And so it begins...

As I sit in my new bedroom in the upstairs of an old farmhouse in the Netherlands, I am reflecting on the past week, and all that has happened since I left Minneapolis last Thursday. I have begun the second half of my gap year. I like to call this part my European Adventure, and so far it has been living up to the name!

      I arrived in Amsterdam on Friday night. I spent all of Saturday exploring the city and trying to see and do as much as possible. I got an “I Amsterdam” pass, a card that gives you access to a long list of museums, unlimited use of the public transportation system, and other coupons and discounts for 24 hours. I took a bus to the first museum, and by a happy mistake I ended up at a large street market—I'd read about it in my tour book and the nice automated man on the tram said it was world famous, so I hopped off and went for a stroll. One of the coupons I had was for a free coffee and sweets at a cafe called Bazar that was on the same street as the market, so I stopped by. They gave me coffee and a curious assortment of small treats: baklava, turkish delight, so-han, and pashmak. The baklava was delicious and the others (small cubes of sugar-covered gelatin, a brown piece of chunky brittle, and a white fluffy heap of something that was similar to cotton candy but had the appearance and texture of hair) were very strange but I'm sure good for what they were. The name was accurate but for a spelling error... it was very Bizarre.

      I visited the Allard Pierson Archaeology Museum and Amsterdam Historic Museum, and by another lucky chance I wandered by Begijnhof, a walled convent from the 14^th century that has lots of picturesque, peaceful little houses and courtyards. After a nighttime canal tour of the city, I went to a comedy/improv show that was inspired by the Second City in Chicago (though I don't think it's much to their benefit to boast that fact, since it sets up the audience with too high of expectations; but still, it was entertaining). I spent hours wandering the city, seeing all the places I hadn't had time to visit during the day. It was beautiful—all the lights of the city reflected off the canals—but really Amsterdam is much more beautiful and entertaining during the day. Maybe I am biased, as a young woman traveling by myself and someone who is not particularly interested in prostitution or Amsterdam's famous coffee shops, but there is much more to the city than its nightlife.

      The following morning I visited the famous Rijksmuseum (which did meet my high expectations), the Hortus Botanicus gardens, and NEMO (an interactive science museum). I spent a couple more hours walking the streets and then met Teresa, my WWOOF host, at Central Station. Amsterdam is really an incredible city and I had a wonderful time exploring it... but now on to the real adventure!

Teresa lives on a pig farm called Sengersbroek, which is in a very small town in the south of Holland called Heusden. (To clear up any confusion: my tourbook says that the term “Holland” refers to only a certain part of the country. The Dutch would disagree, however, and they use the names “Holland” and “the Netherlands” interchangeably.) Sengersbroek is an organic farm that is registered with an organization called World Wide Opportunities in Organic Farming (WWOOF), so they host people like me as a type of work exchange.

      Together we drove south for two hours (it takes only about two hours to drive the entire length of the country!) to their home in Heusden. They live in a beautiful old farmhouse with fields and several barns out back. Teresa showed me my bedroom (which in addition to the usual furnishings also has a sink, and is attached to the attic, which is a huge room with a full kitchen, table, and a hammock! They also have wireless internet. So luxurious! This is life on a farm??) and I met her partner Peter (who grew up on this farm) and her son Bert. I naturally tend to be introverted, but my sister's parting advice to me was to become as involved as possible in the culture and get to know my hosts, so I tried to talk and interact with them and start to build a good rapport right off the bat. This is my goal for my time in Holland: to be more outgoing, be involved and present where I am, and to get to know my “family.”

      The next morning I started to get to know the farm! Teresa and I worked together and she showed me how everything was done and gave me a tour of the farm. After we finished our work in the barns, we looked at a list of all of the tasks to be done and talked about what projects I would pursue. It was a short day; the morning's work in the pig barn was more arduous than on a typical day because it had rained and all the wet straw had to be taken out, but the rest of the day I only sanded a small table in the straw barn, had a coffee break with Teresa and Peter, and took two naps.

      The next day I worked with Peter in the morning and learned how to feed the pigs as well. His English isn't quite as fluent as Teresa's, but even so it is surprisingly good. (Everyone here can speak English—it is taught in school, but Peter told me they learn from watching English TV shows.) It was fun to work with each of them, to start to learn from (and about) them.

      On Tuesday morning another WWOOFer joined us, Victor from Spain! He speaks English about as well as I speak Spanish and he really wants to improve. So the past couple of days we have been working together and helping each other learn our respective languages. It's a nice arrangement—I speak in Spanish and he speaks in English. When he can't understand Peter and Teresa I do my best to translate for him. It's a great way to work on my Spanish before I go to Spain next month, so it's really an ideal situation for all of us. It is wonderful to have so many languages spoken in the house, and especially fun for me (as an English-speaker and a language enthusiast) to hear Dutch and Spanish and understand how both Germanic and Latin influences have shaped the evolution of the English language. It's also interesting to communicate with someone who has a limited sense of the language; when you only know so many words, you are left with a sort of simple and beautiful communication that is very honest. There is no superfluousness, no verbose and empty sentences. I don't know how to explain it. An example: Today Peter told me he likes music that is felt, and he pointed to his chest. If I were to ask a native English speaker the same question, they might explain their musical preference with descriptions of a genre or examples of artists or particular type of instrument. But when you can't find the words for everything you might want to say, you are left with the truth: I like music that is felt. It is beautiful, the honesty of simplicity.

      I left home a week ago today, and I can't believe how quickly the time has gone by. It's a strange adjustment to make from home to living on a farm in Holland in someone else's house. The first couple of days were exciting but odd and not quite comfortable yet. But now I think we are falling into a rhythm, getting accustomed and learning the role that we fit into with each other. This is my life, for the time being. I live on a pig farm. I'm getting used to it, but it's still new and exciting (of course). Every day I learn something new: about pigs (which are not only adorable but incredibly intelligent and interesting!), or a new skill, and now how to translate my new knowledge or skill into Spanish.

      Everything is wonderful. Peter and Teresa are incredibly friendly and easy-going, and as much as possible they treat me (and Victor) like a part of their family. I cannot imagine any better place to work as my first experience with WWOOF, and away from home and truly independent for the first time. It is hard work at times, but it is a relaxing and beautiful place and I am surrounded by extraordinary people. I have been imagining and anticipating this trip, my European Adventure, for almost a year. Now it is finally here, and more amazing than I ever could have planned or hoped for... life seems to have a way of working out like that.

Giving Thanks in the Galiuros

A long journal entry I wrote on trail about a memorable day during our last section at NOLS...

Thanksgiving usually calls to mind images of turkey and pumpkin pie, the whole family crowded into our toasty house: a warm and festive holiday of tradition. This was the first year I haven’t been with my family for Thanksgiving, and I was sad to miss my favorite holiday with my favorite people. Nevertheless this year’s Thanksgiving stands apart as one I will remember.

We entered the Galiuro Mountains on Wednesday, and for the first time we finally saw the beauty of changing leaves. We hiked through trees ablaze with the colors of autumn, every moment more gorgeous. It made me nostalgic to smell the scent of a Minnesota fall in the air, to hear the crunch of crisp scarlet leaves underfoot, but it’s hard to not feel wonderfully happy when you are outside in a wild place and the season’s colors hang like ornaments from the maples and sycamores all around you. I was captivated. It was glorious.

      We awoke Thanksgiving morning to a beautifully autumnal day, cool and fresh with a clear blue sky. We hiked a few miles upstream through the dry riverbed of Rattlesnake Canyon. After about four miles we came to a point where the canyon narrowed and the walls grew steeper, and we were faced with a pool of water several yards across and of indeterminate depth. It was possible to go up and around to avoid this particular pool, but we didn’t know if farther up the canyon we would meet a deeper or steeper or somehow impassable obstacle. Our maps offered us some information, where someone had written “chest deep pools of H2O” and indicated the two-mile stretch of canyon from here to our destination. We now faced the decision of continuing up the canyon, where we would likely find more pools of water, potentially that we could not cross (though we were skeptical that they would actually be chest deep, as up to this point there had been no water in the canyon), or turning around to circumnavigate the stretch of canyon by climbing up onto a mesa, gaining 1000 feet in half a mile and hiking an additional four miles. After a very labored process we put it to a vote and finally decided to try our luck with the canyon. The other hiking group chose to ascend the mesa. I voted for the canyon option because I figured it would be somewhat like the cool canyons we saw in the Gila, and less commonplace than hiking a trail: an adventure. (The fact that the mesa trail involved a nine-mile day with nearly 2000 feet in elevation gain may have influenced my decision, but I was excited about the canyon. I’m glad I was a proponent of our chosen route, otherwise I might have been silently cursing the others all day...)

      We were able to scramble across the side of the canyon and avoid the first pool. Next was a smaller pool of knee-deep water—cold, but not so bad. We hiked slowly but without any major difficulty, encountering a few more pools: only knee deep, starting to get uncomfortable at waist-deep, and then coming to a pool that was bordering dangerously on the verge of chest-deep. Holding our packs above our heads, we braved the sterilizing water as one by one we made it to the dry safety of the other shore.

It is in moments like these when you see a glimpse of a person’s true character. Who would dive to your rescue if you fell, and who would stand on shore and laugh? You either cry or laugh upon full submergence. You drag yourself across or you stand up to the challenge with a smile. Either way you’ve made it across, sure, but there’s a difference between reaching the shore still gallantly holding your pack in the air and turning up forlorn and frowning. Or, as fate may have it, turning up with your hair dripping.

      True to form, my clumsiness won out over my best attempts at coordination, and my hopeless gracelessness was revealed to all. When I was within feet of the promised land, I tripped on a rock hidden underwater and plunged face-first into the pool, dropping my pack—my glorious stockpile of the multitude of dry layers essential for staving off hypothermia. Luckily, a particularly selfless member of the group raced to save my pack, and by some great miracle all of my belongings managed to stay wondrously dry.

      At this point in the day, there was some sunlight still in the canyon, so my little swim was simply a matter of comic relief and not a cause for concern. So we tromped on up the canyon, our spirits still high as ever.

      Yet we had miserably miscalculated how long it would take us to traverse the canyon. By five o’clock we still hadn’t reached our destination, though we weren’t quite starting to panic. But the sun (and group morale) were quickly sinking. As the sun was setting we thought we were within reach of our camp so we pushed on despite the growing darkness. We came to another waist-deep pool after a long and deceptively reassuring stretch of dry canyon. Only a few more paces past what I was somehow certain had to be the final pool, we arrived upon yet another pool, and though we couldn’t be sure how deep it was, it looked deeper than any we’d passed thus far. Beyond the pool was a pour-off, another pool and pour-off beyond that, and—wait—another pour-off above that. It was at this point we faced reality. We set up camp on a small gravel bar that might comfortably have fit a twin-sized mattress, or, say, a hot tub, but was not exactly prime camping for our two tents. We quickly went to work boiling water for dinner and put hot water bottles inside our clothes to warm ourselves. When we all had dry clothes on (have you ever appreciated how truly wonderful dry clothes are??) we enjoyed a rehydrated Thanksgiving feast of mashed potato flakes, gravy powder, stuffing, and dried cranberries. It was warm and caloric and an immensely wonderful, if somewhat untraditional, Thanksgiving meal. We all said what we were grateful for, told stories, and enjoyed the company of a few kindred wandering spirits who are still searching.

      The next morning we rose early and frigidly. Overnight, not only did our wet clothes and boots freeze solid (to the extent that I had to pour boiling water into my boots just to make them malleable enough to fit my feet inside) but the edges of the pool developed a pretty layer of wintry ice. It seemed as if the season had changed again overnight, and winter was finally debuting its cruel and frosty face.  We packed up, and at last, reluctantly, stripped down to our skivvies to pass our ultimate obstacle. Our instructor went first, and finally it was revealed to us that the pool would be neck deep—on him. We plunged across, packs held with outstretched arms over our heads. To avoid the pour-off, we crossed a second, shallower pool that was covered with a brittle layer of ice. Another group mate carried both his and my packs across, which I was hopelessly grateful for, as the water was shockingly, arrestingly, bitingly, breathtakingly, and literally freezing (in addition to being over my head). Once across we put on dry clothes, but it was impossible to calm the screaming pain in our freezing and sodden feet. Frostbite, hypothermia, and trench foot all seemed within the realm of possibility.

      But the worst was behind us and as soon as we started hiking, warmth and hope flooded back into my body. We hiked the last quarter mile up the canyon high up on the slippery, scree-covered slopes to avoid further pools of water. Finally we emerged from that miserable stretch of Rattlesnake Canyon. I have never been more grateful just to see sunlight as I was in that moment. I was giddy, ridiculously happy, relieved. I was riding a wave of endorphins and delirium that ensues only after you have overcome a monumental obstacle, and when you have reason to believe that at some point in the foreseeable future you will again be warm and dry and regain feeling in your extremities.

      We soon rejoined (and rejoiced) with the other group, who had made it to our planned campsite and were waiting for us. We shared stories, made hot drinks, dried our feet, and rewarmed our poor pallid bodies. It was sunny and warm, we were safe and grateful, and it was a beautiful moment.

      At NOLS we call events like these “type 2 fun.” At first, it may seem miserable. But when you look back on it you can’t help but smile. It makes for a good story. Who would want to listen to a rambling narrative of the perfect day when the blue sky was cloudless and the clearly marked trail was all downhill? That’s not what you remember, and not what you would write altogether too much about in a blog entry; it is the type 2 fun. And when it comes down to it, this, Thanksgiving, is why I love the wilderness. This is what I came for. Moments like these, when you are tested and you work harder than you thought was possible. You catch a glimpse of your true self and learn what you are capable of.

      Throughout our (mis)adventures in Rattlesnake Canyon, I thought a lot about Thanksgiving and the many, many things I am thankful for. I am thankful for dry clothes, sleeping bags, hot drinks and high spirits, for being with people who can smile at adversity. I am grateful for my family, most of all my parents, because of whom I was able to go to NOLS and embrace the opportunity to explore in one of the too few wild places that are left. I am grateful for people who remain good in the face of hardship, when you see who you really are; that there are still people in the world who care about others more than they care about themselves, who are willing to make sacrifices for the good of the group; for the opportunity to sleep out under the stars, to be in nature and in doing so truly live. And I am grateful beyond measure that experiences like these are the only real hardships in my life.  The only time I experience real discomfort or uncertainty is in the wilderness, and only in situations that I willingly subject myself too. I am so privileged. I know this, and I don’t deserve it. But nevertheless I am thankful for all of it.

Learning again for the first time (or, What the S stands for)

Paddling the Rio Grande was wonderful and nothing like I expected. We were on the river for 15 days, starting in Big Bend National Park in Texas and taking out 120 miles downstream. I was surprised at how small the river is- I had imagined a roaring, majestic Rio muy Grande, but in reality (at least with the current water level, and in the area that we traveled) it's a pretty shallow and tame river. There was a lot of small, easy, and very fun whitewater, and a few more technical rapids. The Rio itself is gorgeous, unlike any place I've ever been before, and every day I was in awe of the stunning canyons, azure skies and reasonable 90-degree weather.

      Canoeing with NOLS is not like the canoeing I've done in the past at Widji. (For one, “portaging,” which is commonplace at Widji, becomes “portahhhhging” at NOLS, and on our expedition did not occur even once. It just seems wrong to go on a canoe trip and NOT portage. All the fun and none of the hard work—it feels like cheating. This is just one example of how NOLS and Widji are like different species of the same genus.) This discrepancy shouldn't have surprised me, because NOLS has its own systems and methods and jargon for everything (as does Widji) and even though the two places are both the same general type of organization/activity, my experiences from them overlap in surprisingly few ways. It was more difficult to adjust to this section than any other; because I had little in the way of experience in backpacking or climbing, I had no expectations or anything to compare to. But canoeing is my thing, and it was a challenge to change from the ways I'd learned or done things before. This actually made the section more satisfying in a way. It was awesome to learn from our climbing instructors, having never climbed before, but it was really interesting to re-learn things I've known for years from veteran instructors who have more experience that I can probably ever hope to have. It could have been just an easy and maybe disappointing trip if I didn't make an effort to absorb as much knowledge from the instructors as possible. They were an outstanding group of teachers (and people) and more than any instructors we've had in the past, they really took it into their hands to teach us, to help us improve and get as much out of the section as we could. It was not only enjoyable just to have their company, but they were a huge source of knowledge. Most of the other students had no prior experience and it was pretty impressive how much the group learned and improved in the course of 15 days. I didn't necessarily learn many new things, but I learned new ways (I don't necessarily like good/bad comparisons, but I might even say better ways) of doing strokes and maneuvers and things I already knew. I basically realized right away that these instructors were way more competent and skilled at the craft than I am, and proceeded to ask as many questions and hear as many answers as possible. Canoeing is always fun, but this trip was especially rewarding—to develop and refine my knowledge and ability under their tutelage and become a better canoist. This is the ultimate way in which NOLS differs from other trip-leading organizations: it is fundamentally a school, and so your time in the field is an expedition, but it is also a class (and not just on hard skills, but on interpersonal skills and communication and development as an individual). For that reason, and not just because I am hopelessly in love with canoeing, this was my favorite section so far.

Five Stars and Three-Letter Acronyms

Returning to the branch after a month and a half in the field was an entirely different experience from arriving here in September. It was odd to return to a place where in total I'd spent less than twenty four hours, yet feel like I was coming “home.” Stranger still was that, since our arrival to NOLS, the branch has not changed but my perception of it has transformed completely. It's funny to look back on my first day here—I was so startled by what I considered to be a primitive kind of camp. I can no longer understand why I was so shocked that we sleep in tents, that there are only a few buildings, that most of the students' time is spent outside or in the open ramada. I feel silly now for the disappointment I felt on our initial tour of the branch, because just the fact that we don't have to cook every meal for ourselves over a camp stove seems such a huge luxury. Now I realize that it's not rudimentary in the least. Compared to the cars and mattresses and machines that we believe are “necessities,” maybe it seems basic, but this is truly a life of extravagant comfort.

      While at the branch we not only have shower facilities, a washing machine, running water and flushing toilets at our disposal, but there is electricity, which means we don't have to go to bed when the sun sets! In the shady ramada, we can feel the warm desert breeze while enjoying TV, computers and wireless internet for our nonstop entertainment and sensory overload. The swimming pool boasts a stunning view of the desert mountains, and a generous buffet is offered at nearly every meal. I didn't realize what I was signing up for—yes, the NOLS Southwest Ramada Inn is a veritable all-inclusive resort!

      We were in town for a Wilderness First Responder (WFR) course, a 10-day class on back country first aid. It's a somewhat intensive course, involving several hours everyday of classroom and practical learning. Our days consisted of arriving for breakfast at 7 am, starting class at 8, and getting done anywhere from 9 to 13+ hours (and nearly as many cups of coffee) later, taking a break for lunch (and dinner, if class extended into the evening). We took the course from Wilderness Medicine Institute (WMI), which is somehow partnered or affiliated with NOLS. They taught us about patient assessment and care, and we did many scenarios to practice using this knowledge as well as learn lots of TLAs (three-letter acronyms: it seems that NOLS and WMI like to come up with an acronym/abbreviation/mnemonic device whenever possible).The course culminated in a final exam, which included written and practical components. Even though the long classes were somewhat tedious, pretending to be a patient with all manner of obscure maladies was fun and it was rewarding to earn the WFR certification. (And I felt lucky that my current reality doesn't include lectures or essays, and that “studying for finals” means sitting on a couch in the ramada, sipping coffee and doing pull-ups in between reviewing snake bite care and the symptoms of hyponatremia.) When the course ended, we had an end-of-school pool party at the branch to celebrate. I couldn't help thinking that there must be frost in Minnesota by now, yet we still get to enjoy some poolside sunbathing. I will reiterate: Life is good.

Climbing Rocks!

We climbed at Cochise Stronghold in Arizona for 16 days, starting on the East side of Cochise and then hiking over to the West side about halfway through. We had four instructors who were easy going, energetic and in love with climbing. A typical day meant meeting at 9, having a few classes on the basics of climbing technique, risk management, and how to use different types of gear. In the late morning we would meander over to a crag (either hike or drive, depending on how far away it was), where we would climb through the afternoon and return to camp usually around 4 or 5 (although sometimes we would find ourselves hiking home long after the sun had gone down). Evenings were occupied with dinner, sometimes an evening meeting or class, and using those small pieces of free time left over to write letters or read or relax.

At the crag on the first day of climbing camp

      Climbing camp was different from backpacking in virtually every way: first of all, we were living at a base camp, so we didn't have to be stingy with how much stuff we brought and we didn't have to pack up and move camp every day. Our daily schedule was much more laid back and less structurally rigid, but we also had significantly less free time because we had so much going on.

      Similar to how in the hiking section our instructors taught us all the necessary skills and then set us loose to travel independently, our climbing instructors taught us the technical side of climbing so that we could do everything ourselves. At the beginning of the section, our instructors created anchors and set up the ropes for us, and all the students did was climb and belay with coaching from them. On our last day of climbing, we set up all the rope systems, climbed, and at the end of the day took everything down while the instructors sat and watched. (NOLS likes to teach a man to fish rather than give him the proverbial fish that will feed him for just a day.)  Before this trip I'd never rock climbed before, so every day I noticed myself picking up new skills & improving upon previous ones. Not many people get to start climbing under the tutelage of four experienced climbers--it's a pretty cool experience. I'm not a great climber by anyone's standards, but even so I can appreciate what a great opportunity this section was.



    

Leaving an East Cochise crag at sunset

View of West Cochise from the top of a multipitch climb



Setting up top ropes on our last day

Hiking the Gila

Backpacking in the Gila was incredible. I am definitely a canoer at heart (canoeing obviously being superior to backpacking), but I enjoyed backpacking a lot more than I expected. There is something very peaceful about the simplicity of it: walking all day, being mindful of each step and breath, and everything you need you carry on your back. Hiking gives you a lot of time to just look at the world around you and think.

      This section was 22 days long; the first half in the Aldo Leopold Wilderness and the second in the Gila Wilderness (both are within the Gila National Forest). We had three ration periods of 6-9 days each, stopping at a campground in between each loop to resupply our food. A typical day meant waking up around 7, leaving camp at 9 and hiking until mid-afternoon. We hiked anywhere from 2 to 9 miles per day (our first ration period included lots of short 2-3 mile days because we had to change our route to evacuate a sick group member). Evenings were spent in classes, cooking, and relaxation, and offered a surprising amount of free time. Each loop we had one rest day (which meant even more classes, cooking, and relaxation!)

The view from Reed's Peak in the Aldo Leopold Wilderness

      During the hiking day we traveled in small groups of about 5 students, at first with an instructor and later independently. (NOLS does a great job of teaching you a certain skill and then handing over the responsibility so you actually learn how to do it yourself, without someone breathing down your neck and babysitting you.) Likewise we were divided into 3-4 person “cook groups” with whom we cooked and tented. These groups rotated every ration period (and were the format in which we traded helpful feedback). (A side note: It turns out that sharing a tent and a kitchen with a few teenage boys who have ravenous appetites and are somewhat less than eager to wash dishes (i.e. NOLS) is very different than sharing them with a few girls who love cooking (i.e. Widji). [To clarify, I don't think this is a distinction between genders, but more the difference between those who are lucky enough to get to go to Widji and those who are not.] This is another challenge I'm learning to deal with.)

      In our first days of travel, we were in mostly your typical forested terrain. In our second loop, we suddenly entered an area that felt decidedly more desert-like. One day in particular stands out to me, in which we followed the Gila River for a short while and, in leaving the river to ascend a canyon, we suddenly entered the desert. It was hot and sunny and dry and dusty and sandy; it was ridden with cacti, gorgeous rocky cliffs, and canyon walls—the exact scene you think of when you picture the Southwest. We scrambled and bushwhacked when our route became steep and rocky or narrow and filled with nearly impassable undergrowth. When the canyon dead-ended at a 10-foot pour-off, we had to turn around and find a new way up. We scrambled over loose rocks and up a steep hillside, hiking and climbing and, finally, reaching the top of a mesa. It was a long and arduous day, but it was my favorite of the trip. Reaching the top of the mesa, we were able to see to the horizon in all directions and look back where we'd come from—it was incredible. I'd never before understood why a backpacker chooses the route that goes up a steep mountainside instead of one of the many easier alternatives (or even why a backpacker would be a backpacker at all when they could be a canoer!). But now I saw that sometimes it is worth the hours it takes to get there, just for a single view from the top. We slept outside on top of the mesa that night. There was no light pollution, no sounds, nor any sign of human presence for miles—just Cassiopeia and Vega and Deneb, and stars that stretched to the ends of the earth. This is when I started to love NOLS.

   

   

Hiking on the mesa (left), and visiting the Gila Cliff Dwellings,
a site where the Mogollon people lived hundreds of years ago.


 


















 

An example of the obstacles we encountered
in the canyons

One of the canyons we hiked in

The beautiful Gila Wilderness!

Our group at a reration

Halfway

When friends and family asked me why I was going to do NOLS or what exactly NOLS was, my response often consisted of vague answers with phrases like “wilderness medicine” and “leadership,” or that the experience would be helpful in hopefully working at my camp as a trip leader in the future. What I didn't say was that I wasn't exactly sure why I wanted to do NOLS except for the fact that I love spending time in the wilderness and even if I didn't learn anything in the process I was sure it would be a good time. The latter is probably a more accurate response, but it's not what parents and uncles and grandparents want to hear, so I stuck to the former. When I arrived over a month ago I didn't know quite what to expect, wasn't sure if I liked backpacking, and in that first crazed and busy day I began to get a little apprehensive about the whole thing. Committing myself to three months of sleeping on the ground, living with the same twenty people, and eating the same dehydrated rations? I love camping more than almost anything else, but even so I felt overwhelmed.

      A month and a half into my semester (how is it halfway done already?) I have learned more, about more, and loved the experience more than I could have anticipated. Then, I didn't really know why I wanted to do NOLS. But now I know why I will be grateful that I've been able to spend my semester here.

The majority of each day in the field is spent doing our activity, be it hiking or rock climbing or whatever the focus of the section is. But it IS a school, which means we have classes and homework, too. Classes focus on basic back country skills, environmental science, leadership, and topics related to the area we are traveling in. “Homework” consists of nature observations and reflections on various topics, but it is not very academic or challenging and seems to be mostly a way for our instructors to gauge how invested we are in the course so they can grade us (yes, we get grades! They grade us in various categories like risk management, expedition behavior, and leadership).

      While a few of the classes have been interesting & informative, I've learned more from interacting with the other students than in the “classroom.” Our group is a diverse and motley crew, hailing from all over the country. We come from very different backgrounds and subsequently have diverse—and often conflicting—beliefs and values. Perhaps the most valuable skill I've learned—that is, I have learned some, and am continuing to learn, though one can always improve upon this skill—is to interact cooperatively with people who I disagree with or from whom I hold fundamentally differing views on the world. The most valuable class we've had taught us how to effectively give & receive feedback. I think the term “Minnesota nice” properly describes my approach to communication & conflict resolution, so this lesson was incredibly helpful to me. We regularly give feedback to members of the group, and from the feedback I've received I've learned a lot about myself and how to work with others. I think the lessons I'm learning here will be helpful if I end up working at Camp Widjiwagan; I am learning wilderness medicine and leadership skills. But the more important and applicable lessons are not advertised in NOLS literature, and you can't get college credit for them. But everyone could benefit from learning how to work with people, how to help others by carrying their weight when your pack is already too heavy, how to do something every day that scares you, how to climb higher and hike farther than you thought you could, how to appreciate the rain that splashes mud all over your sleeping bag, how to cook dinner when your only water source is a spring that produces one liter every four minutes, how to live without Facebook, how to smile when you are lost, how to be happy when everyone you love is halfway across the country, how to keep calm and carry on. And how to appreciate each moment despite what challenges it may hold. NOLS has a simple term for this: tolerance for adversity and uncertainty. This is not a simple skill that is easily acquired, and it is one of the most valuable lessons that NOLS (I won't be so bold as to say “life”... but OK, yeah, maybe life) has to offer.

      Even the worst predicaments don't seem so bad if you can face them with a positive attitude. This may seem obvious, but not until recently have I realized the value of positivity: it seems that my outlook on life dictates how I live my life. Or rather, it dictates how I perceive my life. (But then, is there really a difference between the two?) So I'm trying to work on this “positivity” thing. In giving & receiving feedback, group mates have commented on my positive attitude and expressed appreciation for my calm and uncomplaining demeanor in stressful situations. These are not descriptions I would have used for myself—and neither, I'm sure, would many who know me(Mom and Dad? ;) ). I'm hoping this is a result of some learning or growth on my part; but regardless of the cause of this “positivity,” I do know the result:

      Life is great.