it’s not the facility it once was. 

When Carol moved into the nursing home, Roppe knew it didn’t have the newest amenities or the nicest building. But it had the best care, which the federal government still rates “much above average.” 

Portage County’s only other nursing home is for-profit and rated “below average.”

Roppe now spends some entire days organizing to protect the nursing home, even though a decade has passed since her sister lived there.

Before major board votes, the Roppes post the meeting agenda and other details to their “Save the Portage County Health Care Center” Facebook group.” Nancy prints and delivers agendas to advocates without social media and crafts her own public statement. Joe sets up a livestream of the meetings for those wanting to watch at home, and Nancy arrives in-person at least 15 minutes early. 

Nancy follows each meeting by typing up a colorful summary to share with those who couldn’t watch. “The Grinch is alive and well in Portage County,” she wrote in December after the board voted to solicit buyers. 

“I enjoy the fight,” she said. “I wish I didn’t have to fight, but I’ll take the fight on.”

St. Croix County organizers see victory

Nearly 200 miles west of Portage County, the St. Croix Health Care Campus is no longer the subject of a privatization debate.

A discussion about selling prompted opponents to flood a St. Croix County board meeting last August. 

“There were more than 100 rather annoyed old people there,” said 70-year-old Celeste Koeberl, who attended.

The board ultimately voted to keep the highly rated nursing home public, determining its revenue would likely grow, aided by higher state reimbursements and a federal grant to open a dementia wing.

Board Chair Bob Long said his colleagues never seriously considered a sale. But Koeberl credits local organizers with a victory. 

“I think that that’s an encouraging thing, that when we show up, when we speak up, we can make a positive difference, and we should remember that,” Koeberl said.

She doesn’t know anyone at the nursing home but joined neighbors in opposing the sale after learning about the possibility last summer — seeing the center as providing quality care that the county can’t afford to lose.

“Everybody has experience with an older person in their family who needs help, and everybody who faces that learns the dearth of resources,” Koeberl said.

In Portage County, nursing home advocates face challenges in maintaining the energy that propelled them early in their fight. They regularly filled county board meetings years ago, Nancy Roppe said, but now just six to eight attend each meeting, with additional folks at particularly important ones. Some core group members have died in recent years.

“People are going to get older and sicker and are just not going to be able to physically do it anymore,” Roppe said. 

At a December board meeting, nine people testified against selling, with two speaking in favor. Still, the board voted 17-8 to move a step closer by approving a potential sale.

Roppe likes to remind her colleagues that they have a winning record so far, despite the challenges.

“You cannot now get all depressed,” she said. “The fight continues.”

Advocates take case to state officials

Portage County’s nursing home debate has swirled for the majority of Grace Skibicki’s 14 years living there. She can’t recall any board members seeking her opinion.

“What’s their beef with us?” Skibicki asked. “Is it because we’re old and we don’t count?”

She moved into the nursing home following a stroke in 2011. Without an easy way to join meetings from the nursing home, she relies on friends for updates.

Skibicki worries public pressure won’t be enough to persuade the board to tap the brakes on a sale. Board members won’t be up for reelection until 2026.

But selling the facility would also require state approval.

That’s why the Roppes and more than a dozen public nursing home advocates from Sauk, Portage, Lincoln, Marathon and Walworth counties met with state officials in January in Madison — a two-hour trip from Stevens Point in Portage County. 

It was the organizers’ first meeting after years of advocating in individual counties.

“We were working more in our own little backyard, where now we’re branching out to say, ‘Hey, we need help from the state,’” Nancy Roppe said.

The organizers rehearsed questions in a hotel conference room before meeting with officials at the Department of Health Services and the Office of the Secretary of State.

The state can block individual sales based on a buyer’s financial instability or poor past performance. But the state can’t force a county to keep its facilities.

No matter what happens in Portage County, Roppe considers all of her effort worth it. Delaying the sale this long matters for residents who have relied on the nursing home in recent years.

Last year she received a reminder of that impact in the mail: a card from a former neighbor whose late husband Paul spent his final years at the Portage County Health Care Center. If not for the facility, she could not imagine where he would have ended up, the neighbor wrote.

“If we did nothing else, there was a place where Paul got the best possible care in his last days,” Roppe said.  

Addie Costello is WPR’s 2024-2025 Mike Simonson Memorial Investigative Reporting Fellow embedded in the Wisconsin Watch newsroom.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

Wisconsin residents organize in fight to keep county nursing homes public is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Jay Dee Nichols stamped and packed stiff willow branches between maple wood posts, with muffled crunches.

At 63, the semi-retired handyman from the Wisconsin city of Black River Falls has trapped beavers before. But he’s never heard of a mock beaver dam — much less constructed one.

“It gives you an appreciation for what beavers do,” Nichols said over the shrill beeping of a skid loader. A scratch on his forearm oozed blood, drying into a scarlet smudge.

“They’re one of the hardest-working animals out there, I guess.”

Nichols’ muck boots sloshed in a pool of water that already was forming behind the freshly constructed beaver dam analog, or BDA. The semi-porous wooden structures are often installed across streams to redirect water or capture sediment.

Nichols and three other workers were as busy as beavers for a week in October constructing 12 of them in a forested wetland. 

It’s all part of Jim Hoffman’s latest project.

The BDAs span an unnamed, man-made channel that drains overflow from a reservoir on Hoffman’s cranberry farm, north of Alma Center in Jackson County. The water runs into South Fork Halls Creek, a trout stream where actual beavers have taken up residence.

Hoffman, 60, hopes the BDAs, which could pool up to 1.7 acre-feet of water during floods, improve water quality, stabilize eroded stream banks and enhance wildlife habitat. Most of all, he seeks to trailblaze a path through the state’s onerous dam-permitting process so other Wisconsin landowners can follow in his footsteps.

“There’s a lot of different streams and tributaries that could benefit from this,” Hoffman said.

As average Wisconsin temperatures and precipitation increase in response to climate change, scientists, environmentalists and regulators point to the promise of nature-based solutions. 

Enter the beaver.

North America’s largest rodent is infamous for wood munching. Where they chew, wetlands often follow. The natural sponges filter water and offer flood protection.

The U.S. once was home to 60 million to 400 million beavers, which inhabited a range extending from the northern Mexican deserts to the Arctic tundra. But European and American settlers hunted them to near extinction.

As their population dwindled and agriculture and urban development expanded, wetlands disappeared. Wisconsin, like the rest of the country, lost roughly half since the late 1700s.

Without maintenance from nature’s “ecosystem engineers,” many of the nation’s once multi-threaded streams also became single-channeled and incised — disconnected from their floodplains. When this happens, water tables sink, water temperature increases and plants die. If torrential floodwaters funnel through the simple stream systems, they flush out wildlife and wood.

Nature can repair itself, but the process of restoring stream complexity can take millennia. Mock beaver dams can jump-start the process, reducing the timing to mere decades.

They also can slow the flow of runoff and allow watersheds to store more water. Hoffman sees their potential to limit flooding in Wisconsin, potentially saving taxpayer dollars and creating wildlife habitat.

Watershed councils, conservation districts, Indigenous tribes, and state and federal natural resources agencies frequently deploy them in the American West. But their use in Wisconsin, a state with a historically tempestuous relationship with beavers, is novel. Many regulators believe the critters’ dams harm trout, and the state’s fisheries and forestry divisions contract with the U.S. Department of Agriculture to wipe out beavers that live on designated streams.

Fewer than a dozen permitted projects that incorporate BDAs or similar wooden structures have been built in Wisconsin to date. The Department of Natural Resources recently approved two on trout stream tributaries, signaling an openness to test their potential despite concerns from fisheries managers. Construction is underway in other Mississippi River basin states too, including Iowa, Kentucky and Missouri.

Wisconsin regulators generally treat BDAs as dams that impound water, making for an arduous and expensive permitting process. 

Hoffman spent more than a year and $20,000 to obtain his permit. He is the CEO of a vast Wisconsin construction company and has a running joke.

“The one thing you never do is call the DNR and ask them, ‘Do I need a permit for this?’” he said.

What are beaver dam analogs? 

A healthy streamscape requires space for water to slowly meander. That requires messy wood obstructions like fallen trees and debris-filled logjams.

Much like real beaver dams, the analogs obstruct water and disperse the flow across a wider area. Water pools above and below the dams, and upstream surface height increases.

Sediment accumulates behind the obstructions, sometimes transforming an upstream pool into a wetland and eventually a meadow. But nature’s randomness means beaver dams or analogs can fail.

BDAs are not in themselves a solution, experts say, but tools that initiate natural processes that mend degraded waterscapes. 

While their popularity increased in the 2000s, historic drawings indicate that small wicker and log dams were constructed as early as the 19th century to “correct” streams in France.

Construction these days hasn’t changed much, with workers pounding posts directly into a streambed and weaving willow or juniper branches between them. Gaps can be plugged with sediment. The analogs, which are biodegradable and transient, function well when constructed in sequence like natural beaver dam complexes. Proponents hope that using natural materials and hand labor reduces building costs, enabling more miles of restoration.

When human and beaver engineers meet

When Hoffman installed his cranberry marshes more than 20 years ago, a developer taught him an important marketing lesson: christen the business after the resource you are destroying. The developer named his housing division Fox Ridge. Hoffman, in turn, called his cranberry operation Goose Landing.

Yet, in Hoffman’s case, he didn’t necessarily displace geese. Hundreds occupy his reservoir on a given day, leaving droppings that serve as free fertilizer.

The 1,000-acre property serves as a laboratory of earthworks and a wildlife cornucopia. 

Hoffman, a Stanford engineer by training, returned to Wisconsin from San Francisco Bay in 1989 and joined the road construction business his great-grandfather started more than seven decades prior, before the United States had an organized highway system.

After starting the cranberry operation, Hoffman mined frac sand, then obtained his commercial fish farming license. Now, he’s stocked the former mining pits — since filled with water — with an angler’s dream: walleye, hybrid muskie, perch, crappie, bluegill and bass.

Hoffman sped past one of the ponds in his Ford Bronco, pointing out the artificial islands he created. To add vegetation, he grabbed trees by their rootballs and shoved them into the virgin soil.

“I like to change my environment,” he said. “I’m an earthmover by character — by business.”

Hoffman’s efforts to “rewild” his land led him to plant turnip and radish plots for deer along with oak trees to recreate a piece of Wisconsin’s historical savannas. He’s replaced row crops with prairie grass and intends to install an osprey nesting box on one of his ponds — even if it means the birds of prey eat his fish.

Mock beaver dams are Hoffman’s latest push.

His interest in them blossomed after he helped a Nordic skiing buddy release an orphan beaver on his property. They constructed a lodge for the two-year-old rodent, tucking in a stuffed teddy bear to keep it company.

“Well, it instantly swam into the pond, and that was the last we saw it,” Hoffman said.

In a section of forest far from the cranberry marshes, the drainage ditch turns into what appears to be a natural stream, which cuts through steep banks.

On both sides lies what resembles a 3- to 4-foot-tall effigy mound running perpendicular across the creek bed. Hoffman wonders if beavers were the original architects.

“It might be hundreds of years old,” he said. “I’m hoping the beavers come back here and say, ‘Well, we almost got a dam built!’”

Mock beaver dams used out West 

Science backs Hoffman’s belief in the restoration power of beaver dam analogs. In one of the first major studies, researchers evaluated their trout impacts and potential to reverse stream incision.

Bridge Creek, a high-desert watershed in north-central Oregon, bore the signs of livestock overgrazing and beaver removal. Following severe storms, the main channel gradually disconnected from the landscape’s floodplain — conditions that persisted even 20 years after cattle stopped chomping on surrounding vegetation.

The researchers monitored conditions before and after installing more than 130 BDAs in Bridge Creek. They compared those sections of creek to areas that lacked BDAs — some that beavers called home and others they did not.

Prior to the study, Bridge Creek contained some beaver dams, but they frequently blew out during major floods. Sediment didn’t have time to accumulate and reconnect the channel to the landscape.

But the BDAs acted as reinforcements. 

Beaver dams in the study area increased more than sevenfold within the first eight years after the scientists added them.

In the BDA sections, land inundated with water increased by 228% and side channels increased by a whopping 1,216%, considerably more than the Bridge Creek sections that lacked them.

As the analogs rehydrated the aquifer, vegetation increased. Groundwater killed off scrubby plants, such as sagebrush, and water-loving willow trees took root.

Could mock beaver dams block or fry fish? 

The impact of beavers on fish remains a hot topic in Wisconsin. For some, it’s axiomatic that beaver dams block trout passage — a belief with a long history.

But that wasn’t a problem at Bridge Creek.

The researchers tagged about 100,000 juvenile trout, enabling antennas to detect fish movement at specific stream locations. They surveyed the stream for more than a decade.

The scientists determined that the installation of mock beaver dams increased the survival, density and reproduction of juvenile trout. They detected no changes to upstream migration in the tagged trout despite the massive increase in human and beaver-made dams. Several spawners passed through upwards of 200 during their migration.

Other studies conducted in California concluded trout easily cross BDAs, either by jumping or swimming up side passages.

Another objection to beaver dams stems from the belief they invariably increase stream temperature: Beaver ponds increase a stream’s surface area, which is warmed by the sun.

But at Bridge Creek, water temperature remained constant or decreased, even during summer. The researchers suggested that pooled water upstream of the dams percolated into the ground, forcing cool groundwater to upwell downstream and mix with that on the surface. An offset to the sun.

The complexes affected temperatures in other ways. 

On one hand, they buffered water temperatures. Stream temperatures periodically fluctuate with day-night cycles and across seasons, but the mock beaver dams compressed the rises and falls. On the other hand, the complexes created variety, filled with warm and cold spots, offering fish a buffet to choose from.

Some studies have documented downstream warming from the analogs. And others from the upper Midwest have documented increased temperatures below natural beaver dam complexes and in beaver ponds, but academics have questioned the research’s scientific rigor.

Nick Bouwes, a Utah State University faculty member who worked on the Bridge Creek study and co-authored a manual that many consider the BDA bible, agrees that the structures could block fish or raise water temperatures in certain ecosystems in his native Wisconsin.

But until there is solid evidence, he said, ultimately those remain assumptions that should be studied.

“It makes you wonder what fish did 3- or 400 years ago when there was an order of magnitude more beaver and an order of magnitude more fish in these systems,” Bouwes said.

Upholding the public trust

In September, Mike Engel, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist, oversaw the installation of beaver dam analogs at Briggs Wetland near Beloit, Wisconsin.

The workshop brought together ecologists, consultants, resource managers and regulators from local, state and federal agencies, most of whom dipped their toes into BDA waters for the first time.

Although passionate about such tools, Engel says beavers and BDAs aren’t a panacea for all degraded wetlands or a warming climate.

“There’s certainly people who will grab a hold of the cute, fuzzy critter and like the idea,” Engel said, standing atop a beaver dam that formed a network of ponds adjacent to the Briggs property. “But I think more people will be interested in managing the amount of water they have — whether they need more or they need less due to climate change.”

In other words, what would a well-functioning watershed look like, and what tools and techniques can achieve those ends? The case for mock beaver dams depends on the setting.

“Out West, they have miles and miles and miles of public land,” said Thomas Nedland, who conducts wetland and waterway permitting with the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.

If the BDAs fail, “all the water that’s backed up ends up going into the woods or the floodplain” without risk to infrastructure, he said. 

“That’s not quite the setting we have here in Wisconsin.”

Such projects might lead to conflicts with property owners, especially if beavers move in and enlarge the structures. They might swamp adjacent corn fields or flood a road or backyard.

Wisconsin’s public trust doctrine also requires regulators to consider the public’s access to natural resources when making permitting decisions. The Department of Natural Resources may impose requirements to maintain the rights to boat, swim and fish, even on artificial ditches that are considered navigable waterways.

Hoffman’s project rang alarm bells for the local county conservationist, who fears the BDAs will attract beavers to the area, leaving floods and unfishable streams in their wake.

Getting the dam permit 

State regulators must consider many factors in considering a beaver dam analog.

Throwing some sticks across a streambed is relatively simple, but several Wisconsin installations have relied upon consultants, federal workers or nonprofit organizations to navigate permitting.

“They’re really important devices. They have a lot of functionality. They’re very simple and inexpensive to install,” said Hoffman’s contractor, Clay Frazer, a restoration ecologist. 

“And they’re way too complicated to permit right now for the average person.”

The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources required Hoffman to conduct hydrologic modeling and topographic surveying before regulators approved his BDAs, which stand roughly 3 feet high.

To satisfy regulators that the analog wouldn’t overturn when water pooled behind it, he had to load test the wooden posts.

Joel Pennycamp, a Hoffman Construction Company employee, strapped a scale around the top of one. Hoffman stood on the streambank holding onto the end of a neon orange string that stretched across the BDA. When Pennycamp tugged, each post could move no more than an inch. 

Analog proponents say the rigid requirements to build transient structures unnecessarily increase costs and dampen enthusiasm to use nature-based solutions for landscape repair. A potentially laborious permitting process also misses the broader point that process-based riverscape restoration is unpredictable.

“You don’t have to be an engineer. You don’t have to be able to operate large machinery. You’re not going to completely redesign a stream to what you think it should be,” Bouwes said. “Let the stream figure it out.”

One permitting difficulty stems from, in several instances, the state’s classification of the porous structures as dams. Regulators and applicants debate a principle point: Does a mock beaver dam actually impound water or, as researchers say, merely slow or delay it? State employees say they lack latitude to interpret because BDAs, plain and simple, fit the legal definition.

“I often hear back from applicants and they’re like, ‘Well, it’s not very big,’ or, ‘It’s not intended to be there for long,’ or whatever,” said Uriah Monday, a state dam safety engineer. “But they always acknowledge that they need that pool of water to create the energy it’s going to take to do whatever they’re trying to achieve.”

For instance, he said, a raised pool of water is necessary to saturate wetlands, carve stream meanders and trap sediment upstream.

Hoffman’s stream tributary may be artificial, but the state still considers its waters navigable and thus protected. Normally, when dams obstruct public passage, the Department of Natural Resources requires the posting of a portage route. 

For now, the agency isn’t requiring it, but Hoffman hopes to run with the idea.

“So I’m having some signs made up for the beavers in case they get confused when they’re swimming upstream and hit the dam,” he said, grinning widely.

The department also has authorized BDAs through a streamlined general permitting process. Hoffman’s mock beaver dams, however, did not meet the criteria to qualify.

“I don’t blame the DNR for it,” he said. “It’s just that they don’t have a system to accommodate our request.” 

Kyle Magyera, who performs government outreach with the Wisconsin Wetlands Association, believes regulators should carve out exceptions from the dam rules. 

Monday thinks the existing permitting system can work, as it already has, and will ease as the department learns more about the structures. That will include monitoring at Briggs Wetland and Goose Landing.

“We’re actually hopeful too,” Nedland said. “If there’s an efficient, cost-effective way for people to do these kinds of projects in a much easier way that results in less disturbance to the landscape, like boy, that’s a win.”

BDA permitting challenges are not unique to Wisconsin. Even the Bridge Creek researchers were unable to conduct a follow-up round of restoration due to regulatory hurdles.

“It seems like every state, you have to go through the growing pains of getting people familiar with these approaches,” Bouwes said. “When they see what we’re actually doing — we’re throwing sticks in the stream to slow the water down — they become a lot more comfortable with it.”

Balancing human and beaver needs

By mid-afternoon at Hoffman’s farm, evidence of the day’s construction littered the ground adjacent to the channel where the BDAs stood: empty plastic Powerade bottles, gasoline cans, a chainsaw.

Before getting off work for the day, Nichols and Pennycamp loaded it onto a utility vehicle. Hoffman, meanwhile, browsed through a printout of his state-issued permit, reviewing the details through reading glasses he perched across his nose.

“‘The water is a cool-cold headwater. The proposed dam will not result in significant adverse effects on this resource upon compliance with the conditions in the order,’” he read aloud. “In other words, don’t flood too much, don’t warm the water up too much. Okay, well we’ll debate that later.”

He flipped the page.

The beavers living at Hoffman’s farm are dispersing across the property. One colony chewed down some of his pines and aspens and plugged a culvert, expanding the shoreline as part of a project Hoffman didn’t plan.

It doesn’t bother him because he has more trees to spare and wants to live among the rodents, but he doesn’t begrudge beaver-bothered people. The critters create profound impacts.

Humans and beavers share a common drive to engineer their environment to live. 

“We’ve got to find a way to balance the different needs of each species,” Hoffman said. “You know, us included.”

Why is he doing all this? Permitting, pounding, portage-routing. Really, why bother?

Hoffman’s campaign is more than just a new permitting process. It’s an exhortation to the state to reconsider its treatment of beavers. If he can show that mock beaver dams don’t heat the water or block fish, perhaps the state will stop removing beavers and their dams from trout streams.

“We’re going to hopefully show to them that the beavers in the ecosystem are actually beneficial,” Hoffman said.

Going through the trouble is simply part of a kindred ecosystem engineer’s balancing act.

This story was produced in partnership with the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, an editorially independent reporting network, of which Wisconsin Watch is a member. It was also reported with support from the Solutions Journalism Network, a nonprofit organization dedicated to rigorous and compelling reporting about responses to social problems. Sign up for Wisconsin Watch’s newsletter to get our news straight to your inbox.

An ecosystem engineer’s vision: mock beaver dams to restore Wisconsin wetlands is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Ray Mendoza doesn’t care who you vote for. He just wants you to vote. 

To Mendoza, 54, the right to vote is too precious to squander. That’s how the Milwaukee man feels after surrendering that right for the roughly 20 years he spent in a federal penitentiary and on probation.

“I encourage everybody, if you’re a convicted felon and you’re not on probation or parole, get out and vote. Use your voice,” Mendoza last week told a reporter outside Milwaukee’s Frank P. Zeidler Municipal Building, where he voted for the third time in his life — casting an in-person absentee ballot.

Each state sets its own process around removing and restoring voting rights following a felony conviction. Maine and Vermont are the only states that allow people to vote while still in prison. People in Florida can’t vote until completing their sentence and paying all fines and fees — a requirement some critics have likened to poll taxes that barred African Americans from voting during the Jim Crow era.

Wisconsin automatically restores voting rights after someone is “off paper,” meaning they have completed their prison sentence and time on probation or extended supervision. In a state of roughly 6 million people, that puts voting off limits for the roughly 23,000 in state prisons and more than 45,000 serving probation or extended supervision for felony convictions. 

Those figures represent just a fraction of people living with felony convictions on their criminal record.

Meanwhile, roughly 2 million people are incarcerated in jails or prisons nationwide, while about 17 million more live with a felony conviction — a status that can bar them from certain jobs, public assistance or housing. 

Mendoza regained his right to vote in 2019 after completing his prison bid and probation. But even now, voting stirs an anxiety he can’t fully shake. He feels at times as if restoration is a ruse to send him back to prison for unwittingly violating some rule.

“I’m waiting for somebody to come up and say, ‘You’re under arrest for fraudulent voting,’” he said of the back-of-mind feeling. “But I know I’m registered. I know I’m legit.” 

Nevertheless, he votes, and he urges all eligible voters to do the same, telling them: “If you don’t vote, you don’t have any right to complain.” 

Still, he recalls meeting community members who plan to sit out on Election Day, believing their vote counts for little. Mendoza’s experience helps him see things differently. 

He asks: “If your vote wasn’t important, why is that the first thing they take when they take your freedom?”

Mendoza now hopes his work and perspective will shape a more peaceful Milwaukee, where he lived before going to prison for participating in a violent crime that included charges of attempted murder and kidnapping. 

Mendoza, a Marine Corps veteran, began turning his life around even before going to prison. Just before his 1997 conviction, Mendoza publicly denounced the life of gang violence he previously embraced. When a Milwaukee police officer shot a man named James Rey Guerrero who was allegedly fleeing police, Mendoza worked with community leaders and police to calm tensions and organize a nonviolent prayer vigil.

At his sentencing hearing, family members and community leaders pleaded with the judge to show leniency, citing his work in the community, court transcripts show. 

“There were a lot of threats against Milwaukee police by gang members who were upset with what had transpired, and Ray was very instrumental in helping to kind of calm that and allow that prayer vigil in March to go on,” an employee of Milwaukee’s Social Development Commission told the judge. 

But redemption would have to wait. Mendoza was sentenced to 20 years in a federal penitentiary. 

His path to rehabilitation wasn’t a straight line. He said he spent his first 13 years in and out of solitary confinement, contemplating how to return to selling drugs without getting caught. 

 “All the way up until year 14 of my sentence, my mind said, ‘Well, I’m gonna come home and I’m gonna make a phone call and I’m gonna get a truckload of drugs and up here so I can get back to work,’” he said.

But returning to old habits, he eventually realized, would return him to prison. 

“One day I was sitting in the hole, and I just say, ‘You know, if I want to go home and stay home, I gotta change the way I think. I gotta change the way I live my life, and I gotta change the way I view everybody else and everything else around me,’” Mendoza said. “I refuse to go back to prison.”

He’s kept the promise he made to himself. After his release, Mendoza went to work as a violence interrupter, sharing his experiences and helping to head off gunfire. More recently, he began work as a restorative justice coach at The Northwest Opportunities Vocational Academy, designed for students determined to be at risk of not graduating. 

“According to (Milwaukee Public Schools), these (students) are the worst of the worst of the school system. Those are the ones that I love the most. Those are my favorites,” Mendoza said. 

He sees a version of himself in every young person he works with. For them, his message is simple: They don’t have to go through the pain and heartache he endured. They can do things differently.  

On this Election Day, the nation, including Wisconsin, faces partisan divisions so deep that some have vowed to move to another country if their preferred presidential candidate loses.

But where many see hopelessness, Mendoza sees something different.  

“I don’t think things are hopeless right now. I’ve seen hopeless,” he said.

“I see opportunity. Even with all the negativity that’s going on in our city, I still see opportunity, not for me, not for people my age, not for people in the work that I do, but for the young people.”

‘Use your voice’: Ex-incarcerated Milwaukee man cherishes regained voting rights is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.