Seventeen, a birthday most spend with family and
friends, maybe bowling or watching movies, drinking cheap beer and staying out
late. An unimportant birthday,
surrounded by the driving enabling sixteen and the freedom inducing eighteen;
seventeen sleeps in the middle with an eye to the future and a quick pace from
the past. February 3rd, 1997,
and it was my seventeenth, a day in which I would celebrate in a unique
fashion.
Pale light and cold air touched my skin as I awoke to
another overcast day. Scrunched in a down
sleeping bag under the thin nylon of a one pole no floor tent, I cuddled deep
in the warm loft of the bag, not wanting to enter the cold world that awaited
me. I would have liked to sleep in, pass
the cold day in a daze of sleepiness and dreams, but the day would not let
me. First, I had to get frozen boots on
my feet, and then make my way out of the tent and to the small, snow covered
lake I was camped by to break through a layer of ice so I could fill my billy
can with water and bring it to a boil. I
would spend the rest of the day journaling, drinking tea, cooking and eating,
and watching the scrub jay that was the only other living being I had seen in
three days. I would see no other humans,
as had been the case for the past 72 frosty hours, but I would know that others
had been near by the footprints in the snow around my camp. Eerie how close one could get without my
knowledge.
I would also know people were near by the birthday card,
miniature snickers bar, and summer sausage left in the designated “pick-up
spot” on the border of my camp under a large pine. I would savior the snickers and sausage, cry
at the loving birthday card signed by family and recently made friends, and try
not to go crazy from the solitude. It
was February 3rd, 1997, my seventeenth birthday, and I was on a four
day solo at the end of a three week adventure called Catherine Freer Wilderness
Expeditions. While the expedition was a
backpacking trip, a snowshoeing and cross country skiing trip, a camping trip,
and a wilderness experience, Catherine Freer was also and most importantly an
intensive three week drug and alcohol treatment program.
The whole process had begun in mid January of 1997. I
had just come home in the morning from a night of drinking, smoking weed,
fighting and raising hell around Klamath Falls, a small city in Eastern
Oregon. I was already high, smoking
marijuana as soon as I woke up. As I
came home my parents asked me a simple question, “Do you want to go
backpacking?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. Even in my state of intoxication the outdoors
called to me. I had been raised with a
strong relationship with nature, and it stayed with me throughout my teenage
years. Any opportunity to be in the woods or on the lake and I took it, leaving
behind the drugs that had become my life.
My parents informed me that it
was not a simple backpacking trip; it was treatment for my drug use, my
rebellious lifestyle. I had no notion of
telling my parents no to the treatment, which was a good decision since I later
found out that if I had said no I would have been arrested and forced to go
into the treatment. I was sixteen, on
probation, not in school and hardly ever at home, and my parents and the courts
agreed that I had to go into the program.
After stopping at McDonalds to resign my position as
cook, we headed north to Albany, where I would, in the next two days, begin to
understand the severity of my situation.
The first hint was when at the hotel my parents rented, they rented a
smoking room. While not seemingly a big
deal, neither of them smoked, and they only did this so I would be in their
sight at all times. Privacy was not an
option, and I was on a sort of lockdown.
The next morning I was brought into the main office of
Catherine Freer and sat down with six other teenagers and their parents. For the next several hours we sat and the
parents talked about what the children had done, the types of lives they were
leading. To see the tears falling down the
parent’s faces, to see the pain we were causing was a fist to the gut. I felt sad, yet also angered and fearful as I
sat in that small room and heard story after story about trouble teens, like
myself. I was angered at the fact that we were not
allowed to defend ourselves, we sat with closed mouths and were only able to
open our ears. This was the beginning of a dose of a harsh reality, a reality
where we were given innumerable responsibilities, where we were broken down to
the nothings that we thought we had become, and we would eventually be brought
back to the scope of humans, to confident people who knew they had a chance to
leave the pitiful lives of druggies, gangsters, dealers, prostitutes and the
dropouts they had become. It was also
the beginning of an even larger appreciation for the wilderness, and the power
that resides in nature.
As the parents left the room we were lead into a
warehouse in complete silence. Stripped
of all our personal belongings and clothing we were given new clothing, warm
clothing, clothing meant for function and nothing more. Wool socks, sweater and pants, fleece jacket
and vest, a wool stocking cap and baklava, and a large pair of thickly
insulated boots. And last, bright yellow
rain coat and pants, heavy enough to drown the spirit of the most experienced
backpacker. All foreign and nothing
ours. No watches, no cigarettes, no
talking, and one damn heavy backpack later and to the large white van we trudged. We were told nothing, not where we were
going, not what time it was, nothing, and I began to feel the true fear of not
knowing, of not having my family a phone call away, of not having a bong to
hit, a shot to drink, a drug to sniff, or a friend to have my back. Life had begun to spin out of control in my
mind, and I felt as if I were victim of kidnapping.
Several hours later and we were driving up a snowy pass as
the sun began to sink and the group began to fidget. Not a word had been spoken for hours and we
were on roads that were obviously not used by many. With one turn of the steering wheel the van
pulled to a snow filled turnout and we were told to get out of the van, put on
packs, headlamps, and snowshoes. Our
only other instructions were to walk silently through the dark woods, single
file behind one of the counselors. I had
never snow shoed, and instead of being overjoyed over the new experience, I was
in pain, emotionally and physically as I slumped through the woods.
I think we all struggled on that first couple of miles,
but one girls struggle was much greater. Overweight, out of shape and in a world she
knew nothing of, she soon tired, mentally and physically, and we were shown the
true nature of what we were up against in this wilderness treatment. The counselors, three in all, split up, two
coming with the group of six and one staying back with the girl who had
stubbornly refused to move, sitting down with her pack on and making a serious
attempt at rebellion, and who could blame her, that was the life we knew. As she cried, screamed, and refused to move,
I expected the counselor to coddle her, tell her how it was okay, she would be
fine, all the stuff I had heard from other counselors throughout my chaotic
teenage years. Instead I heard something
I never expected.
“Get up!” he yelled, but the girl only cried, refused
between gasps of anger and sadness.
“Get off your ass and move! If you don’t you’ll freeze out here,” he
yelled, picking her up and forcing her to move forward through the snow covered
woods. The yelling match lasted for a
while, but soon the girl caved; all the while I, along with the others, was waiting
with my heavy pack on, wanting nothing more than to move on. The counselor had gotten her to move, and
after much struggle she came along and it was she that led the group the rest
of the hike to our first camp.
I don’t remember much from that first night. What I do remember is the counselors
separating the group and being told to set up my tent, get my boots off and get
into my sleeping bag. As I lay in the
bag the counselor came to my tent and I remember thinking I would finally be
talked to, told what was happening out here.
No, the counselor came and took my boots, took my fucking boots back to
his tent. Escape would mean losing toes,
probably both feet, probably death.
Sleep was rare as
I listened to several people sob between my own sobbing fits. Most likely everyone cried that night,
especially since most of the group had no outdoor experience. I could only imagine their fright, their
apprehension, their tear filled prayers and their renewed anger at a society
that had labeled them as misfits and losers.
I felt a plethora of negative emotions, from hate to sadness to
horrifying anger. And mostly, I felt as
if I was a zero, a nothing in the scheme of life, abandoned into the wilderness
by my family, the group was nothing but a waste in society to be dumped in the
woods . Soon we would see we were
nothing of the sort.
Day two began the real treatment. Woken early to a physically and mentally
frigid day, we were shown how to use our white gas stoves, and the counselors
began to speak to us as people, to talk to us at times when they were not
telling us to do something. On our own
we each cooked our own breakfast of oatmeal, melted snow and boiled the water, and
packed our bags. Someone had to use the
bathroom and they asked the counselor for some toilet paper.
“Is none,” the counselor said.
“Then what do we use?”
“Snow, rocks, moss, whatever you can find. But be sure to bury it all,” he said.
SNOW! I immediately worried over the aspect of getting
frostbite of the sphincter.
Again we were
reminded of the extremity of the situation in a strange way. No longer did we have the conveniences of the
everyday lives we were use to. Instead we had nature to help us, to provide us
with water and the very necessary toilet paper.
On the second day we began the morning meetings where
our group would sit around a necessary fire, talk about issues related to our
lives, start to work over our intense emotional issues, and get to know each
other on a level that most never reach.
We would also each participate in one-on-one counseling, and then it was
time to pack up and move on. We hiked a
good portion of the day, at least I think.
We were still not allowed to know what time it was, how far we were
going or a had been, or to talk other than when talked to by a counselor. During the hike we not only had our heavy
bags, cold weather, snowy and rainy conditions to deal with, but we also had
the horrible task of pulling a heavy sled full of gas for the stoves, axes,
saws, and other important equipment. Two
sleds were shared by the group, and each member would pull for a time over hard
terrain-small creaks buried in snow, over hills, down hills, the only terrain
we seemed to miss was flat and stable terrain.
It was gut-wrenching, muscle cramping, energy draining work, but within
time we reached camp. Dropping our bags,
we all thought the physical demands were over.
No, it was time to cut fire wood, dig a deep hole large enough for the
group of ten to sit in and have a fire, set up camp, boil more water, have
one-on-one counseling, and cook dinner.
Dinner consisted of lentils and rice, for not only the first dinner, but
for three weeks straight, and I still despise lentils for there role in the
events of those three weeks. Throughout
the next two weeks we would follow this routine, all the while focusing
ourselves on bettering our lives through intense interpersonal dialogue,
one-on-one counseling, and the ever important physical demands of the
trek. To write of everyday would be redundant,
but several events stick out in my mind.
During one memorable night time fire session I would
see, again, the tenacity of the counselors and just how different this program
was from any other. As we warmed
ourselves and dried clothes around a hot fire, one of the other males in the
group became mad about the line of questioning that a counselor was asking
him. Very harshly, Kid, we will call
him, told the counselor, “Fuck you!”
We sat in silenced and waited for the counselor to tell
Kid to settle down, to say sorry that he felt that way. Once again we expected the basic reactions
that we had grown accustomed to from other counselors. Instead the counselor answered, “Fuck
you.” Kid look stunned, his mouth
dropped open, but he recovered and responded with an outstanding, “No, FUCK YOU!”
“No, Fuck you, go to your fucking tent for the night!”
the counselor replied. He won the
battle, Kid walking off, obviously not happy about a long, long night in his
tent with only a candle for light and his mind for entertainment. The counselor, in return, put a smile on his
face and continued his line of questioning as the fire warmed our weary lives.
On another cold night, the group huddled around the fire
and I slowly dried some clothes, including the wool socks on my feet over the
bright flames. It had been days since I
had been able to wash my feet, so even the drying of them felt like a good
hygienic step. As I conversed and
listened to the group I smelled a horrible odor and simultaneously felt a hot
sensation on my feet. With frightening certainty
I realized I had began to heat the socks up so much that the moisture locked in
its thick threads had begun to steam my foot.
Other than a little redness, my foot was fine, but the trauma caused by
the smell of steamed feet may never heal.
Other events I remember are not dramatic, but just seem
to stick with me, more like a memory of a soft kiss than hard punch. Skiing down a steep pitch on cross country skis
and feeling the frigid air encrust my face; the one night we ate dinner in a
wall tent, heated to one hundred degrees by the metal stove, a troubled group
happy from just warmth; the mint tea I rolled into a cigarette and lit off my
camp stove, only to take one drag and become sick with coughing; the martin in
the trees and the otter slides across the large, blank white lake. These memories stay with me and please as
much as the painful memories of having no family or the struggle when it rained
and froze, all our equipment becoming thick, unmovable pieces of ice. And of
course the lentils that haunt me to this day.
On one clear night towards the end of the adventure, we
were given the choice to sleep under the stars, beneath the cosmic glow
sneaking through the white capped trees and the snow reflected moon. I reveled at the opportunity and the
counselors rolled my mummy bag wrapped body into a tarp “burrito,” only my face
open to the elements. I fell asleep
fast, tired from the day’s excursions and genuinely happy, a feeling of gleeful
calmness lay up with me on that night.
One of the counselors woke me later in the night. My blue burrito was now covered. With
sour cream? my groggy mind asked.
No, snow, fresh and falling in large chunks stuck to me, yet I slept
through the storm only to be rudely awakened and told to set up my tent.
These memories still make me smile, but one event in
particular shaped most of the trip and I feel much of my life. Two weeks had passed and all of us had made
great strides towards recovery, facing our demons on a daily basis. Yet the greatest challenge was now among us,
this being the aforementioned solo trip.
It began with each of us being led off by a counselor and given a
camping area. The counselor than walked
a perimeter that we were not allowed to cross unless an emergency ensued. If we did break the boundary we could be held
over for another three weeks of the arduous treatment.
My camp was
settled along a secluded lake looking like a snow covered meadow. I had my designated hole to fetch water, a
hole next to a tree to facilitate as a bathroom, my tent, a cook area, a tree
covered in old man’s beard which I happily used as toilet paper and cleaning
rags, and the mail box tree that was the designated “drop-off spot.” I had all I would need to survive physically,
but the real strain would be the mental battle.
It was this battle that would give me an insight into nature that I
still hold strong today, a respect and love for nature, a yearning to be one
with nature, yet a healthy fear of what nature can become and can do to living
beings.
For the solo, we were given a notebook to journal and a
skills packet to work on during our long hours.
These would not suffice as entertainment, especially to someone who has
been raised in a culture that is set on always having sensory perception
overload-highways with fast moving traffic, television, blaring music, fighting
lovers next door, rowdy kids with fireworks, computers, videogames, book, cd’s,
mp3’s, advertisements, churches, litter, pavement, parking lots, shopping
malls, gambling, drinking, smoking, fighting, loving, leaving-I had left that
world and now sat among the forest of wind swept snow banks and the squirrel inhabited snag outside of camp. Sensory overload was nil and the insights I
gained from my brain having a chance to rest, recuperate, and reconnoiter were
outstanding. Through the four days and
three nights I would listen to a woodpecker pound a hole in a tree, the squirrel
warning the woods of my presence, and I would try to tame the scrub jay that
had come to rob my camp.
I would notice something else to. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t high, I was alone,
and I was alive. Even as my birthday
came and went I was full of a feeling of great triumph rather than sadness or
despair. The longer the solo went the
more time I spent watching the ways of nature.
Snow covered branches becoming too heavy and letting go of the snow with
a great thump was my drum, the whistling wind my melody, the silence my singing
voice. Nature had not joined me, rather
I had joined nature and asked nature to let me in. Healing had become less about the actual drug
use and lifestyle and had manifested to a recognizing of a picture that was
pure truth, the picture that an animal must see, the picture that allows one to
see that in order to survive and thrive, one must be strong, emotionally and
physically, and the life I was leading was not accomplishing this. My picture was a skewed imagining of an
ignorant mind, a Picasso with the paint running from the rain.
Time was passed with beauty and in sequence with the clocks
of the wild. I slept when the sun was
down and awoke to the cold, pale days with the notion of survival, both
physical through food and water, and mental survival through provoking thought
and stimulating imaginings. Enjoyment
was the aftereffect. I had begun to look
at the high as the secondary effect, and an intoxicator was not needed to
support that high, for it was not a physical attribute, but an emotional ideal,
an ideal that I have to this day.
As my solo neared its end I was overjoyed at the
prospect of seeing people once again.
Yet I was fearful about going back to life, back to a life where
responsibility means conformity, a job, a life that society has outlined and
written and we are only to follow the guidelines, check off the steps as we
make each life moment count. Fearful,
yet eager. I must admit, even through my
hermitry, I am a pack animal. I was also
saddened by the leaving of my sacred spot, the spot where I had meditated
without knowledge and eaten without need for taste. As I loaded up my gear and followed the trail
back to the others I looked up into the trees.
The scrub jay, or camp robber, stayed with me, and I realized that in
nature, one is never alone.
The expedition ended with a circle of family and
friends, each of us teenagers telling our stories of healing, our struggles and
our hopes. Tears came to many, including
myself as I had to tell my parents of some of the things I had done in my past
life that they had not known. All of us
had to tell, it was a part of the treatment.
As we met with family another grotesque reality came to
light. Treatment was not over, not for
myself, not for any of the teenagers.
Four of the others in the group were to go immediately to half-way
houses or residential treatment facilities.
One boy was given the option of going to a residential treatment or
doing another three weeks in the wilderness.
He made the easy choice to stay in the woods. I would later find out he stayed in for nine
weeks in total, an outstanding amount of time for anyone to struggle with their
personal demons. As for me and one other
girl, we were aloud to leave with our families.
I was brought back to Klamath Falls, but then quickly taken to live in
the country outside of Medford, Oregon.
In Medford I would continue treatment and be homeschooled.
Of course, this was not the end of my problems, but a
start to my resolution. True healing
takes years, is a lifetime experience, and to expect treatment to work
overnight, or in weeks or even months is not a realistic expectation. To rewire ones brain, to fix ones thought
processes takes years and a determined frame of mind. To live with a life of drugs, to drop out of
society is the easy road, but not the road that brings one a sense of accomplishment
and fulfillment. This takes years. I look at it like I look at most things, in
correlation with nature. The processes
of nature are on the most part slow. It
starts with a single seed that grows up to be a tree of outstanding height,
only to topple in the wind and take years to turn into the soil that then grows
yet another tree. A canyon is slowly
made by the tremulous water taking away pieces of earth and digging deeper and
deeper until a massive canyon is born.
It happens slowly, over time, and this is life. Life is meant to be slow, a walk rather than
a race, a bike ride down a backstreet rather than a speeding horde upon the
interstate.
I learned this in those snowy woods with that camp
robber screeching his song and patiently waiting for me to drop a crumb. Even now I see that the slower I go, the more
time I take to walk through the wilderness, the more I see. An elk lying amongst the moist meadow, a deer
feeding through the oak filled draw, or the eagle soaring high, I slow until I
reach stillness, and with stillness the woods come to life, and the healing
begins all over again.
