Bound for Adventure, Inside and Out

By Michelle Amerie

As a wheelchair user, I trip over any image of myself as a member of a portage crew, a crew whose only method of traversing the land between lakes is to either carry or drag supplies and boats overland. Heck, as a person with multiple sclerosis I often have enough trouble just hauling myself around! Yet somehow, what I was able to do was enough -- and the total contribution of each participant doing what they could do saw us through six days of successful portaging.

To find myself in the high Kawarthas, drinking in the early stages of autumn s metamorphosis, taking heart in the final blossoming of the leaves on the giant trees, rejoicing in the sounds of the water rippling across the lily pads en route to the open lakes -- and to have my voice join the excited throng of the other adventurers on this Outward Bound adventure -- defied all of my previous frustrations about never again having access to God s green forest. Hey, I always thought God meant for nature to be accessible!

So, there we were: an integrated team of twelve, people with and without disabilities, equipped with thirteen packs of gear, six canoes, and two wheelchairs...

We understood from the outset that the Access to Adventure program was to be a "blended" adventure, bringing with it two important lessons: one in teamwork; the other a much more private event.

For many of us, the trip took the form of a pilgrimage of sorts. A way to knock down the confinements built by a society which too often lacks understanding about the nature of disability. Worse, confinements which we as people with disabilities at times allow to taint our own perspectives.

It was not easy for some of us to come face to face with our own personal challenges, our own demons. Away from our usual homes, some very private words could be heard: "I don t fit in..." "I can t do this..." "I m scared..." Each of these negative messages had to be stared down and overcome. Survival, on many levels, depended on it.

Within the group we would learn the value of interdependence, camaraderie, sharing support and resources; we would learn to rely on each other for warmth, strength, safety and, if need be, rescue.

The lessons were continuous. Some were serious, rescue-oriented exercises, and some, while just as important, were more physically demanding and filled with the fun of exertion. Many of these had the wonderful by-product of cementing us closer as a team, as a wilderness community.

The "Flying Squirrel" saw each of us wearing a parachute harness and being hoisted, one at a time, by the others, on a cable -- 20 feet in the air -- to learn trust. I could think of easier ways! The "Web Site" had us assist one another in moving through a huge, spiderweb-like mesh of nine various shapes. A lesson in cooperation and perhaps -- given our various sizes and shapes, and the sizes and shapes of the various openings -- a lesson in diplomacy as well.

Perhaps the most challenging of these exercises was the "Zip-Line".
This was an exercise which... allowed?... compelled?... forced! each of us to fly high above the forest floor, well among the upper branches of the giant trees surrounding us. Some of us were hoisted, some climbed the treacherous height using tree rungs, but, incredibly, all of us, each in our turn, jumped from the tiny platform located among the leaves. Each of us zipped, at untold speed, 150 feet on a cable leading through a narrow path hewn through the "second story" of our forest playground.

Our fifth day out brought a special surprise. We had barely set up base camp when it was announced that we would each be going on a solo outing. Furthermore, although we were to do this exercise on our own, we were still a team. Therefore, each of us would be going through the same thing, at the same time; and that, we were told, was reassuring.

As the afternoon grew to a close, we were each taken, one by one, with our sleeping bags and mats, a packsack of clothes, a small bag of food and a piece of plastic for a tarp, to an isolated area on the lake --and left alone.

It felt like some sort of rite of passage. I was ushered out of the canoe and left on a rock ledge to set up camp, with my meagre supplies --and a whistle, just in case of emergency. Very reassuring, that whistle... quite...

Nearly immediately I made friends with a cedar tree. "Tree," as I decided to call it, volunteered to hold my tarp up all night (or so I hoped). Tree and I bonded instantly, although, in hindsight, sap may have had something to do with it.

I had the sense that the day was growing late. I set my supper preparations down on the rock surface: a baggie of couscous to mix with some of the water I had in my jug. As I reached for the jug I brushed against the couscous, which of course started to roll, picking up speed as it went over the edge of my rock to the ledge just above the water below. Foolishly, I started to go after the baggie -- but Tree sent a message in the wind: "You are not wearing your life jacket!"

Let s just say, for dinner that night, I learned to appreciate further the subtle qualities of "gorp" -- an exquisite combination of raisins, nuts, chocolate chips, sunflower seeds and mini-pretzels. Mmm, good!

As dusk set in, I sat inside my makeshift "house" quietly contemplating life and listening to the frogs tune up for their evening symphony. The tranquility of this moment was disrupted by an unexpected rustle through the underbrush -- and it was very close. It wasn’t a heavy noise, but something was there just outside the tarp.

I peered into the twilight and a head popped out from nowhere -- a bit too close for my eyes to decipher any details. I flailed around, determined to protect my dwelling from the giant wilderness invader. Tree, who joined me in this battle, also put up a good fight. Unfortunately, in the heat of the attempted preemptive strike against the unseen invader, half of our house came flapping down.

It was at this point that the intruder deemed to show himself, in all his awesome glory. Tree and I caught a final glimpse of a bullfrog taking huge leaps across the campsite. Mr. Bullfrog was obviously late and eager to get to the symphony before the lights went out, his seat was taken and he was barred from the evening s performance.

OK, so this time it was a bullfrog. Next time, who knows, it might be a wolverine. I grabbed my spoon and bowl and started clanging around the site. I was determined to give fair warning to any other intruders -- lest they have to face our fury (Tree’s and mine) again that night.

That night, I drifted in and out of a half-sleep with the sleeping bag pulled so tight around my face that only my specs and my nose stuck out. I heard vague sounds of rustles and scratches in the middle of the night -- but by now I didn’t care. "Fine, eat the food, just don’t eat the plastic, or me! I don’t want to have to deal with a carcass in the morning... yours or mine!"

The next thing I knew was the sweet chirp of a bird, announcing the new day. Whatever had been outside making all the scratchy noises during the night did end up with the rest of my food. Undoubtedly it was a bear (...maybe). Whatever it was, I was the visitor here. So the little food I offered was the least I could do for the hospitality. A good thing, I thought, that I had followed instructions in placing the food at a safe distance.

I watched the sun come up and laughed while my stomach gurgled. I packed up my gear, had a long goodbye with Tree, sat quietly and waited for the canoe to arrive to unite me with the others. In my mind I went over the details from the previous night. I knew that the others were doing the same, and I found myself gleefully anticipating the sharing of all our adventures.

And sharing there was! Each of us had a unique contribution to make to the collective story which was this adventure. I felt, as did we all, that we were now members in great standing of a very exclusive club: a group of wilderness soulmates. Our experiences -- the solo expedition, the rain-soaked afternoon, the evening campfires, the gruelling physical challenges, the shared song, the collective laughter -- had changed each of us in different ways. But change was the common factor. We each were leaving this experience with gifts which, to some degree, we had lacked upon arrival: renewed confidence, increased determination, a sense of community... a willingness to trust.

This adventure was soon to be over. But, as was offered up on more than one campfire occasion, the real Outward Bound adventure begins on the day the official course ends. I am already enjoying my new beginning...

Thanks to Zurich Canada for sponsoring this Zurich Access to Adventure Program. Zurich s generosity, along with the skills of the Outward Bound staff, made this experience one which every participant will always treasure.

(Michelle Amerie is a freelance writer living in Toronto, Ontario.)