Adapting To The Mountains

MINE adviser Ivan Miller reflects on the unique perspective that perseverance provides.

By Ivan Miller

On August 9, 2019, my good friend Charlie Wilshire and I pulled up to the Pole Creek Trailhead knowing full well that we were about to enter Oregon’s Three Sisters Wilderness under a severe weather system. Weather reports warned about thunderstorms and possible snow. After a decade of adventuring throughout Oregon and California, we had seen worse.

Midway through the 7.1-mile hike to Camp Lake, ominous clouds formed over the Three Sisters. Not long after, marble-sized (big and small) hail pelted us for ten minutes as we huddled under some pine trees. Once the hail let up, we bolted to camp, moving quickly to avoid hypothermia.

A half hour after arrival, we sat comfortably under a giant tarp, our tent tucked into wind-protected trees. I read a Kelly Cordes story in Adventure Journal magazine about how climber Tommy Caldwell improvised a 5.14d dyno pitch as part of his monumental climb of the Dawn Wall on El Capitan in Yosemite. Having never successfully completed the dyno, Caldwell ended up down-climbing in the dark, creating a giant circle to finish the pitch. After years of failed attempts, Caldwell simply saw the challenge with new eyes.

With wind and rain whipping all around us, Charlie and I recalled past escapades and near blunders, often laughing uncontrollably. Some of us relish adverse situations, for they often bring out the best in a person, reminding us of the depth of human potential. The late gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson sums things up nicely: “When the going gets tough, the weird turn pro.”

Late into the night, I sat up and marveled at the lengthy Adventure Journal magazine I had purchased in a Sisters bookstore. I wondered if my journalism students could pull off something similar—upping their design game and creating a book of stories. I quickly decided they could. My mind started to race at the possibility and I recorded my thoughts in an old reporter’s notebook. I savored the chance to journal, delving deeper into self-exploration, something I learned to do by accident on a lengthy road trip throughout the western United States when I was only 19. Alone and bumming from one national park to the next, the simple exercise of journaling changed my life. I found solace in recording my daily adventures and interactions. By taking the time to find stillness and make sense of my world, I discovered ecstasy in the outdoors and found my voice, suddenly believing I could achieve anything.

As an educator, I hope for similar results in my students. So I created the Miller Integrated Nature Experience (MINE), a combination of journalistic learning, outdoor exploration, experiential education, and one heck of a crash course in leadership.

And after six years and multiple iterations of the program, it gets pretty good results, which appear in dirtcovered student journals, as opposed to standardized test results. MINE students can flip through the pages of their journal and relive an experience—backpack trips, hikes, conservation projects, sunset sit spots, 1,000-mile road trips, late nights producing professional-level publications— stories all their own, written for no one else. Students learn to slow down and find peace, slowly building the confidence to set new standards for themselves, living free and transcending their everyday high school experience.

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Sitting at 6,952 feet and nestled at the base of South Sister, Camp Lake is a heavily populated playground for dirtbags of all kinds, and regardless of the weather, it served as a launching pad for our adventure. Charlie and I had originally dreamed of completing the Sisters Marathon, bagging all three peaks in succession. We had to adjust to the idea of waiting for conditions to improve, for we woke to the storm in full swing, the mountains quite uninviting. At 9:42 a.m., we departed for a summit attempt. At 1 p.m., having climbed up the south side of Middle Sister, we found ourselves socked in by clouds 9,150 feet up. On a steep glacier, we held out for half an hour hoping the clouds would pass. No luck.

We ended up back at Camp Lake, hanging out atop a knoll on the west end. At that moment, I thought of my students. I wanted them to see what I was seeing, to feel at peace when others might see failure.

Reaching the peak of a mountain shouldn’t be the point of the climb. Hopefully, the point is to exact some positive change in the individual, perhaps seeing new possibilities and feeling strong enough to take on the unexpected. Lounging back at camp, I felt comfortable with our attempt, and looked forward to having another shot at it the next day.

On day three, we set out at 10:37 a.m., not exactly early by diehard mountaineer standards. The previous night I had pined over the map, looking for a different route to the top. After all, I had already seen the easy path up the south side. I suggested taking a more difficult route to the east (the weird turn pro), perhaps giving us a small sense of what it would feel like to take on North Sister, a decaying mess of mountain that can prove fatal in late summer attempts. After carefully navigating crumbling rock and melting glaciers, we stopped about 9,150 feet up Middle Sister. Clouds engulfed us, the sky turned dark. Prudently, we descended, returning to camp.

That night, the clouds cleared and the Three Sisters finally appeared in all their glory. Part of me was bothered by not reaching the top. After all, we had prepared for the Marathon and we had yet to reach the top of a single peak. On the other hand, I felt the comfort of the wilderness blanket me, and soon realized I was getting exactly what I really needed—a bit of peace, and perhaps a new challenge for MINE students in the year to come.

In the waning light of the day, I thought about education, and how it feels like we just blindly charge up the mountain trying to reach the top. I couldn’t help but feel that we often set students on predetermined paths (trade jobs, college, etc.) with very few options. Many never really discover what they’re capable of, and we simply judge them based on meaningless measurements. The result: many kids are left with GPAs and test scores, rather than deeper personal stories, individual triumphs, and life lessons learned.

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Later that summer, I spent a week in the Eagle Cap Wilderness, summiting a couple big mountains with my wife before returning to teach in the fall. I brought the Adventure Journal with me, reading it front to back. I daydreamed about using the book as a measuring stick in my journalism class, knowing I had a handful of students returning, and that previous groups had created quite a blueprint on how to make an outdoor magazine.

So in the first full week of school I introduced the idea of creating a 128-page magazine to my students, the majority of which were rookies and had no previous experience in journalism. Honestly, some students never bought in (no program works for every kid), but most of them took the leap of faith.

My approach is simple: encourage students to explore the community, let them choose roles in which they lead the way, provide time for self-reflection, and take them outside. And I request that kids think of themselves not as students but as professional journalists.

Empowering students in this way works wonders. As an educator, this means encouraging students to pitch, report, and write stories they’re interested in, sending them out into the community and inspiring them to be leaders.

For six years, MINE students have helped build a program that works for them. Empowered as editors, designers, and photographers, they keep raising the bar every year. And after a semester, this year’s students were no different, creating a stellar 64-page community magazine, right on track to meet the goal of 128 pages for Backcountry Review. On top of that, we were set to make our annual central coast trip, where in past years we’ve really established a stronger sense of community, building up to our final magazine cycle and allowing for a big finish to the year.

Everything changed on March 13. Knowing we were in a global pandemic and about to miss school time, I met with my editors-in-chief to discuss a game plan, for I don’t make all the decisions for the class. Rather, we all have to be on board. With the encouragement of the editors-inchief, I addressed students and laid out a plan to finish the magazine.

Well, things didn’t go exactly as planned. We never returned to school and ten of 25 seniors, given the opportunity, decided to graduate early. On top of that, we were unable to cover the outdoor community as originally planned. Sheltered in place, students could not go take photos, nor did they have the necessary tools to design the magazine. At that point, even I questioned whether or not completing the magazine was possible. We had reached a stopping point on our climb, or so we thought. Somehow, students came together and saw a new approach. After all, when the going gets tough, MINE kids turn pro. Editors diligently finished their lengthy feature stories. Designers got creative with unused photos from the previous year, collected contributed art, and made magic out of what appeared to be nothing. Everyone adapted to communication via group chats, Google Meet, and even the old fashioned phone call. And everyone rallied around each other.

Quite simply, MINE students are incredible, and this year they took it to another level. Self-labeled the “dirtbag family,” everyone pushed back against personal obstacles and limitations to support the larger group. I do not know that I’ve ever been more proud of a group of students. This magazine embodies not only everything that this program stands for but everything that is good about education.

I can only hope that someday my two sons, Emerson and Nash, have a similar type of opportunity to test their abilities, form meaningful relationships, and reach unknown heights. I hope they have such a powerful story to record in their own journals. For the students that passionately worked to create Backcountry Review, perhaps they’ll remember this experience the next time they face adversity, a seemingly unclimbable mountain, if you will. And whether they make it to the top or not, maybe they’ll see the beauty and strength inside themselves for having the guts to try, and maybe they’ll remember the time they unlocked the heroic narrative that lies in all of us.