Day One: K's Story

When the plane touched down it was with both a sense of relief and dread. Not because of the flight, I have no fear of flying. But because we'd completed the first and hardest step towards wilderness therapy—getting our daughter there. For many entering wilderness, they're unwilling and have to be transported, which to a parent sounds nothing less than barbaric, even unthinkable. We were one of the lucky few, although it was touch-and-go the night before. Our educational consultant reassured us over the phone, we have backup if we need it. He'd been alerted and was poised for our call. I envisioned some burly piece of granite manhandling our daughter. What were his qualifications? I didn't even ask. My husband said, that guy's got the worst job in the world.

Though we nodded gravely and told her, ok, it felt like a bluff. If faced, could we really place that call? Talking to other moms I've been informed, yes, we could. And no, we wouldn't regret it. I feel thankful it was never put to the test. So even though the squeal of tires on tarmac offered some semblance of consolation, it also signified the last moments I'd have with my daughter for the next eight to twelve weeks.

Calling it weeks somehow made it easier, a timeframe doled out in teaspoons rather than by the cupful. I was told to expect ten or eleven, but have since learned it can go as many as fifteen, possibly more. It all depends on the student's progress: how long it takes to submit to the process, to own up to your stuff, to commit wholeheartedly and not just jump through hoops. They can only fake it for so long. They may resist, they may stumble or revert, but eventually they will come out the other side, bright-eyed and eager.

Every program has phases. For us it's Earth, Fire, Water and Air. I personally was hoping she'd blow through them in record time like the champ I knew she could be, home in time for summer. Since the age of six she'd spent the first five weeks of summer on the beach getting sweaty and sandy and brown as a bun in a program called Jr Guards. She wanted to eventually become an instructor. This hopeful scenario only confirms my degree of denial, because even with wilderness therapy's success rate, most will go onto a recommended residential program or therapeutic boarding school directly after. The idea behind a secondary program, it gives that extra support and help often essential to a seamless transition back into regular school and home life. But we weren't there yet, so I didn't want to think about it. What I wanted to think, was my daughter would be the exception.

She squeezed my hand as we jostled off the plane, through the terminal, down the corridor, consciously passing on the moving sidewalk—no rush here—towards baggage claim. There, even though we weren't claiming any, two people awaited to take my trembling, weepy daughter literally and figuratively off my hands. I stalled to buy a pack of gum, it would be her last piece for a while. Stalled again to use the restroom. I looked like hell. The closer we got, the harder she squeezed. We were like Dorothy and the Scarecrow entering the Haunted Forest, though unlike them our journey ended too soon.

To be honest I can't remember their names. They were younger than I expected. He was tall and thin and clean cut. She was short and dark, and under different circumstances looked like she'd be pretty spunky. They weren't holding a sign or wearing matching t-shirts, it was more the way they examined us as we approached that gave them away. "Are you…?" he asked. Yes, wasn't it obvious? We were both wrecked. "She's in good hands," he assured me. But they didn't have kids, I thought, they haven't a clue what this is like. Beyond those rehearsed words, both seemed at a loss.

For my daughter's sake, and I suppose to stall even longer, I asked about the drive. He said it was an hour to the main office, where she'd undergo a medical exam, be fitted with gear along with every shred of clothing down to her underwear. She'd even have to part with her beloved nose ring. For a girl who never travelled anywhere without Benjamin Bear stuffed in her luggage, this was big. It was another hour-and-a-half to the field, they called it, where she'd put on her pack and hike in to where nine other, similarly outfitted girls, ranging in age between thirteen and seventeen, were already camped. As difficult as it was for me to picture, I couldn't imagine what was racing through her already anxious-prone mind.

When we hugged I heard a muffled, "I love you, Mom." After her earth-shattering "I HATE YOU" the night before, it foretold of better things to come. It was a good sign, one less hurdle. Unlike many entering wilderness, she seemed to have already resigned herself. A phase over almost before it began—again, something for which I'm grateful. It's a strange, surreal sensation releasing custody of your child. A standard part of enrollment. If a student runs and, be warned, sometimes they do, the necessary paperwork is needed to bring them back. In that final moment, letting go, we were both placing the power in the hands of strangers.