In the misty highlands of Tindiret Sub-County, in Nandi County, where tea plantations rise and fall along the ridges like green waves and the morning calmness still tastes of dew, a quiet but determined campaign is unfolding.
It is not a government directive handed down from Nairobi, nor a hurried reaction to an environmental crisis. Instead, it is a carefully built partnership between the Kenya Forest Service, civil-society organisations, county authorities and the communities that depend on these hills for their livelihoods.
When I meet Daniel Kiptoo, the Tindiret Sub-County Forest Officer, he is standing under the shade of a newly planted stand of indigenous trees. He surveys the area with the calm focus of someone who knows the stakes all too well. "We cannot just keep planting trees," he says, paraphrased in a soft, reflective tone. "We must restore whole ecosystems. Forests here are water towers for communities downstream. If these hills are bare, everyone pays the price." Kiptoo explains that his office has been scaling up community-based forest restoration, supporting youth groups to establish nurseries, and mapping degraded riparian zones that require urgent rehabilitation.
He describes the work as a race against time, but one that the community is increasingly willing to run.
His optimism finds echoes among local residents. A few kilometres away, I speak to Sarah Jelagat, a smallholder farmer whose land borders the edge of a communal forest. The past decade has brought unpredictable rains, dry spells in months that were once reliably wet, and crop failures that pushed her to diversify her income.
With the encouragement of KFS and local NGOs, her farm now includes a mix of fruit trees, fodder shrubs and indigenous species planted along her boundaries. Jelagat gently touches a young avocado tree that sways in the breeze and says, paraphrased, "We used to think trees were just for forests. Now I see them as part of the farm -- part of feeding my family."
This shift in thinking is not accidental. Civil-society organisations have invested heavily in community sensitisation and climate-smart agriculture training. One of the groups most active in Tindiret is the Anglican Development Services - Western. Their regional coordinator, Rev. Thomas Kemei, speaks with the quiet authority of someone who has spent years working at the intersection of faith, community and environment.
He notes that climate change has made old ways of farming untenable. "We cannot tell people to farm the way their grandparents did," he says. "The weather has changed. The soil has changed. Our approach must change too." ADS-W has been teaching farmers how to conserve soil, harvest water and adopt mixed-crop farming that reduces risk.
County officials are equally invested. The Financing Locally Led Climate Action (FLLoCA) programme -- funded by the World Bank and implemented through county structures -- has taken root in Nandi County with unusual enthusiasm. In Tindiret, ward committees made up of farmers, elders, women representatives and youth leaders decide which projects get funded. This direct involvement has created what one county environmental officer calls "a powerful sense of ownership."
That officer, Mercy Sugut, summarises the importance of participation in a tone that is both pragmatic and hopeful: "People support what they help create," she says, paraphrased. "When a village designs a water project, they protect it. When a youth group proposes a tree-planting site, they maintain it. FLLoCA has allowed us to trust communities with decisions -- and they have shown us that trust is justified."
The impact of FLLoCA-supported projects in Tindiret is already noticeable. Springs that had dried up are slowly returning after riparian land was replanted. Hillsides once prone to erosion are being stabilised. Farmers have built water-harvesting systems that reduce their dependence on erratic rainfall.
And across the sub-county, community nurseries are producing thousands of seedlings -- not the invasive species of the past, but carefully selected indigenous varieties that support biodiversity and water retention.
Still, not everything is smooth. At a community baraza in Songhor, residents voice frustrations about persistent forest encroachment, illegal logging and the slow uptake of advanced irrigation technology. Only a tiny fraction of local farmers can afford drip or sprinkler systems, even though the changing climate demands more efficient water use. Poverty remains a barrier to many climate-smart innovations.
It is here that Mr Kiptoo, the forest officer, returns to the conversation. He acknowledges the challenges but insists they are not insurmountable. He paraphrases the situation bluntly: "People do not destroy forests because they do not care. They do it because they have no alternatives. If we give them options -- agroforestry, woodlots, beekeeping -- they protect what they depend on."
Several youth groups in Tindiret are taking that message seriously. One such group, the Tindiret Green Rangers, started as a handful of young men who wanted to address charcoal burning in a nearby forest block. Today, they run a nursery, manage a community woodlot and earn income through supplying seedlings for county and NGO programmes.
Their chairperson, Brian Chirchir, is quietly proud of what they've achieved. He says that environmental conservation has become both a livelihood and a mission: "We have shown that young people do not have to destroy the environment to earn a living. We can restore it -- and still feed our families."
The story of climate action in Sub County is not only one of new programmes and policies; it is also a story of rediscovery. Local elders recall when rivers ran throughout the year and forests were sacred spaces protected by cultural norms. Some of these traditions are being revived, blended with modern conservation strategies. Many residents now speak of climate action not as an abstract policy but as a return to balance with the land.
Even with visible progress, the road ahead remains long. Tindiret still faces deforestation pressures, limited technical capacity for advanced farming and uneven climate-policy awareness across villages. Many residents are only beginning to grasp the long-term implications of climate change. But the momentum -- built slowly through partnership, trust and community involvement -- is unmistakable.
As the sun sets behind the Tindiret hills, the silhouettes of newly planted trees stretch across the landscape like quiet promises. They represent hope, yes -- but also responsibility.
For the people here, climate change is no longer a distant threat or a scientific concept explained on the radio. It is part of daily life, woven into the rhythm of planting, harvesting, fetching water and raising livestock.
And in response, they are weaving new patterns of resilience -- rooted in local knowledge, strengthened by institutional support and nourished by a shared desire to protect the land that sustains them.
Mr Kiptoo, the forest officer, offers a final reflection as he looks out across the slopes: "We're not just planting trees," he says. "We are planting the future."