In commemoration of me being finished working at Mission Springs Outdoor Education (for the time being), here's a story I've been asked to share a few times. I've changed some names to protect the innocent.
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| Class inside "Stumpy" |
They were my final few hours at Mission Springs before leaving for the summer. Night hike was left to lead, but the truck was packed, and I was ready to be in the mountains again.
This particular school was from Oakland. They received financial aid to come to Mission Springs as they came from underprivileged homes. Normally parents of the students volunteered to help at camp, but few volunteered this week, so only their teacher was along to help me out during classes. Though they lived just thirty minutes from the beach and a couple hours from the mountains, many had never seen the ocean or snow. They were very uneasy about being in the forest during classes. Perhaps the most uneasy was KeShawn—certainly he was the most vocal.
KeShawn was an interesting student. I’m not sure if he had a disorder or not, but he acted differently from the other students. He was flamboyant and loud. He flailed his arms when he saw bugs. He was quick to laugh and even quicker to scream—a high, feminine scream. This scream would come out at the smallest iota of fear. It was a cleaver he used to chop my class into segments of pre and post screaming. As one would hope, I was working with him on not disrupting class. It was a long week, soon to be over—the kind of week which is rewarding only after it is over.
The class was uneventful. So uneventful, the sun never even went down because it was the first week of June. I felt silly leading a night hike without any night. “When’s it gonna get dark, Mr. Ben?” the students kept asking. I gave them lame answers, I’m sure. I had little confidence that anything I was teaching was sticking in their minds. My only hope was that somewhere in their sub consciousnesses, the forest would linger and eventually bloom into a fond memory fueling compassion on wild places.
Finally, the sun started to consider thinking about beginning to set. I looked at my watch, shrugged my shoulders and introduced the final activity. Solo walk involves a short section of trail (about 200 ft) which the student’s walk one by one without the aid of a flashlight. My introduction to the activity was silly because I was unable to think of anything applicable to say. I encouraged them to face their fears, to encourage each other, not to use their flashlights, etc. I don’t know why. Eventually, I left them in broad daylight with their teacher who would send them off one by one to meet me at the end of the walk. Of course, near the end of the stretch of trail I heard a resounding “Hi Mr. Ben!” and looked down to see that the trail had bent in a wide “U”. The class was waving at me.
After a minute or two the first student arrived at my post. I congratulated her and asked her to sit quietly until the whole class had arrived. I did the same for the next student; and for KeShawn after I had mentally prepared myself for the task of keeping him quiet. I was doing a remarkable job, I think, maybe too good of a job.
When the fifth student was in, KeShawn began holding up two fingers at me. Like a peace sign. I just shushed him and congratulated the fifth student. He put his hand down and sat more quietly than I expected, but when the sixth student came in he was jumping up and down flashing the peace sign. “At least he is being quiet,” I thought. But then I noticed his eyes were closed tight and his knees were pushed together.
“KeShawn,” I whispered, “what do you want?”
He had finally caught on to the quietness concept and would not speak a word. He just flashed the peace sign at me and jumped up and down in that crazy position.
A dim light flipped on in my head. “KeShawn, do you have to go number two?”
He nodded emphatically.
“There aren’t any bathrooms around here,” I said. And there weren’t. Even if there were, I couldn’t leave the group. “KeShawn, is it an emergency?”
Nodding—more emphatic than before if you can believe it.
“If it’s an emergency, you’re going to have to go in the trees. Is it an emergency?”
Emphatic is not a strong enough word to describe his nodding.
“OK you guys, just wait here a minute,” I said to the rest of the class and took KeShawn up the trail to find a secluded location. I found a spot about a hundred feet off the trail behind a large group of redwood trees. “KeShawn,” I said pointing, “go on this side of the trees, OK?”
He was already unzipping his pants which caused me to leave in haste and give him fewer instructions than were probably necessary. It also caused me not to look back as I returned to the group.
When I reached the group the class was pointing and giggling. Of course, KeShawn was not going where I pointed. He was in the distance, but his bare butt bending over was clearly visible through the trees.
“OK!” I shouted jumping on the opposite side of the class. “Let’s talk a little more about how bats fly at night! Eyes on me, please. Jamil! Eyes up here.” I blabbered on about random night hike things as students kept coming in one by one. They actually did a wonderful job of keeping their eyes on me. It makes me think they didn’t really want to turn around anyway. In due time, I heard the snapping of twigs and the crunching of needles indicating that KeShawn was on his way back to the trail. Only a couple of class members were yet to come in before the teacher could rejoin the group.
Then, with a certain rear end out of sight and the end of my week coming into view—with most of the class present and the teacher away down the trail—the you-know-what hit the fan (almost literally).
High pitched, feminine screams erupted from the forest like a forgotten tea pot boiling over. At first I was annoyed, but in a few moments I realized the screams were not merely attention-seeking. They were desperate, tortured screams. It was the type of screaming let out by someone genuinely in pain. They hurt to listen to.
And of course, if that weren’t enough, that is the also the moment the teacher strolled into the group which was giggling. The teacher, horrified by the screaming, lost control and yelled, “It’s not funny!” at the giggling class who promptly shut their mouths. The teacher and I looked at each other, then ran towards KeShawn. Up close, his screaming sounded like a cloth tearing in my ears. “What’s wrong?!” the teacher yelled repeatedly, but KeShawn, being least articulate at the worst of times only continued screaming. Finally, as he was gasping for air, I asked him “Where does it hurt?!” He pointed to his ear. It looked normal, but as I bent it forward and looked behind it, I found an angry yellow jacket latched onto the skin behind it. I brushed off the insect only to find KeShawn still screaming and slapping his leg. We extricated the yellow jacket from his pant leg and the three of us ran for safety up the trail.
We found several more of the wasps entangled in his clothing. We stripped off his jacket and his other jacket and his sweatshirt (careful to avoid pooh smears in the process). I don’t know why he had on so many layers in June. Every time we thought we had found them all, more screams would break out and KeShawn would be slapping a new part of his body. Once they were all found, the teacher and I decided to head back to the cabins to get KeShawn some sting relief and a much needed shower.
It was a sad hike back to the cabins. The students were shocked and quiet for a while. As always, KeShawn could be heard above the others, sniffling though, rather than shouting. Eventually conversations started up about how they were homesick and how the city is so much better than the forest. “I hate the wilderness,” said one girl, “In the city there’s no bugs or wasps and you don’t have to sit in the dirt.” Many similar things were said on that hike back. But one boy, reading my emotions with great maturity, looked up at me as we walked. He had cornrows. “It’s OK, Mr. Ben,” he said. “I don’t mind the wilderness. I still had a good time at camp—even with the wasps. I’d still go out in the trees and try hiking sometime.” I am eternally impressed with and grateful to that student.
I decided to finish the class in the museum as the teacher helped KeShawn get cleaned up. I sat in front of the class and put KeShawn’s potentially poopy clothes beside me. I revisited nocturnal animals using the stuffed barn owl and fox, but one girl kept freaking out about things crawling on her. “Are the wasps all gone?” other students kept asking. “Yes, yes, they’re all gone. Terice, it’s ok, there aren’t any wasps on you.” After I told my pirate story around a candle the first thing they asked was if the lights could be turned back on. The second thing they asked was if the wasps were gone.
Some of the last things we talked about were fears and dreams we have had. This discussion was led by a kind elderly teacher who joined our group on the hike down. Several dreams were shared about thugs on the street with guns, but the discussion ended, of course, with wasps and I assured them, once again, that they were all gone.
As the class was collecting their things and getting up to leave, I saw in my peripheral something rise up out of KeShawn’s clothing pile. It was a yellow jacket and it was buzzing against the window behind me. I hesitated a second, then slapped it hard. “What was that?” one student asked hearing the bang against the glass. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember feeling relieved that no one suspected what it was.
I didn’t know that when I would return to Mission Springs the next fall, sitting on my desk would be an evaluation from that teacher full of encouragement and praise about my time with his students. Along with that evaluation would be student evaluations (including one from KeShawn) which actually had some good things to say about nature. It could have been pity, I guess, but I choose to think that the students did actually connect with nature in some positive way that week. But, I wouldn’t get those evaluations for a couple months.
As is so often the case, by the time I aimed my truck at the mountains and drove off, it was much later than I planned. I drove through the night chewing on sunflower seeds and thinking about KeShawn and my past months at Mission Springs. The windows were down the whole way.
