Bourtie House, Scotland

On a rainy Sunday afternoon in New England, sitting before a crowd of those I value as much as anyone, I watched Shackleton close. The school, which had helped me so much over the past years, could do so no longer due to a total lack of funds. I sat at the front; my face tilted upward, more the product of a starched collar than any internal discipline or “stiff upper lip” mentality.

Since then, from catching the plain to London to taking the train through Eastern Europe, I have been thinking of writing in homage to Shackleton. Yesterday I spent several hours by the computer, fingers prodding the keys half-heartedly. How could I sum up the school, the friendships forged, lost and strengthened, those days spent perched at the top of Blood Hill and desert gullies, all in a page?

The following list of “I had nevers” illustrates just some of my experiences from Shackleton. Together they are a tribute to time spent learning in four countries, over thirty American states, numerous ecosystems and several cities.

I had never climbed part of the Appalachian Trail. I remember as I scrambled to the top of a mountain and looked down upon all I had done that day, letting the sun fall down on upon my face and knowing that I had achieved something. Two weeks into the school year and one week into wilderness orientation, lying back against the rocks with my hat over my eyes I felt better than I had in years, my body was fit and my mind calmer.

I had never worked at a ski resort. Leaning head on into the door, staggering through and flopping down upon a chair, I understood what work was like. I slipped off my gloves and, slamming my hands against the counter, was almost able to defrost my fingers. The seconds passed, someone fell over and again I was up, lunch forgotten as I ran to the lift ramp, slamming my hand against the metal STOP button.

I had never taught Mexican immigrants their rights once in the U.S. I remember standing on rust and rubbish, a stack of business cards in my pocket and a few words of Spanish somewhere in the back of my head. Before me stood people, Smugglers and their human cargo, the former confident in leather jackets and oversized belt buckles, the latter worried and scared, holding bottled water and children as we stepped forward with our cards.

Now, that stage of my life is over but the sense of adventure and exploration is not. As I grab my pen and note pad, sling a backpack strap over my shoulder and head out the door I know that whatever mistakes I make, I am still very much the Student at Large of my blog.