OL2
A story about a course I took in high school called “Outdoor Leadership 2”.
The recent edition of the Hawken Review ran a story titled Outdoor Leadership — Reflections from Keith Warner (Hawken, 1966–1979). Needless to say, memories flooded in when I read the article. It so happens that I survived OL2 — but not according to plan.
In high school I was astoundingly un-athletic. Ball sports were a problem; when I took driver’s education it became clear that I have really poor depth perception, which explains why I could never hit a fastball, sink a bucket, or catch a pass. I hated running because I never got to the point where it didn’t hurt, and I had almost no muscle on my arms. We were all forced to participate in some sort of after-school sport; I soon found my way into that shadow world reserved for the nerds who were more likely to get on the varsity debate club than to see minutes in varsity soccer. Besides being varsity manager for the soccer team, I was varsity nothing. They didn’t have varsity electric guitar back then.
Despite all that, something stirred in me to try another approach to being in this physical world, and I started going out on camping trips that were run by the Outsiders Club. I recall the guys (we were still an all-male institution at the time) were a cross-section that had one thing in common: an interest in getting out of doors and hanging out in the woods. It wasn’t like a stoner’s club or anything, though there were a few freaks along for the ride. I really enjoyed the time away from home and being outside and learning about how to set up tents and make fires and stuff. It was kind of like being in Boy Scouts, but without the competitive pressure to earn badges or go off on a huge camping jamboree with an army of kids. It was much more chill, much more my style.
Well, I must have taken OL1, because I definitely took OL2, and when I say the memories flooded in, I mean only some of the memories flooded in, because I couldn’t really tell you a lot of detail about which trips I went on with whom. I have to use guesswork to piece together that I took OL2 in the winter/spring of 1974, because I’m pretty sure I was a junior. That would mean I took OL1 in the fall of 1973, and it must have felt easy to do based on my Outsiders Club experiences.
I do remember the training course in the woods, where one of the tasks was to get up and over The Wall — very much like that scene in Full Metal Jacket where Private Joker helps Private Gomer Pyle through the high climbing obstacle. I’ve always identified with that scene because I lived it in the woods behind Hawk Tech, but I imagine I had just enough upper body strength to get over, plus my cohort were all too aware of my athletic prowess (meaning lack thereof). They helped me, and I like to think I straddled the top of the wall and lent a hand to the next climber behind me. It could have happened.
OL2 is where things got interesting and scary. We learned what kind of trees were in the woods. We learned that odds are you’ll die if you decided to chow down on a mushroom unless you knew for 100% certain what kind of mushroom you were confronting. We learned how to amass tinder and keep it as dry as possible, how to stack smaller twigs and sticks into a pile that creates an optimal ignition situation to burn larger logs. We made tea from pine needles and tried to sip it down. We learned how to make a survival shelter from a branch and a piece of plastic — think Home Depot 2-mil paint dropcloth wrapped in a way to keep your sleeping bag dry and off the forest floor. We learned that once your clothing or footwear is wet, you’ll lose body heat rapidly, and your best hope is to get your stuff dried out as soon as possible. Always keep your hat on, even in the sleeping bag — you’ll stay that much toastier.
One weekend, we had an overnight dry run in the woods behind the school. It didn’t seem too bad, because we were all within earshot of each other, and it was just one night. Even though it was straight-up winter, it wasn’t too bad. Everything was relatively dry and toasty. I felt equipped to do the solo.
The time came when we all piled into a van with our minimal gear and headed to the Allegheny National Forest for our three-day solos. Three days, three matches, one plastic tarp, one sleeping bag, and one sleeping mat. No food. Mr. Warner brought along a couple of trusty Outsiders Clubbers as helpers, and I believe Mr. Scott was on this trip as well. I think Mr. Warner knew the area pretty well, and had drawn up a map of where to place us all. We were told to stay alone. Trying to find other soloist was a no-no. The idea was to get through the three days all on your own, survival style. I think we were allowed to smuggle in a book to read.
I remember being hyper aware of my surroundings as I went down a path with one of the guys to my spot. I would guess it was maybe 15–20 minutes into the woods. It was daylight when I got dropped, but not much of the day was left, so I got busy and made my shelter. I selected a suitable long fallen branch that I managed to prop us as I was taught to, unfurled my plastic sheet, tucked my sleeping gear in there, and went around to gather tinder and kindling. It had snowed recently, so everything was pretty wet, but I tried to make the best of it.
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Night came, and I jammed myself into my sleeping bag. I was alright until it began to rain, and I found myself in the grips of a massive panic attack. The universe became huge, like a giant eye bearing down on me. I felt like I was falling both upwards and downwards simultaneously. I couldn’t breathe, I was so terrified. Thoughts and words began looping and amplifying in my head. The raindrops on my plastic tarp were filling me with panic. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to make my way back to base camp and scrub the mission. I was so used to enduring shame and ridicule in the gym and on the playing field, I knew I could take being a loser once again. I was weeping and desperate to talk to another person. So, leaving all my stuff behind, I got out and walked back to base camp in the dark over a path I had been on only once before.
Well, imagine my relief when I got to base camp, and the guys there were still up, and they had a soggy, smokey fire going. I explained my situation to Mr. Warner and the crew, and they decided that I should come back in. I must have been pretty insistent or scary looking. The question got asked, “Where’s your stuff?” “Well, it’s back there, where I left it.” “You’re going to need it tonight.” “OK, I’ll go back and get it.” This was met with some disbelief. “Are you sure you can find it again?” “Oh, yeah, positive. I’ll be right back.” And off I went into the darkness, where I found my little camp, dismantled it, and brought it back along the path to base camp.
I’m reasonably sure I was soaked to the bone, but I think my sleeping bag was dry enough to use. I have a vague recollection of spending the next day in someone else’s heavy shirt while my clothing dried over a fire… but this could be wrong. The rain continued and got quite heavy. Over the course of the day, a few more soloists dragged their butts back to base camp. By the end of day two, I think the decision was made to call it and head back home, the weather was only going to get worse. I remember the warm van and the steamy windows and a mixed bag of emotions: shame, relief, disappointment, resignation. I was very happy to be going back to civilization. I think we stopped at a fast-food joint and feasted on burgers and fries. I was spent.
Mr. Warner spent the first hour of every school day in the front hallway observing the ingathering proceedings like a hawk, pun intended. He was especially keen on greeting the late arrivals with advice or remonstrations, and many of us genuinely feared his displeasure. I knew some repeat offenders who tried to work out ways to get inside the building undetected — usually unsuccessfully. (I wasn’t in that category — I rode to school with Mom every morning.) I discovered however that it wasn’t that Mr. Warner was mad at a student, he was frustrated by their behavior maybe, but he genuinely cared for every soul that walked through those doors.
In an ironic twist, I was elected Student Council President, a position that had been defanged by the newly-formed Student-Faculty Senate, leaving the Student Council to do things like plan school dances and bake sales and the like. When I became president, Mr. Warner pulled me aside and told me something that’s I’ve carried with me all my life. He said, “You’re doing too much. You’re in charge of getting things done, but it’s not your job to do those things. Your job is to get other people to do that stuff for you.” I can’t tell you how many times that simple word of advice has helped me, literally all my life.
I remember the feelings of grief and disbelief that I felt when I learned that the big red barn on the Hawken campus had burned to the ground. The ropes course in the giant lofty front half of the building was spectacular. I felt it as a huge loss to future classes at Hawken who would not get the opportunity to test their skill, balance and courage on those ropes. But there are other ways to “learn the ropes”as it were, and my coming in early from my solo taught me a lot about myself, but also about the support that I got from the others that weekend, especially from Mr. Warner.
Over the years, I became a dad, worked many different jobs, paid the bills, fed the family. We made ends meet, and life has thrown us many challenges. I am just now beginning to enjoy retirement from the corporate work force. The whole time, I’ve always relied on an internal Mr. Warner who had my back, encouraging me to be brave, giving me advice on how to handle situations, and always watching the hallways like a hawk.
Thanks, Coach.
Notes:
It’s an ingrained habit. I have to refer to Keith Warner as “Mr. Warner”. It’s the rules. I feel like I am still wearing a necktie…
I never called Mr. Warner “Pops”. That was a name for for youth football organizations. I called him “Coach”, though I can’t for the life of me figure out if I ever participated in a sport he coached me in.
We mustn’t forget Mr. Scott and all the contributions he made to the OL program. It just turns out that Mr. Scott and I never got very close. It was probably due to a lack of opportunity, when I think back on it. Tant pis, as they say.
