Education and the Indifference of Nature

The Wilderness, the Classroom

Where are the dry socks?

My feet ached, heavy with rainwater.

It was day three of a seven-day trip and my organizational systems had started to fail. I felt the despair of being unprepared starting to seep in.

Finding the socks meant the difference between three hours of miserable walking—and potentially infection-prone blisters—and a challenging but doable five miles.

The trek mirrors the day-in, day-out rhythm of the classroom.

In the Alaskan back country, preparation and organization translate into safety and non-miserable, maybe even pleasant, walking through rough terrain.

In the classroom, preparation and organization allows us to avoid derision, distraction and the loss of faith from students.

In both situations, what we carry with us—mentally and physically—and how we organize that which we carry determines our success and, often, survival.

In the classroom, we have an opportunity to organize our space, our minds and our actions in a way that students can build upon. Regular routines become something that give safety through structure; norms and rules allow for behaviors to be bounded, limited by what is and is not allowed, furthering senses of safety for those we lead.

Even less tangible is the way we bring what we know to the performance that is teaching. What notes—what scripts—do we use and where do we keep them for easy deployment. What questions do we have in our back pockets to push thinking can make the difference between an engaging dialogue and boring lecture.

How we plan, what we bring with us into a lesson, is the supplies we bring to affect learning. The immortal words of the Boy Scouts echo in my head when I think about this: be prepared.

Sometimes, though, our preparation fails.

The Food Ran Out

After my first year of college, I took a job as a “ridge-runner” in the wilds of western Connecticut. It was my job, that summer, to walk the fifty miles of the Appalachian Trail in that state, marking any down trees and trail obstruction, and helping any hikers that found themselves in trouble.

Each stint on the trail encompassed ten days of living out of a tent. The trail crossed a few small towns, one every three days or so, where I would refuel and read a newspaper, catching up on what I had missed while I was on the dirt path without cell service.

The pay was measly, but, without stores or other distractions, was enough to get by on.

In one stint, towards the end of the summer, I decided to try something new to save some money. Instead of bringing premade dehydrated food or ramen packets, I invested heavily in a big bag of red lentils. The idea was I would cook the lentils day one and carry them with me through the three days before I could hit a town again. I did not purchase any spices.

That evening, I cooked the lentils (something I’d never done before). After an hour or so of soaking, stirring and simmering, I gave them a try. Inedible.

Not only were they tasteless without seasoning, but having no experience cooking lentils, they were hard and difficult to digest.

And so I tossed them.

That meant two and half days with nothing to eat but a few protein bars and some drink powder.

The hunger pangs started after the first day. The weakness came after the second. It was decidedly unpleasant.

And yet, there was a lesson to be learned. No matter how rough I felt, I had to keep going. Not because of any internal drive, but because the goal, food, would not be any closer unless I moved.

I could have asked to borrow from some of the through-hikers or casual outdoorists, but that would burden them. People don’t carry what they don’t need. It wasn’t my role to be a leech to anyone.

And so, we come to one of the greatest lessons the outdoors can teach. Enduring hardship is not enough. Unless we move in the right direction, in this case towards a town that has food, nothing will change.

Some things will just happen, but for the majority of it all, we must keep pushing, we must get up and get going, even through the hunger and the pain, for our destination is nowhere nearer for wallowing in our discomfort.

In the classroom, there are times when we make mistakes, where we lead our wards through rocky terrain. Sometimes our plans, meant to nourish and drive forward progress, are half-baked and fall flat. In these times, we must realize the only path is forward.

Though achy and starving, physically or mentally, tomorrow always comes and unless we do something, despite or in spite of our feelings, the miles—our students’ ignorance—still remain. We must keep striving.

The Striving Individual and the Collective

One of the most interesting dynamics that is at play in both hiking and teaching is the concept, maybe the conflict, between individual striving and the interdependence of a group.

When hiking, each person has a burden to carry—their food, their supplies—and being fit enough to carry it means the group is not slowed down by you. In that sense, personal fortitude benefits the group.

But there are limits.

Once, in Alaska, about three days out I got a bee sting on my leg and had to stop to treat the wound. My own first-aid kit was pretty stocked, but one thing it was missing was benadryl. Without quick administration my leg would swell and I’d probably not be able to keep up our speed. In this moment, it benefited the group to ask for help, to see if someone prepared differently and could spare some treatment.

Though asking took some humility, some admission that despite my best efforts, I was unprepared, the reliance on others ultimately furthered the group’s goals.

In a school, or even a single classroom, the dynamic is similar. A class full of active, engaged students, each trying to further their own understanding individually and together, is easier to lead than one full of those who struggle with motivation or lean heavily on defiance.

A school filled with teachers each trying to hone their craft and improve their results leads to collective movement, a feeling that this is what we are about, that individual effort alone could not muster.

Are we individuals trying to strike out on our own in Thoreau-style self-reliance, or are we a community bound by and tied to the success of our neighbors?

From what I’ve learned, a healthy endeavor needs both. We need individuals striving to be their best but also the humility to recognize our collective efforts surpass what we can do alone.

Individual effort compounds and contributes to our collective growth. We are tied together; straggling behind due to a lack of fitness or ignorance slows down the progress of our whole group.

The Indifference of Nature: A Mountain of Dead Deer

In my early thirties, my hiking group and I took a five day trek through a remote stretch of wilderness outside of Yosemite in Northern California.

On the third day, we mostly hiked uphill, eventually cresting a butte into an amazing bowl of nature called the Evolution Valley. Pristine, untouched, with loping deer and marmots abound. We got there as the sun began to set and the pinks and yellows streaked the skies in one of the most beautiful scenes I’d ever laid eyes on.

Earlier in the day we were caught in a brief rain storm and the reward of the view and the warmth of the setting sun were much appreciated.

Later that day, after we crested the edge of the valley, we came across one of the most startling and lasting scenes I’d ever come across.

Coming down a slope, in the low light of dusk, we were hit with an atrocious smell—like something had gone bad in the fridge or a meatball left behind a couch.

We could barely make them out from afar, but as we kept going on the trail, their faint outline became distinct.

Across a hillside, ten or so feet from the trail, were a spiked landscape of hooves and viscera.

About thirty-or-so deer, splayed across a rock field in various states of decay, sat there in cold indifference to our shock.

We learned later that sometime during the winter (about six months prior) a herd of deer was crossing an ice field when suddenly the ground beneath them gave way and the whole lot of them—does, fawns, bucks—fell as the gravel below them became a mini-avalanche. The tumble took the lives of most of them and they stayed there, buried in rock and snow and ice until the warming sun exposed them to passing hikers.

The scene was grotesque. Limbs jutting out of the rocks in every direction. Half-torsos bent at unnatural angles. The ever present smell of decay and rot.

One of the most beautiful scenes I’d ever laid eyes on happened within hours of one of the most disturbing scenes I’d witnessed in my life.

I realize now that despite narratives of a loving Gaia, the world is a cold and uncaring place, able to give us jaw-dropping beauty and heart-stopping carnage moments apart. Standing there, I understood: Nature is indifferent to us. We must be the care for each other that we seek.

Our purpose, both individually and collectively, is to survive. We have learned a lot, as a people, about how to feed and clothe ourselves, and how to function as a society.

Education, then, is an imperative. We must pass on how we do things or that knowledge dies. So many times, our discussion of future work and education in schools is transactive: What do you want to do? How do you want to make money?

More importantly: How do we thrive in an unfeeling world? How do we contribute to our groups for our collective survival?

What we know collectively as a people is hard earned and, if we don’t pass it on, must be found again.

If nature offers no respite, it falls to us to cultivate it with and in one another. This is why we teach.