What's the Value of an Outdoor Education?

Dec 17

Dec 17 What's the Value of an Outdoor Education?

No, I’m not necessarily talking about a formal outdoor school - I’m talking about lessons learned simply by spending time outdoors. In general, I would argue that the “outdoors” doesn’t have to be somewhere deep in the backcountry - it can be as accessible as a short trail close to your house, but certainly a place where you can disconnect from technology and feel like you’re in a place altered very little by man. However, for the sake of clarity, in this post I will mostly be referencing my experiences in outdoor settings relatively far away from civilization such as overnight backcountry trips and day-long ascents in the mountains.

There’s an infinite number of reasons why I’m so passionate about getting outside and about encouraging others to do the same, but one of the main reasons is that I believe quality time spent outdoors provides invaluable lessons that can’t be taught to quite the same extent elsewhere. Everyone gains different insights from their own personal experiences, but without further ado, here are the top life lessons I’ve gained from spending time “out in the sticks,” if you will:

The best plan is to be okay with changing your plans. This lesson has been hammered into me countless times from various treks and trips, but the best example of this was when I was hiking the “W” trek in Torres del Paine National Park down in Chilean Patagonia with my boyfriend Jake. For those unfamiliar, the W is a four-night, five-day long journey through some of the most beautiful - and inhospitable - wilderness. At the end of the trek lie the iconic “torres,” or towers, for which the park is named, and on our trek it was our ultimate goal to finally reach said torres for the grand finale of views.

After several long days and chilly nights, we awoke shortly before 5:00 am on our last day in the park to get a head start up to the towers and hopefully catch some photos of them during the sunrise. Of course, along the final stretch of trail leading up to the overlook, what would happen to roll in but...a blizzard. A full-on, fat-flake, gale-force-wind kind of blizzard. Only ten (ten!) minutes from the summit, as we flattened our bodies against the earth to avoid being blown off the side of the rocky hill, we reluctantly made the executive decision to turn around. Of course, even if we had made it, we wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway, but even just being able to finally summit after days of hard hiking would have been gratifying - but certainly not at the risk of our own safety.

Having a structured plan in place is oftentimes the only way we accomplish some of the most epic feats in the outdoors, but as Mother Nature will always be altogether too happy to teach us, it’s being flexible with those plans that really counts. Sure, tagging a peak in a raging blizzard might sound awesome, but you know what’s more awesome? Prioritizing safety at the expense of a “summit photo” so that you can live to laugh about your foiled attempt over beers with your friends later.

*A view of the Torres from a distance as we were leaving the park: proof that good things come to those who know when to call it quits.*

Less is more. Society might try to tell you that the more “stuff” you own, the more successful you are, but I promise that as soon as you try to apply this theory to a backpacking trip, your backpack with make you topple over from weight before you even leave the trailhead.

I remember preparing for my first multi-night backpacking trip in Rocky Mountain National Park as an adolescent. I was about to embark on a four-day, three-night trek with a camp I attended each summer, and I was shocked when my counselors informed me that we should pack essentially no more clothes than enough for one full day and night, other than a couple extra pairs of socks. Say whaaat?! How was I expected to wear the same clothes for FOUR DAYS that I had already sweat in? Mind you, I was a kid who never minded a bit of dirt, but I still thought this was madness. I mostly took my counselors’ advice, but managed to sneak in an extra two shirts and pair of shorts after they did pack checks.

My smugness over getting around their “silly” packing rules quickly evaporated after a mere thirty minutes of starting out on the seven or so miles we had to cover that first day. My pack felt like it was made out of lead, and I chugged most my precious water just to get rid of some of the weight. Most of the weight I carried was mostly from my share of food and cooking utensils, but still - I felt like taking ANYTHING out of my pack would have helped. Ironically, after two days on the trail, I ended up feeling too embarrassed to wear a fresh shirt because I would have been the only one not rocking a smelly, pit-stained shirt with dirt marks all over it.

Yes, I was kicking myself for doubting the knowledge of my seasoned counselors, but I also learned a deeper lesson that has stuck with me ever since: carrying more possessions - whether metaphorically or literally - through this life we lead might seem like an advantage at first, but it quickly slows us down in ways we can’t even predict. Even if we live in the same place most of our lives, we attach ourselves mentally to our possessions, and these attachments drain us of both time and energy. I’ve since come to whittle down most of my possessions in general, and I’ve realized that the people who can’t tolerate seeing me rock the same shirt more than once every few days probably won’t make the best trail companions anyway.

Don't be fooled: it might look like I'm pondering the beauty of the landscape, but really I'm marveling at how I managed to schlep the entire Harry Potter series all the way up here in this flimsy pack.

Self-sufficiency is power. Being able to carry your own pack, pitch your own tent, cook your own backcountry meal, and know what to do when an emergency arises is hugely empowering for anyone; learning how to do these things as a young female was life-changing. In a society in which I grew up constantly hearing phrases like, “I need some help moving this furniture - are there any GUYS around who can help?” and “No, you can’t play that sport - because you’re a GIRL,” the wilderness became one of the few places where gender stopped mattering quite so much and personal responsibility became the dominating factor in whether or not I was successful in my endeavors.

I sing the praises of all the adults in my youth who threw out the gender card and made me do just as much work in the backcountry as any other member of the group. I’m sure that at the time I more than likely rolled my eyes and uttered some choice words under my breath when I had to carry an even heavier pack, be the one to set up the bear hang, chop another 30 minutes’ worth of wood, cook dinner on the malfunctioning WhisperLite (again), fix my own broken bike chain, or read the topo map to see where our route was the next day, but as I look back, I’m damn glad that I wasn’t given even an ounce less of responsibility.

The wilderness doesn’t care who you are; it doesn’t even care if you make it out alive. But it will teach you that if you are self-sufficient, the world is your oyster - and the backcountry is your playground.

*Knowing how to nail a badass jump shot is also empowering.*

“Style” is a relative term. Preppy, hipster, goth, jock - these are some of the styles that marketing tells us we can adopt. I’m still wondering why the folks in advertising haven’t picked up on the very best style out there: dirt tan lines, hair molded by a week’s worth of dried sweat, and clothes that permanently smell like campfire. Some people call it unkempt, I prefer to think of it as “backcountry chic.”

A good sense of humor is the most important thing you can ever have. This past March, Jake and I decided to escape the Colorado snow and cold for a couple weeks and make the classic spring pilgrimage to Moab. On the drive out there, we spoke dreamily of all the dry trails we would get to run on and of the epic shorts and t-shirt tan lines we would return home with.

For a few sweet days, we were indeed living out our sunshine-filled desert reverie, until one afternoon in camp when the metaphorical track skipped, the birds stopped chirping, and charcoal-dark storm clouds seemed to materialize out of nothing. Goosebumps formed on our dirt-covered legs, and we quickly ripped the car apart looking for all of the layers we wore on our way out of Colorado. Within minutes, we went from rocking t-shirts to shivering in our down parkas, long underwear, and wool socks. We hovered around the small stove on which our curry had just started cooking, but our last hope of keeping warm by the small fire was extinguished when fat, wet snowflakes began to cover the lid of the pot. Mine and Jake’s raised eyebrows both conveyed the same message: “Oh, shit.” Without speaking, we booked it into the car and left our simmering meal on the ground next to the car door.

Moments later, we watched slack-jawed as our tent was pummeled by gale-force winds and transitioned from sage green to winter white as heavy flakes dumped down from the sky. Before we knew it, even our limited view out of the car windows vanished as the car became blanketed in a thick coat of fluff. Shivering, we waited what felt like hours for our meal to finally become edible (in hindsight, a dehydrated meal would have been a MUCH better option than the gourmet curry made from fresh produce we opted to cook). As soon as it seemed the potatoes had become soft enough, we gratefully brought the steaming pot of food into the car and huddled around it, sporks at the ready. Our stomachs growling, we tore into the food, only to discover mid-bite that the meal had, in fact, been burnt to a smoldering crisp. It seemed that in the snowy chaos, our meal had gone unchecked for just long enough that most of it became black and charred.

Hungry and cold, we had hoped that this meal would be our one salvation in this unexpected blizzard, but as we quickly confirmed that the burnt dish was unpalatable, the mood in the car turned bleak and we sat in a gloomy silence for several minutes. Wordlessly, I pulled our half-frozen PB&J-making materials out of the back, and we made cold sandwiches that would at least get our stomachs to stop making noise. As we munched and stared forlornly at the frosted windows, the outstanding ridiculousness of the situation overcame me all at once. I couldn’t help but chuckle, and before I knew it, Jake and I were laughing so hard our sides hurt and we nearly choked on our dry dinner. It had finally dawned on us that we were getting exactly what we really came to Moab for in the first place - an adventure. Sure, we were no longer basking in that glorious desert sun, but who cared?! What a story this was going to make when we told our friends!

The snow still falling, we cracked some beers and some jokes until it was time for us to run from the cramped Honda Accord to our buried tent for a night of sleep. I fell asleep that night thinking about how our expectations of what a situation “should” be - in this case, warm and sunny - so often squander the even-better reality of a situation. We were after an adventure, after all, and it wasn’t until we started laughing that we truly found it.