I kept my journal with a flower from a mountain summit, a penny from a campsite, and the rock I pounded against a log during my solo to scare mice away from my food. All of these items were safely wrapped in a dirty liner sock that I decided sometime around Day Six caused me blisters.
When I got home, I put them in a shoebox in my bedroom closet, except for the liner sock, which my mother threw away. The journal is filled with the flowery writing of a fifteen-year-old, but the pages still contain a whiff of that sock, which, thanks to the direct link between the olfactory bulb and the memory-triggering amygdala, takes me right back to my days as an Outward Bound student.
I signed up for an Outward Bound course at the suggestion of my parents, and no one gave any hint of what I was getting myself into. It seemed like a logical step in the progression of family camping trips, Girl Scout camp, and longer canoe trips I’d grown to look forward to every summer.
By Day Six, my backpack carried a significant amount of rainwater in addition to the food and gear already loading it down. When I cried on the side of the trail next to my pack, my crewmate was angry. Angry because I’d lied and told her I was ok, my pack was fine, I didn’t need any help. Her anger poorly hid compassion that was real and needed.
I gave up the frying pan, natural history book, and wet tarp.
Now on the other side of the experience as an instructor for Voyageur Outward Bound School, I cry at every Outward Bound graduation ceremony. I don’t cry because my students’ trips are over, or because I have invested two or three or four weeks of my life into them, or because I miss my own course that gets farther and farther away each time I open the shoebox and let fresh air in. I cry because finding someone to help you will be more difficult than handing over a frying pan. I cry because what happens after will be both easier and more difficult because of Outward Bound – easier to believe in what you are capable of, easier to ask for help, and harder to settle for less than your best self. I cry because my job is to change the world, just as mine was changed somewhere in between mice, blisters, and mountain summits, and despite my tears, I would not hand these experiences over to anyone.
About the Author
Renee Igo has worked at Voyageur Outward Bound School for seven years. When not instructing, she may be found chasing sheep on a Maine farm or teaching environmental education around the country.
Enjoyed your article. I did the Dogsled/Ski women’s course in Feb 03. We were a small group of 4 and my leaders were Abby Fenton and Megan McCrossin. I was 60 yo and had wanted to do an OB course since i heard about the programs some 30 yrs prior. Never had the courage to apply. I finally took the plunge and with much encouragement from Jodi Swenson, my course advisor, I arrived at the Duluth airport from MA in a timely way. I think I covered the entire encyclopedia of “excuses” relating to Jodi why I should withdraw my application. Without her encouragement, I would have never made it to MN. I so wanted to do it but was scared to death. Mostly I did not want to fail. It was beyond good and there is no doubt in my mind that my course had a very positive impact on my life.
I still have my left over dry macaroni which I did not cook on my solo. Have saved it all these years in a baggie in the fridge. All items that I used for that expedition I have kept and cherish. I even have the clothing/gear list they mailed out, and photocopies of other forms I sent in.
I would encourage anyone to take a course. It is so doable and the leaders are fantastic. You just have to take those first few steps and there is no looking back. I have thought back to my course so often that I swear I recall details as if they happened yesterday. I will never forget. A big thank you goes out to VOBS. You are the best. Keep up the good work.