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Featuring selections by...
| Paige Grant, '74 |
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Ben Hobbs, '74 |
| Marcia Hermann, '73 |
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Trude Kleess, '74 |
| Karin Zachow, '74 |
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Robert Alexander, '83 |
| Ted Schleicher, '72 |
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Katie Mulve (Reilley), '73 |
| Steve Matthews, '72 |
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Rebecca Strouse (aka Becky Ambler), '70 |
| Andrea Gold, '74 |
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Click on a person or place below to see where they are mentioned in the
following stories!
 Paige Grant, Class of 1974
Orientation Fall 1970
My memories of Wilderness Orientation
are tribal. They seem to be not just my own memories, but a race’s
memory of walking long hot dry days carrying a heavy load across
hard country, with a small band of your own people. They are memories
of worrying about water, longing for water, finding water and the
cell-deep satisfaction of that, setting up camp at the bottom of
a canyon, making fire, cooking, taking care of each other, scrambling
up the canyon wall alone to see the sunset, hearing the quiet talk
and laughter of my band amplified by the rock walls, the great red
and lavender empty wide world pivoting around Navajo Mountain settling
into dusk up there at the canyon rim, the jewels of the planets
and early stars appearing, the safety and sweetness of knowing that
I am not alone in that vastness. My people are there below, and
tomorrow we will journey on to the gathering of the bands by the
lake.
And then the extraordinary excitement of that gathering. To begin with,
just the buzz of a hundred personalities -- we had become accustomed, in
a week, to the habits, the looks, of the ten of us, and suddenly we were
an order of magnitude greater, louder, funnier, sexier! We camped in a jumble
of clean slabs of sandstone, and a bunch of the guys began a competition
to climb them, the competitors moving from problem to problem with a growing
audience following, catcalling, challenging, the Brits keeping us all in
stitches. Finally the group came to a great wedge of rock, 20 feet tall,
with a long clean face at a 70 degree angle and the other sides, near vertical,
with barely a bump and nary a crack, we observed, with our newly trained
rock-climbers' eyes. Challenger after challenger tried the walls, some hilariously
(Mike climbing from Howie's shoulders to his head to gain some altitude),
some, like David Lovejoy (RDP '73), marvelously crawling like Spiderman up
to 10 or 12 feet before falling off. Finally, a huge blond Visigoth of a
guy (I don't recall his name) cleared the watchers away, 30 yards from the
sloped face of the rock, and ran at it full tilt. His momentum carried him
most of the way until he fell forward and grasped the top, hauling himself
up in triumph to a roar of laughter and admiration from the audience.
That night, there was a glorious, immoderate bonfire with all the bands
gathered around it, the fire throwing light and shadow against the boulders
that provided a ceremonial place, a Utah Stonehenge, for our rite. Rusty
Baillie led us in a call-and response African song that moved from a growly
bass to a high nasal whine. Singing in that huge chorus, you couldn't tell
how much the resonance in your body was from your own voice and how much
from the vibrations and echoes of the bodies and rocks around you.
Something happened in those three weeks in the canyons and on “Lake
Foul” (abomination that it is, nothing could make that country less
than magnificent) that anchored me in that place. This past March, my son
and I went backpacking in Fish and Owl Creeks up in Cedar Mesa country. He
turned sixteen on that trip -- a year and a half younger than I was on Wilderness
Orientation. He was driving as we crossed Comb Ridge and Navajo Mountain
came into view. Sleeping Ute was over there, and I was turning and pointing
and exclaiming with a lump in my throat and a grin so wide it hurt. He ribbed
me about being goofy, and I said, "I can't help it, this is my spirit
place!" He gave me a high-five.
Back to top
 Marcia Hermann, Class of 1973
P.O. Box 1055 Del Valle, TX 78617
Though my wilderness orientation was over 30 years ago, I still remember
it as a highlight in my life. At the time we joked about people predicting
that this would be a highlight, and that our "solo" wasn't really
the profound experience it was cracked up to be. Yet, maybe it was.
We who attended in September 1968 didn't know that we would be doing this
when we
applied to Prescott College. Because of this we had few expectations.
It was a wonderful way to meet some of the upper classmates, and a great
way
to meet our professors and get the true mission of the college. Most
of the activities I had never tried before. I remember getting blisters at
the very
beginning when I went jogging in my brand new boots (I still have scars).
I hadn't bought comfortable hiking boots, I bought slip-on “desert
boots”, a big mistake. Though the blisters are one memory, this memory
does not overwhelm the positive memories. I remember Hannah Kemper
(RDP '72) telling us bedtime stories. I remember the thrill of rappelling
down a cliff.
I do remember my solo as a time to gain confidence in my self-sufficiency,
and I remember the friends I made there and the need to rely on friends
also. I met Margaret Loeb (RDP '73) on our orientation and we remain friends
today.
I still enjoy renewal from hiking in the wilderness. I just got back
from a trip to New Mexico and a pack trip up into the Pecos Wilderness, real
recreation!
Back to top
Rebecca Strouse (Becky Ambler), Freshmen Class of 1969
 It
perhaps says a lot about the wilderness orientation experience that it's
one of my most vivid memories of college days even after 30+ years.
Adventure was the highlight, not only that which was planned but
that which we added in hitchhiking to Page and working in a motel for an
hour to pay
for our lunch. Relationships were more solid when based on shared
experiences and not just verbal interaction in class. And what an introduction
to the
magical landscape of the southwest! Visual memories even now fill
my dreams.
Back to top
Ted Schleicher, Class of 1972
What is your fondest memory?
 Lenny
Ossorio (RDP '75), our assistant patrol leader urging a disgruntled
student (RT) out of Sycamore canyon with a promise of donuts at the
top.... No.. the storms on Lake Powell and swamped canoes in the dark....
No... peanut butter and tuna on trail biscuits as the meal of the day....No....clearing
a
helipad of all rocks (?) for the Parade Magazine guys to land inside
Sycamore Canyon....No...Three solo days with no food or shelter or
bag on Lake Powell, circling a huge rock for shade....No... Roy Smith
and his Outward Bound patrol leaders......No... moonlight jogs during "boot
camp" on campus the night after arrival.... No...the initiative tests
and the high rappel.... No....checking out the girls at that very first
breakfast in the Commons.....No... getting off the bus at the Greyhound
Station on
Cortez St, downtown Prescott, and being met by Nancy Pena in her VW
bus and the ride, seven miles north to the campus... No...the full
dress barbeque
up at Ron Nairn's house, overlooking the campus, after orientation...No...the
showers afterward....
What was the scariest part?
The scariest part was the storms on Lake Powell. At one point, we had
literally lost two people who were in a Sunfish (open sailboat). It was
dark, blowing rain, lightning and we were just gathering on the beach to
camp for the night.
What was your biggest challenge?
Solo was my biggest challenge. It was not the heat, or ants, or no
food, or discomfort, but the stretch of thinking weighty thoughts for three
days and nights.
What kinds of relationships did you form?
I can see all the faces and name the names from our patrol (just guys
that first year) but they were split up after orientation. Those small
groups formed bases that sprung us into the new circles of dorm life, classrooms,
and the bigger concerns. Few of these relationships continue thirty years
later.
 How did W.O. introduce you to the Southwest and Prescott College?
We did W.O. first, then came back to the campus. These weeks were some
students' first view of both the college and the SW. I happened to
know the SW from earlier times but it was all tied together in a big wonderful
package for me those first three weeks. That first orientation did
not
dwell on the college and its programs or goals for us. We were basically
left to our own devices to get through the first weeks of pretty
rigorous physical activity then come back to dig in for school.
Was W.O. what you expected?
Actually, yes, W.O. was what I needed, wanted and expected, and more.
How do you think W.O. has changed since your experience?
I served on a committee to examine the first W.O in the spring of 1969.
The first item was to integrate the patrols. That became evident at the
mixing that occurred on the beaches of Halls Crossing. We received the
Lake Powell boats from the women's groups after our Sycamore trek, and
their paddle northward. The second idea was to actually do some orienting
toward the college experience to come. The "Educated Man" seminars
that followed our orientation strove to fill this hole. They were fascinating
after-hours groups of conversation on learning and what we might do with
our brains as students at P.C. Some of the orientations that followed were
wild treks into strange and even foreign lands. Groups reveled, rebelled,
groped and prospered under upper-class student leaders, moving the trend
away from the Outward Bound beginnings.
Back to top
Katie Mulve (Reilley), Class of 1973
Orientation Fall 1971
 I suppose that losing one of our canoes to the unusually forceful waves
on Lake Powell on our first day out was warning that our "wilderness
orientation" should not be taken for granted as an easy trip. Certainly
there were many days that were just simply beautiful experiences
kayaking upstream through the moonlike setting of southern Utah's bulbous
sandy
rocks. As I crisply flicked my wrists to plunge my paddle into the
water, barely tickling the sides of my kayak, I zoned out on the oranges,
tans,
and grays of the rocks that lifted themselves from their canyon bottoms
below the waters' edge. It was an unearthly communion. Disjointed
places and textures combined with inexperienced travelers, and raw touching
of
the newness of a very unfamiliar landscape. My comfortable green
sylvan canopies of rural upstate New York had never prepared me for this.
Few of us had ever kayaked, other than our meager attempts in the college
pool, and we all struggled with the synchronicity and rhythm of the kayak
dance. Sharon Yarborough (RDP '73) just never could dip her paddle without
tipping first her head, then her shoulders, then dropping her inside hip,
following the paddle in its travels.This pushed the kayak strongly away from
the paddle, diminishing her forward speed. That loss of impulsion, combined
with her being very strongly right-sided, kept her propulsion going right.
Even when she paddled left.; So for the entire kayak trip up the 60 or so
miles of Lake Powell, Sharon sped furiously forward as she circled around
the whole group, crying just as furiously, determined to keep up, but incapable
of making the kayak go straight. What an incredible effort to not fail! I
believe Sharon faced the greatest struggles of all of us, less skilled, more
frightened, out of shape, but damn, did she have determination!
We reached our meeting place at the mouth of Dark Canyon, where we exchanged
our kayak appendages for the hiking boots we had stored in our gear.; I believe
we were only a day or two up the washes and walls of Dark Canyon before we
stopped for our solos. Three days of isolation, left to face only our selves,
without pen or paper, and stash that radio in your gear!; If you can't live
with yourself and by yourself for three days, who else could you possibly
be comfortable with? Mine was memorable, not only because I found a place
within myself for shelter, but also for the attachment I felt toward my rock-enclosed
haven, which sat directly adjacent to a small stream. I remember the security
offered by the surrounding rock slabs, comforting me with their closeness,
and the song of the waters as they gently caressed the rocky bottom substrate,
lulling me into my nighttime dreams. It brought visions of young warriors,
proving their strength, hearing the voices of their gods coming from the
talking waters. I heard rhythms, melodies, harmonies, all in some unknown
but beautiful language. The stars somehow had never shone so brightly, as
I gazed with my head resting on the solid earth holding me, up through the
waves of sound to the ephemeral blackness and whiteness of the night sky.
I found, even without my spirit companions, that I could find joy in living
things as long as nature's beauty was surrounding me.
 When we reunited, we compared our experiences about our solos, then moved
uphill into Dark Canyon and our way home. I believe it was the following
night I choose a sleeping space in a protected rock cover on the far side
of the stream that we were following as we moved up Dark Canyon. The close
rock overhang had a feeling much like my solo space, which had endeared itself
to me. It was only a short distance from the main camping area, just across
the stream, which was only a foot or two wide and quite mellow and pleasant
in its flow to the lake.; A few others made the same choice. Sometime during
the night the stream changed, feeding on its upland sources to grow into
to flash flood status. When I awoke, the simple stream was a rushing, mean
stream, several feet in width, and menacing in its power.; I pulled my equipment
together quickly, yelling to others to get moving, then moved towards the
stream. It was a struggle of forces. Water is so innocent in its character,
and so immensely powerful when gathered together in force.It was not that
deep, maybe a foot, in spots 18 inches or so, but it was violent in its intent.
Nothing was unaffected by its force and swiftness. Carrying a backpack did
not help me, but I managed to keep myself upright. Others were not so lucky
and they lost their footing or otherwise succumbed to the water's strength.
No one was injured, but we were all literally shaken up.
The flash flood that had inundated our camping area had its impacts on the
rest of our up-canyon trip. The usually inviting trip placing one foot in
front of the other along the flat bottom of Dark Canyon had become an exercise
in finding the safest, easiest trail along its alarmingly vertical sides.
At one point, we had to traverse a vertical and semi-circular cliff which
hung precipitously over the stream bottom some fifteen feet below. It wasn't
terribly difficult for the experienced and confident, but that was not who
we were.; We were novice hikers, undeveloped personas, scared students, not
quite ready for the challenges that orientation was supposed to set us up
for. I forget the buzzword now, was it "stress event" or "the
edge of losing it", I don't remember, but the whole orientation thing
was to bring you to a place where you were scared, stripped of your every
day pretences, and revealed to the core. In any case, we hung by inch wide
finger grips and slightly larger toe holds as we inched our way around the
30-foot traverse. No one fell in, though some needed assistance and even
more needed encouragement from the rest. We all successfully moved on. We
continued to hike our way uphill. We knew that our van, which offered salvation
and a way home, waited for us at the top of Dark Canyon, a mere 40 miles
or so away. It just seemed like a long way away.
We didn't have long to wait before our situation started to take a different
turn. Peggy Gurnett (RDP '74), who had experienced some difficulty in the
early stages of the flash flood, stared suffering extreme abominable pains
which she attributed to an appendicitis problem she had experienced the previous
summer. We gathered as a group to discuss alternatives, but Peggy was in
such pain we knew there was no choice but to send people out to get help.
One of the group leaders, Sonny Dumas (RDP '74), accompanied by one student,
Pam Goodrich, was selected to hike out to the van to get help. The hike was
at least 60 miles, and once they reached the van, they had an hour drive
just to get to a telephone.; I gave Pam my bag of Tootsie Rolls, and they
headed out up the trail, and took the only map we had with them.
The rest of us settled back into our new home, which actually was quite
comfortable.; We had reached a section of Dark Canyon, which had flattened
out around a corner to form a delta, which in turn provided a sizable flat
living area for our group. There was also a carved out section of rock higher
up which gave us an overhang to settle under. Which we did, and we waited.
 How long does it take two people to travel 60 miles over an unknown trail?
At least they would not be slowed by cooking. They had no food. Would they
be all right, be under the protection of the benevolent spirits and ignored
by the dangerous ones, be determined to get to the van not allowing negative
thoughts to put obstacles in their paths? Would the van start right away?
What kind of help would they get? Where the hell were we anyway, and how
long were we supposed to just hang around waiting for something to happen?
Just what were we supposed to do while we waited? Only the last question
had an answer. Almost collectively as a group we knew what we were going
to do, eat!; Eat every piece of food, bag of GORP, piece of summer sausage
we could lay our hands on.; At any point in time, you could look up into
our grotto, and see someone pawing through the food bags. Not that there
was no directive to save food, it was just ignored. We ate meals as a group,
but the rest of the time we scavenged.
Most peculiar and most chilling, Peggy's pain had not abated, but had not
worsened. As I was sitting under the overhang on day 3 after Sonny and Pam
left, I heard a rumble that penetrated the mid-day silence of the canyon.
It started low and soft, almost imperceptible to the ear, but tangible as
a concussive breath on my skin. In minutes, the rumble had turned into a
tornadic, debris-laden wind which threw sleeping bags, backpacks, boots and
food into a thousand directions, all at once.; Along with our equipment went
our peacefulness and solitude, and connection to the beauties of Dark Canyon,
as the jet helicopter hovered over our niche.
In what I recall as a short period of time, the airlift basket was lowered,
and Peggy and her gear were lifted off into the beautiful, blue, sky overhead.
Then the silence resumed. Fortunately for us all, the helicopter crew delivered
supplies to take care of us. We left the next morning.
It took the group a total of 35 hours to hike out of Dark Canyon, which
amounted to 2 ½ days in motion.; It had taken Sonny and Pam a straight
22 hours, virtually non-stop. Now THAT was amazing. Sonny had set the pace,
and Pam had followed closely.
You know, the most difficult part of "Wilderness Orientation",
you try to explain to people, is the question of meeting expectations. You
have expectations about other people, and your own expectations about yourself.;
Will you be able to meet the challenges presented to you, or will you whine,
or cry, or look for the way out to run away from facing your fears? The underlying
unknown is of whether you will live up to your own hopes for your own abilities,
whether you can face your fears, or whether your fears will diminish you
and incapacitate you.
 I had looked at the people in my group when we had first started our adventure,
but I could not have seen the hidden strengths that people carry far below
the nerves at the surface. Pam, who was as silent and reserved as a person
could be among a group of people, was as supportive, brave and strong as
anyone could ever hope to be when it came time to hike out of Dark Canyon.Sharon,
who could easily have succumbed to her difficulties, probably grew more and
fought more than anyone else in the group. The rest of us all had our individual
private discussions to resolve our doubts and fears, our strengths and abilities.
For myself, I had some very soulful moments hiking out of Dark Canyon. With
no map to guide us, we took turns leading the way up the scarcely visible
trail. Fortunately, it was significantly more visible than a few weeks before
when the other group had hiked down the canyon. Regardless, I frequently
led the group searching out the signs of a trail, which was a familiar role
for me, having spent most of my younger life scouring the woods by my home.
I can still see in my mind, as I searched the trail and rounded a corner,
the bottom of that tree, with its thick straight multi-colored trunk, its
bark glowing almost orange in the split furrows. A Ponderosa Pine!; We had
reached the top of the canyon!; The van, Sonny and Pam were within a short
walk from there.
Tuba City and Navajo Tacos were another memory waiting to happen!
Back to top
Steve Matthews, "Mr. CPOCMA," RDP 1972
 I think about two things: gaining self-confidence to make adult decisions,
and learning to trust others. My orientation in October 1971 was a standard
back-pack trip (no water). We took a U-haul to Colorado, rode on the Silverton-Durango
train (I have no idea which one we traveled first), and then got off to begin
a couple weeks of camping. We had the typical stress experiences up to our
solo. A few people were injured or too fatigue to carry their packs, so the
rest of us had to pitch in. I remember one friend of a group leader, an older
woman with the nickname of "Betty Boobs" on account of her previous
experience dancing in Toronto.... Poor Betty couldn't manage her backpack
and the hike itself on one long day.
Even other students who had completed Outward Bound had difficulty during
our trip.) On one particularly bad climb to the summit, I was in the advanced
party that prepared camp while the others struggled along. I can remember
the exquisite calm when we crested the pass of the San Juan Mountains and
hiked a little ways down the Easter slope. Later, during solo, we were hit
with a blizzard. I prepared a lean-to, but the constant rain that preceded
the snow had me soaked like a sponge. The entire night was one long shiver.
(My feet ended up being numb for a month after the orientation, but there
was no frostbite.) After surviving solo, I thought that later challenges
I faced in life were a piece of cake (like deciding to transfer to my hometown
campus of the University of California). Although I made few close student
friends at Prescott, I remember fondly the spirit of cooperation and collaboration
among strangers. I went beyond the culture shock of the first night at the
college (the shock of seeing all of the men in pony tails) to an appreciation
of the Prescott student body as "normal people" with varying levels
of intelligence and academic interests.
Wilderness Orientation helped me enjoy my Winter Block experience in Hermosillo,
Mexico (living with a middle-class family as a poor university student) and
enabled me to learn a great deal from my Spring Block Archeological Reconnaissance
trip, too. While I've made mistakes as an adult (like dropping out of a Ph.D.
program in 1980), the Prescott experience helped me cope with the inevitable
process of making decisions and moving along with my life. As a HR Specialist
who focuses on matters like organization and job design, I continue to emphasize
collaboration, teamwork, and other modern goals of human resource management.
I even spent a few years on the Total Quality Management bandwagon (until
my installation was closed), building a great deal on the collaborative philosophy
I learned at Prescott. For the last 12 years I've been designing training
programs and teaching on behalf of the Federal Government.
Back to the specific questions:
- My fondest memory was the
long hike and ensuing success when we made camp.
- The scariest part was the winter storm at Purgatory Flats.
- The biggest challenge was dealing with the physical stress each day
and getting along with others despite our differences.
- I didn't form any long-lasting relationships with my group, but I learned
to admire the older men and women who went to Vietnam and lived to tell about
it. I had tremendous respect for their maturity and ability to cope.
- I guess I learned to appreciate the diversity of the student body at
Prescott, which helped me later in academic experiences.
Overall, I think the orientation experience took me to the next level; helped
me feel mature as a college student even though I had limited work experience
and before that year, had never lived on my own.
Back to top
Andrea H. Gold, Class of 1974
Wow, this brought back some powerful memories.
What comes to mind when you hear "Wilderness Orientation"?
A few things come to mind when I hear “Wilderness Orientation”.
First, this is one of the most powerful sets of experiences I have ever had
in a condensed period of time. Second, three weeks of doing something extraordinary
for a young adult and completely out of my normal reality and last, rain
and wildlife. We encountered a lot of rain and rattlesnakes!
 What is your fondest memory?
My fondest memory is gathering with the group after the three-day period
alone. We just stood in a circle, holding hands and savoring the moment.
What was the scariest part?
The preparation part was the scariest. We went to the Granite Dells
and jumped across rocks at a quick clip until we reached a climbing area.
There we had to climb straight up a rock face about seventy-five feet high.
I had never done anything like it and at one point, the next handhold was
way above my head and I froze with fear. I had no clue how to move my body
from here to there. I thought I would fall to my death that day. I still
don’t know how I made it to the next level, except that I decided
I had to take a risk and do my best, and except whatever the consequences.
What was your biggest challenge?
My biggest challenge was spending three days alone, and without food,
nor fire, in a cold (at night), and totally isolated mountain area. I realized
how people all stay so mentally busy, well fed, and insulated in our society.
I did not have external distractions, food, nor, protection during those
three days for the first time in my life. Another challenge was developing
endurance. I remember one day on the trail, falling to my knees, gasping
for breath, wearing a sixty-Lb. pack, at high altitude, wondering how I
would take my next step.; The funniest thing was when I was the designated “cook”.
Each day a different person would cook the dehydrated food, gather the
water, and create the campfire. On my day, the wood was smoky and full
of creosote. I had a greasy black face from tending that fire. As luck
would have it, the water source was a tiny seep with barely enough to drink,
never mind wash. I looked like someone with black camouflage on their face.
We had a good laugh over that!
How did W.O. introduce you to the Southwest and Prescott College?
In one fell swoop I was immersed into a new way of doing and seeing
things, to appreciated and survive on the land. I had no real prior camping
or hiking experience. I also encountered a new way of relating to people
in a group.
What was the most profound thing that happened to you on W.O.?
We had a day of orienteering, and our group lost our way for most of
the day. At the end, we found the trail, but we were completely out of
water. The perennial stream was dry and we had no clue when we would find
water (which we also needed for dehydrated food). I had never felt so thirsty
in all of my life, and I could hardly go on. This was the one time I was
in front of the group, walking alone. I was so desperate that I prayed
to God and made a little pact. "Hey God, if you can give us some water,
I will dedicate my life to you.” (Where did that come from?) Long
story short, I walked a little further and looked right, then left. The
stream bed was still dry. I glanced away, then looked back. It was suddenly
flowing from one point onward. I blinked in disbelief and when I opened
my eyes again, the whole stream bed was full of flowing water. It was a
very, very profound moment. I had no witness, but I knew something miraculous
had happened. First thing first, I lay on my stomach and drank deeply.
Since that day, I am still pondering what happened. But I know that magic
is still with me and I have dedicated my life to helping people the best
that I can.; I can only hope to keep my end of the bargain.
Back to top
Ben Hobbs, Trude Kleess, and Karin Zachow, Class of 1974
Orientation 1972
 Orientation in 1972 took thirteen of us kayaking and hiking in the Lake
Powell region, up'river' from Escalante canyon. With 2 Steves in a small
group, Steve McAndrews (RDP '73) quickly became 'Cowboy Steve' and the name
stuck! After the requisite climbing in the Dells and repairing our equipment,
we set off with two canoes and nine kayaks. The truck broke down on the way
to Lake Powell (equipment malfunctions are apparently as necessary a part
of the orientation experience as the 3 day solo) but we finally put in at
Hite. We share the memory of a red tarp, rigged as a canoe sail, luminous
against the canyon walls. We thought we prepared well, hiding a supply cache
early in the trip. When we returned to retrieve it, the water level in Lake
Powell had been lowered substantially to air condition Phoenix. We experienced
firsthand the environmental effect as we trudged through mud and fragrant
dying fish to reach the cache! Rusty Bailey had joined us in a raft which
was then piled high with fish - destined to become garden fertilizer, much
to his neighbors' horror.
During solo in Dark Canyon, we awoke to an unforgettable roaring thunder
as a flash flood tore down the canyon. That meant gritty water, no dry places
on our solo sites and no more mysterious deliveries of sesame seed candies
! When solo was over, we congregated at the mouth of the canyon to see what
the flood had done to our boats. The kayaks were roped together, and still
floating. One canoe was easily spied. The second - a brand new Grumman -
was not to be found - until someone tripped over a small triangle of metal
which, after hours of digging in the mud, proved to be the tip of the bow!
What did we learn? For one, it’s amazing how greasy cheese can be
after 3 weeks, and still be edible (hunger, of course, being the best sauce)!
Also, freeze-dried chili and beans tasted much better on Orientation than
when prepared with hot water from the dorm tap, and Vaseline Intensive Care
is not a frivolous luxury in the desert. More importantly, we learned how
smoothly a group can work. Everyone did what was needed and pulled together.
Egos were not a problem. We returned to campus with friendships earned by
sharing the trials and joys of a wilderness experience. We were also oriented
inward, and more self-confident. Surprisingly enough, this did not distance
us from those who took other trips. Rather, Orientation gave us a common
bond with all other PC students. What we could not know at the time was that
Orientation also gave us lifelong friendships. We have visited each other
all over the United States and in The Netherlands and Galapagos. We have
not, however, indulged in so much nostalgic sentimentality as to prepare
a reunion dinner of "Mountain House".
Back to top
Maggie McQuaid, Class of 1975
I was a fat, miserable, terminally
insecure, seventeen-year old when I arrived at Prescott in 1969. I had never
slept outside and never
had to piss in the woods. I was terrified of everything. The first
day of orientation
was rock climbing out in the Dells. Renowned mountaineer Willi Unsoeld
had my belay rope and was trying to talk me up my first pitch. I
said I couldn't
do it. He said I could. He was right. When I got to the top of the
pitch, I sat there in awed silence with Willi. The top of that little
20-foot high
dell was the top of the world for me.
 Our first two days on Lake Powell were in little, two-person sailboats.
One evening, the light of the setting sun caught the red and white colors
in the sail, and the intense reds and blues of Lake Powell. I knew, right
at that moment, that I was witnessing one of the most beautiful sights I'd
ever see. I've never forgotten that.
A few days later, in kayaks, we were able to paddle into The Cathedral of
the Desert, a beautiful and now long-drowned side canyon in Escalante Canyon.
The walls of the grotto almost met on top, a slim stream of water cascaded
down a cliff face streaked with desert varnish, and the place was lit with
a light straight out of paradise. But the waters also revealed the huge crown
of a dead, drowned cottonwood tree. In an instant, I felt like I was looking
at a scene of unholy desecration. I felt shamed and soiled. It was like seeing
the ruins of a fouled, trashed holy place. I was aware of something beautiful
and important that was gone forever. I've never forgotten that either.
After leaving Lake Powell, we backpacked through Paria Canyon. The last
night of our trek, we were caught in the open, about ten miles from the mouth
of the canyon, in a tremendous thunderstorm that lasted all night. There
was no place to take shelter. My nine patrol mates and I huddled together
in the lee of a sand dune and promised each other that we would either all
walk out together the next morning or else die together, trying. I had absolute
faith in each of them. We were a team, a tribe, a family.
Hiking out the next morning, I had a high fever, infected blisters on my
feet that led to blood poisoning, and the worst menstrual cramps I had ever
experienced. No one had any sanitary products, and I had to resort to cutting
off the sleeves of my shirt to serve the purpose. I was exhausted, sick,
and I stank, but I made it out at the head of my patrol. As sick as I was,
I could still feel a fierce pride.
What I learned about courage, self-reliance, and faith on that trip has
never left me.More than anything else, I learned to trust myself. I was reminded
of that in 1977, when the Peace Corps sent me alone to a remote village in
southern Honduras where I was to live alone, as the sole English-speaker
in my village, finding myself stitching wounds, giving shots, and dealing
with Latin bureaucracies. In the next two years, I wasn't sure how I'd handle
those things, but thanks to Prescott, I knew I would. And in 1978, in a marketplace
in El Salvador, when a soldier casually clubbed me in the face with the butt
of his machine gun, I remembered outlasting the thunderstorm and hiking out
of Paria on bloody feet. The soldier could not intimidate me.
What I learned in Wilderness Orientation was there for me again just last
year. I found myself in the position of having to file a formal ethics complaint
with the state ombudsman's office against the agency where I had worked for
the past 20 years. I was advised to hire an attorney and invoke my rights
under the Whistleblower's Act. When my lawyer asked if I really wanted to
go through with it, I thought back to sitting on top of a granite outcrop
with Willi Unsoeld and I said "let's do it".
33 years later, I am still in regular touch with Barb Jump, my old kayak
buddy. We haven't seen each other since 1971, but we have a bond that just
can't be broken.
I didn't become an environmentalist, or even a weekend outdoorswoman. But
yes, Wilderness Orientation changed my life.
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Robert Alexander, Class of 1983
 Q. What comes to mind when you hear "Wilderness Orientation"?
A. A great learning opportunity and a community ritual that's central
to Prescott College's educational philosophy.
Q. What is your fondest memory?
A. Hanging out on the East Verde River near a perfect pool of water
where everyone was having fun.
Q. What was the scariest part?
A. Topping out on a mesa and having my hair literally standing on end
with a lightening charge building and us having to scramble off there immediately.
Q. How did W.O. introduce you to the Southwest and Prescott College?
A. It showed me that there is lots of beauty to be experienced in the
desert and self-reliance as well as resourcefulness as valuable skills.
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