Was this supposed to be an enchanted forest?
I had envisioned skipping through a breathing forest. Birds sing to me as I prance through wildflower-covered hills, deer jump over rivers as I splash around in the fresh morning air. I befriend a chipmunk who follows me through the voyage. But by the time I came home, my animal interactions were limited to the bird droppings that had dirtied my already greasy hat, and the bear skat that stunk of my impending death. I jumped onto my sister’s bed the moment I got home. She was glowing—hair streaked with highlights and skin tanned with Caribbean sun. She showcased slideshows of the incredible friends she had made, the cliffs she had jumped, the ship wrecks she had dived. I, on the other hand, was sickly pale and unusually hairy; nearly unrecognizable under the sodium-induced inflammation that had capitalized my already rounded cheeks. My close friends and family often still make fun of me for choosing the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS), while my younger sister embarked on the sailing adventures of the Caribbean Broadreach program. Maybe it’s easier to say now that I am not hiking through a thunderstorm with fifty pounds on my back while fighting the frostnip in my left big toe, but I couldn’t be happier that I chose to challenge myself—it gave me the perspective that has shaped my life.
The Lemhi Range is beautiful. White mountain caps peak out of pine tree blankets, and frozen lakes reflect pink clouds of 10:00 pm sunsets. Delicate streams turn to rushing rivers that navigate inexperienced travelers towards campsites better than a compass can. Wildflowers dust high peaks that look over miles of pure wild. But the Lemhi Range is also a harsh place, where temperatures drop below freezing as dusk fades to darkness, loose rocks crumble beneath bandaged blisters, and boots fill with July snow that won’t dry until days later. Despite many moments of overwhelming happiness, my time in the woods came with crushing challenges. In particular, one single day that would shift my entire perspective of nature. Although time warps even the strongest memories, I archived each day of my journey in a journal to remember the truth. Knowing that I am one to exaggerate my adventures I wrote, “Remember this trip for how it was. The NOLS experience has been an emotional rollercoaster ride. Say as such.”
On day thirteen in the wilderness, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to a tent full of screaming water-resistant watches. I curled deeper into my sleeping bag, hoping to store North Face’s marketable warmth before slapping back on my snow-seeped hiking pants and venturing into the morning frost. But a kick from the blue eyed, square jawed girl cocooned next to me brought me reluctantly into a panicked exit from the cramped tent. I knew today would be the longest hike of our journey thus far. After a quiet morning of cooking oats on a finicky camping stove, the twelve of us split into groups of four. Each group had usually been led by one of our three instructors, but we had recently graduated into “ghost leadership.” By now we were expected to navigate by compass and map without flaw, eventually ending our hike at a reuniting destination.
My group that day represented a similar culture to the personality of a stage 4 hurricane. Dylan was a pathological liar with severe ADHD, who refused to take responsibility for any of his flaws or wrongdoings. William was a “guy’s guy” from China, innocent enough on paper but lacking the assertiveness to guide with confidence. Jack wanted to be anywhere but in the woods. To sum up his attitude I look to day five of the course, when he had attempted to tell our instructors that he “had a feeling” his girlfriend from home was pregnant in a pitiful attempt to be evacuated. Jack was also my best friend. I, on the other hand, was the way-too-happy go getter, which I would later learn scared most of the program into thinking I was an all too blonde, too fake, All-American cheerleader. We set off that day with my favorite instructor, Austin, silently observing our sub-par navigation skills.
The first thing we were bound to do was get lost. It was a bush-whacking day so naturally William took us to the base of an incredibly steep mountain covered in loose sand and rock. With no other options, we began to climb, clutching onto dried weeds and misstepping onto the delicate rubble. One wrong move and any of us would have tumbled, being forced to start over again. My calves started cramping near the top. There was no place to stop and stretch, and I clung onto a loose patch of dried grass as I waited for the searing tightness to subside. With my pack pulling my body away from the mountain, I spared a look down. The muscles in my leg were visibly pulsing, begging for a break. I yelled to the boys ahead of me for help but they were far above, so I took a risk. I dug my toe out of its nook and shook my leg around to loosen it as my grip tightened on the shrubbery just barely holding me up. And with no other options I pushed to the top, grabbing onto Jack’s hand when I got to a horizontal sanctuary. I stretched and we moved on.
We had begun walking over rolling, baron hills when the thunder struck. A few moments later, a bright bolt hit a nearby hill and we halted. We were lightening bait, and it was time to get low. We made a collective decision to backtrack towards an open valley that had narrowed into a dried drainage a few hundred meters back. Once we were safe from the storm’s threats, we followed each other single file through the old stream’s winding walls as the ridges by our sides grew tall and cramped. Silence lay over as we anticipated the rain. And then we hit a snowbank. It covered the drainage with uncertain risk, daring us to walk over it. My nightmares, birthed from the film 127 Hours, told me to avoid spaces I could force through. My voice broke the peace, and I suggested we try to hike along the edge of the drainage to escape. I wished the boys had rejected the idea, but instead they followed as I retraced my earlier steps on the vertical ridges, grasping dead grass and digging sore toes into crevices of gravel to traverse forward. My calves ached and fingernails broke as the walls got steeper, and at 30 vertical feet from the ground I dared not look down. And then I heard a scream from behind me. With the balance I could muster I whipped my head around to see Jack tumbling down the ridge, screaming for help. At that moment I believed he would die, and I froze as fear overtook me. His dirtied hands clawed at the unforgiving edges of the cliff until his tired body thudded at the base. With a poetic touch, it began to hail.
Austin stepped in now, ordering us to take off our packs and throw them down the slope. My body was shaking and I couldn’t speak as horror engulfed me, but we had to traverse on, to avoid the same fate as Jack. After fifteen minutes we reached a tree growing horizontally out of the ridge and used it to break our falls, sliding into it before allowing ourselves to fall back into the drainage. Jack was laying on his back a hundred meters above us, his legs and chest bloodied from attempting self arrest. Physically, he could continue walking uncomfortably, but he was in shock from the fall. After an hour we got him on his feet and trudged on, but it was a grueling process. Every stick Jack tripped over made him collapse into tears, terrified of his next fall. I saw no beautiful views, but rather watched his footsteps, held his hand, and thought of his earlier pleas to leave the program.
I was shaken into the present when we came across fresh grizzly bear scat. Austin, who at this point was in full control of the group dynamic, stopped us over an enormous pile of fresh feces, picked up two sticks, and began banging them together and yelling. I scrambled for the pot at the top of my pack and slammed a rock against its metal frame. Now I am usually one to laugh in the face of a dangerous bear, but the day had not prepared me for extreme bravery. I made noise until we collapsed into camp, right as the sun began to set. We waited for the rest of our group to arrive, but they wouldn’t make it to camp until morning. And when darkness engulfed us, I cried out of true fear for the first time in five years.
Tear stains and smudged ink mark my journal entry on night thirteen. “I never grasped how dangerous it is to be out here. At home I’m a thrill seeker. I’m the first to jump in the water, the most willing to put my body at risk. My friends note my love for the danger that comes with adventure. But today is a reality check. I am so small. Nature isn’t at my will, I am at it’s. I have gained so much more respect for the world around me, but that also comes with more fear. I love this world, but I’m beginning to realize that there’s a lot more to it than I will ever know.” As I reflect on my NOLS experience with my entries as my testament, I understand that feeling the force of nature that day would direct the path of my life. As an environmental studies major, an outdoor guide, an avid surfer, and occasional camper, I have devoted my life to not only taking advantage of the world around me, but respecting its power. I, along with the human race, are a much smaller entity than our culture pretends we are. Earth is harsh and it is beautiful. It is both frightening and liberating to understand that the world doesn't revolve around my actions or adventures. I am simply here to admire, respect, and live.
