A week of Outdoor Education in the redwoods changed me forever. And I couldn't be more grateful.

I fell in love with forests in the fifth-grade, the year my elementary school in California offered its students a week of Outdoor Education at a camp in the redwoods.

That was cool.

At first I was terrified to stay at a camp for five days, since that sounded like the worst slumber party ever. Sleepovers were torture for a socially obtuse kid like me who was always saying the wrong thing. But at least I could go home the next morning without showering in front of the girls who made fun of me.

By the first breakfast, though, I knew this camp was actually the best slumber party ever. I still remember smiling at the pitchers of juice on each table in the dining hall, can still smell the plates of sausages and scrambled eggs.

And then we went into the forest.

I remember being shown how to walk as quietly as possibly by stepping on our heels and rolling the rest of our foot down. And learning that the light green lace decorating the tree branches was lichen, or "fungus and bacteria that took a liking to each other."

I especially remember how at peace I felt walking among those trees, both alone and immersed in the best company ever. In the forest, I could step outside my head and walk paths lined with leaves and bark instead of worry and self-consciousness. With my brain focused on every branch, every movement and every sound, I could finally escape the bubble of my thoughts and walk with life.

 

And though the other kids were still there, I was no longer the least cool in the forest. Because trees aren't impressed by make-up and French braids, and they smirk at cute sandals and skirts, not the comfortable shoes and pants I liked to wear.

But the real magic was the night hike: When my cabin was taken into the forest in the darkness, something that again I feared at first. 

I remember standing in the clearing between our cabins and the trees, looking up at the stars and thinking as our guides gave us instructions, "Are these people crazy? How can we possibly hike those trails when we can't see?!"

I was terrified of the dark. I didn't even like to walk the two steps from my bedroom door to the bathroom door in a dark hallway.

Yet here I was in a black forest, taking more and more steps in, not running out. I still remember straining to see the white shoes of the kid ahead of me, straining to hear any crack of a branch as our guides called out warnings about the obstacles ahead. It was even more absorbing than walking the trails during the day. Even more exhilarating.

I remember looking up at the sky again afterward and thinking, "I just walked through a forest in total darkness. No one fell, nothing attacked us, nothing bad happened at all." So much felt possible at that moment that even the stars were within reach.

I've thought about that sky ever since to give me courage.

When I was getting ready to start college in a new city where I would have only my cat to talk with for months. To board a plane to South America where I would live months without even that cat to talk to. To move to Seattle without a job or a plan, and only that same cat to talk to.

I think about those stars, and remember how good it felt to walk through the fear.

 

The photo above was taken by Nathan DeHart.