Editor’s Note: This was written in late May as I tried to settle into a pandemic routine at NOLS’ Three Peaks Ranch. Andy met me at the Steele House…
Category: NOLS
The phone rang. I looked down at my desktop and saw a 307 number–Wyoming–but not one I recognized. I picked it up. Three weeks earlier in mid-March, NOLS had…
Jeremiah was born in a holding cell and raised in prison. He never walked shoeless through rolling, windswept sage and greasewood; his hungry stomach never ached for saltbrush or winterfat…
From the beginning, I was skeptical. That is what drew me in; that and a desire to be involved. I read the paperwork; the .pdf described various recommended practices. We…
Editor’s Note: Not my usual style of writing, but this grew out of an assignment for a class I am taking so I thought I would post it here…
At least the horses were easy to catch, even Doug. “Huh, our list of horses here says Cooper” I say running my eyes over the packing list for the re-ration.…
June 1997 — We spent the overcast and wet day practicing skills. Placing snow protection, clipping through fixed pro, traveling on a rope team, ice axe use and self arresting. …
“You can just leave it in my office.” It happens again and again. “Wait, do you even have an office?” or “where IS your office?” People ask, even if we are…
[Editors Note: I was recently “on deck” for NOLS to go to New Zealand to fill an emergency staffing position and this piece is one of the many things that…
September 2015–It is a classic September morning in the Wind River Range. Orange, yellow, and reds splash across the frost covered meadows framing the meandering, slow moving Fall Creek. Upstream,…
Is it possible to de-assess myself? Stress is weighing on me, heavier than the sixty pounds of gear and food I am shouldering up this long, steep gully. Kick, kick,…
“That’s not rain, it is Chuck Norris pee!” KG yells across the maelstrom to the neighboring tent. There is no pitter patter of rain, just a constant white noise, rhythmically…
We walked through the narrow portal in the cinderblock wall. A tall, wrought Iron gate clanked loudly as it closed behind us, keeping the honest people honest. The street below…
I sit there, entitled to my crammed seat, or one would suspect, given my non-deference to the elderly, the mothers, the workers. It doesn’t feel good, it doesn’t feel right. …