Olivia's Trek (1) (9 page)
It’s worse than the worst flu ever and I’m a fucking dung beetle.
Gabriel Carmichael
“No, Sophie! Noooooooo.”
“Son, wake up. It’s okay. You’re just having a bad dream. It’s not happening. It’s all over.”
My heart is racing, my mouth dry as I sit up bolt upright, and face my dad eye to eye.
“Same dream, Gabriel?”
I nod, trying to get past the lump in my throat.
“Tell me.”
“It’s just the same.”
He ruffles my hair. “I’m listening.”
“I’m right back there again, Dad. Right back at the exact second that I rear ended that truck when it slammed on its breaks after missing a driveway to a store.”
“Keep going.”
“We hit the truck pretty fast. Sophie wasn’t wearing a seat belt in the back seat and she hit the back of my driver’s seat and died on impact. I never wear a seatbelt, but she told me to put it on literally ten minutes before the accident. She saved my life.”
My voice starts breaking, “I can still feel the thud of her hitting the back of my seat. It makes me sick and it haunts me.”
“I know son. I wish I could make it better.”
I don’t tell him that it’s is all my fault. I was driving the car she died in.
“And you still think you’re ready to get back into surgery and theater, in that environment while you’re still having these dreams?”
“Look, what happened last time isn’t going to happen again.” I don’t want to talk about this.
“This is serious. One more incident of you wrecking a theater because you can’t accept when it’s time to let someone go will mean the end of your career, Gabriel. You have to be ready to face every car accident victim as a surgeon and be able to accept that sometimes they will die. I don’t think that you’re there yet and I worry.”
“Really, I’m fine dad.”
“You’re emotionally vulnerable, Gabriel.”
“Okay Dad, thanks for coming through, but I’d better try and get back to sleep.” I signal for him to get off my bed and pull the covers up over me. I wait until he leaves the room before allowing myself to sob into the pillow.
*
I gather my thoughts while roughly towel drying my hair, in anticipation of organizing the new group up for their expedition.
I think about how we rise at first light and kneel before each sleeping teenager. We’ve put up shelters outside at basecamp and the kids are all nestled deep in their sleeping bags. We listen to them snore softly and watch the rise and fall of their chests. If they have rolled off of their sleeping pads, we gently nudge them back on. We complete these rituals every morning and every night because we care and because we worry. I never thought I would, but I do. Guess it’ll make me a better surgeon in the long run.
Their untrusting eyes are full of anger, faces contorted in hatred every time they look at us.
They hate us not for who we are, but because of what we have done; we’ve taken them from their families, their friends, their schools, and especially, their drugs. We have taken away their piercings, their iPods, and their cell phones. In exchange, they get 60 days in the wilderness of Utah, a 40-pound backpack, and intensive drug, alcohol, and mental health counseling.
I hated them, too, when I first came here, but it wasn’t them and my anger is disappearing. This is the great wilderness therapy that my dad specializes in.
We all hated wilderness therapy, but I’ll have to admit that it’s helped me, too.
They’re all teenagers, usually sixteen, seventeen years old, depressed, angry, anxious, and grieving. Sometimes all at the same time. They all abuse alcohol, marijuana, methamphetamine, Oxycontin, Ecstasy, cocaine, and heroin. Sometimes at the same time.
These kids have made their parents desperate enough to reach breaking point, so bad it makes them desperate enough to surrender their precious cargo to a team of strangers, therapists dressed in Gore-Tex and fleece.
I know for the next few days, the new group will be terrified and angry. That they’re going to refuse to get out of their sleeping bags, refuse to speak or to eat. Things are going to get thrown around and I’ll be called a Nazi. I wonder which one is going to be the first to try and run away this time?
Then slowly they change like the summer blossom. It’s like when a toddler wails and throws himself desperately on the ground during a temper tantrum. Eventually he will exhaust himself and let you pick him up and rock him in your arms. These poor kids are the exact same. After a few days of fighting, they are drained. Homesickness sets in and overwhelms them. Some of them are still experiencing chemical withdrawal. The wilderness has stripped them of their teenage stoicism and angst, revealing their vulnerability and then they have no choice but to ask us for help and that’s when we step in.
Surviving in the wilderness is hard. But when a teenager throws down his backpack in the middle of a hike, the challenge of finding the next water source is nothing compared to navigating the terrain of his fear, anxiety, and anger. Each time a teen reaches this point, he says, “You don’t understand. I can’t do this.”
The conversation always starts like this. For the next few minutes, or few hours, or few weeks, we break down what’s going through his head and I need to ask, “What are you so scared of? What’s making you feel so overwhelmed? What do you need to feel safe?”
Compared to getting sober, learning to manage his depression without alcohol, and figuring out how to tell his father that he is afraid of him, this hike is just a walk in the woods.
Every day, we push harder and farther. My clients are more engaged in their treatment than those in any other residential programs I have seen. They sleep and eat in solitude at their campsites. They hike in silence. They keep journals filled with their insights and goals. And because they are so often alone with their thoughts and feelings, when they come together around a fire, we make our time and our words count.
They say, “I’m scared that no one will ever love me.”
They say, “I’ve been doing drugs and booze for so long, I don’t know if I’ll ever be as smart as I used to be.”
They say, “My family make me feel like I’m a broken toy that they need to ship off to get fixed.”
They say, “Everyone in my family gets high. I know I can’t stay sober if I go home.”
I say, “I really admired the way you led our hike today. You made me push myself.”
Around the fire and along the ridgelines, the kids retrace their footsteps, trying to understand how they ended up in the middle of nowhere in this unlikely family, uncovering painful childhood secrets, writing letters to abusers that they read about and then throw into the fire, and screaming their secrets from the top of a mountain. They try to understand their painful love affairs with drugs and so begin to plan the first steps of their recovery.
When the three weeks end, our family dissolves. Some of the teens move on to boarding schools, some stay in the wilderness for more treatment, and some go home.
On our last night together we sit in a circle and share our wishes. For themselves and one another, the kids wish for continued sobriety, reconciliation with parents, a chance to graduate from high school.
My wish for them is simple: I hope that they will remember this and never come back here again.
Olivia Carter
I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have difficulty sleeping through the night. Each night is the same now: night sweats, cravings so powerful that I have to get out of bed and sit in a corner with my iPod turned on full blast. Oh, and the nightmares. They’re so vivid and disturbing that I constantly have this feeling of utter panic and helplessness. I know they expect me to leave my room today, but I can’t face it. I pull the sheet over my face and turn over to try to catch up on some sleep, but it’s no good. After endless tossing and turning, I give in and sit up. It’s my last day in the room. Today I move to basecamp and have to start sleeping outside. I need to figure out how to get away from here.
A knock at the door startles me. Why they bother I don’t know because they always just come in anyway. It’s the blonde trek leader from last night.
“Morning, hon. Time to rise and shine. Here’s some information for you about camp and a timetable. Just come outside for some breakfast when you’re ready. You’re at basecamp starting today.”
I don’t say anything, but my mind doesn’t know whether to start shouting at her or cry so I just flop back down into bed and try to pull the covers up again.
“Not so fast Missy. Up. Now.” She pulls the entire set of covers off the bed and throws it all on the floor. She’s baring her buck teeth at me like some wild animal.
“You can’t just come in here and strip me of my privacy.”
“Great. It speaks. Get ready, missy, and get outside. ASAP.” She shoves the leaflets into my hand and leaves the room.
Like I have a choice, I start reading.
A Typical Day at Camp Cedars
At Basecamp
The schedule at basecamp is highly structured and designed with the needs of each student in mind. On a typical day at basecamp, teens participate in the following:
8:00 a.m.–Wake up
8:15 a.m.–Personal hygiene
8:30 a.m.–Yoga & Meditation
9:30 a.m.–Breakfast
10:00 a.m.–Camp chores and showers
11:00 a.m.–Letter writing, therapy assignments
12:30 p.m.–One-on-one time with field guide mentor
1:30 p.m.–Lunch
2:30 p.m.–Personal therapy session
4:00 p.m.–Group therapy session
5:00 p.m.–Camp chores and personal time
7:00 p.m–Dinner
9:00 p.m.–Community time
10:00 p.m.–Bedtime
In the Wilderness
In the wilderness, teens rise with the sun and sleep with the moon. A typical day begins around seven a.m. with instructor communication to basecamp via cell phones/radios, a hot breakfast cooked over a camp stove, and an activity from the daily curriculum.
Depending on the group, teens may hike before and after lunch before settling in at a pre-selected site. During hikes, students process experiences and emotions as a group and complete a variety of challenges.
During their free time, students may write letters home, play games, complete assignments, or work on their primitive skills such as trap building and bow drilling (rubbing two pieces of wood together to create fire). Camp set-up, dinner preparation, therapeutic initiatives, AA/NA readings and group sessions around the campfire end the day’s activities.
Typical Expedition Day
• 8:00 a.m.–Wake up
• 8:15 a.m–Hygiene
• 8:30 a.m.–Yoga & Meditation
• 9:30 a.m.–Breakfast
• 10:00 a.m.–Camp chores and pack up
• 11:00 a.m–Start hiking
• 12:00 p.m.–Short break
• 12:30 p.m.–One on one session with field guide mentor
• 1:30 p.m–Lunch
• 2:30 p.m.–Resume hiking
• 4:00 p.m.–Letter writing, therapy assignments
• 5:00 p.m.–Set up camp & camp chores
• 6:00 p.m.–Process group
• 7:30 p.m.–Dinner
• 9:00 p.m.–Community time
• 10:00 p.m.–Bedtime
Tears start running down my face as I walk to the bathroom.
Olivia Carter
Teeth brushed and wearing the nasty khaki uniform, I still feel conscious because I don’t have a hair brush and my hair is all matted. It’s itchy and you can see my own black hair color coming through.
I step outside into the bright sunshine and can hear my heart thumping in my ears.
“It’s okay, Olivia. Breathe. Head on over there and you’ll find a backpack with a dung beetle on it. That’s yours.” It’s Dr. Nate Carmichael, who winks at me and walks on.
They forgot to take away my iPod so I slip the earplugs into my ears with the words, “I can be a freak, every day of every week,” in Estelle’s smooth voice blaring at full volume as I slowly walk towards the backpacks. I pick up the dung beetle pack and nearly stumble because it’s way heavier than I thought. but I find my balance. The whole time avoiding lifting my eyes off the ground. Taylor Swift’s singing now and I sing along with her, “I knew you were trouble when you walked in.”
Something hits my midsection, high-up near my breastbone,causing me to drop to the floor. I can’t breathe for several seconds and I feel paralyzed. I can’t understand what just happened until I feel someone yanking out my earphones. I look up and all I see are blue eyes before I pass out.
I can feel fingers fiddling with my shirt buttons and try and push the hand away before trying to sit up.
“Whoah Olivia, just stay there and take it easy. You walked slap-bang into me. Someone’s gone to get you some cold water.” It’s him. The one called Gabriel. The one who helped me when I first got here. My heart is thumping, my mouth all dry as I let my eyes glance at him sideways. I catch a glimpse of his feet encased in well-worn Timberland sandals, my eyes traveling up over lithe, well-toned legs, shorts, up to a t-shirt that is too short, revealing abs that look drawn in.
“Watch where you’re going,” he says, and starts to get up, dusting his knees, before looking straight at me, into me, his eyes the deepest Caribbean blue. “You can’t have that iPod anyway. I should take it away.”
“You walked into me and you’re wearing one.” I can still hear muted sounds of something playing from one of his earplugs. He reaches up to hide his earplug before muttering, “shit,” to himself.
He holds out his arm to help me up off the ground. I don’t want to take his hand, but I do and he pulls me back up on my feet like I’m a feather. He’s still holding my hand as I steady myself.
“Hide that iPod, Olivia, or it will get taken from you.” I swallow hard and stare at him as he walks off towards the main building.
“Hey, I wouldn’t even think about it.”
“Huh?” I turn to see the Hispanic-looking kid, Miguel eyeing me up and down.
“That dude Gabriel is Dr. Carmichael’s son. Apart from the fact he’s also a doctor, ain’t no way some little strung out freak like you is even going to register on his radar.”
I feel tears behind my eyes, as I head towards the breakfast area wondering why everyone is so horrible here.
*
Gabriel Carmichael
Dido perforates my eardrums with ‘Thank You,’ helping to quell the anxiety I always get when I’ve got a new group of kids to look after. Dad says it’s my job to become their surrogate parent, to enforce rules and consequences as well as to teach them to make fires and to assemble their tents. Thing is, I’m only twenty-five myself so they don’t often take direction from me, especially the boys. I hope this lot are different.
“What the …” I’ve hit something. Shit, it’s the Carter kid. Who could miss that hair? I’m glad it’s that crazy color. It’ll make it real easy if she decides to run away. I catch two terrified looking green eyes, but she’s holding her breath. Shit, I must have winded her. She’s passing out.
“Hey, can someone get us some cold water here? We’ve got a fainter.” Her top shirt button’s done right up, no wonder she can’t breathe. I’ll get that undone for a start. She starts blinking as I fan her, pushing my hand away, trying to sit up. She’ll pass out again.
“Whoah Olivia, just stay there and take it easy. You walked slap-bang into me. Someone’s gone to get you some cold water.” I let her look at me without interrupting before catching her gaze, full on. “You can’t have that iPod anyway. I should take it away.”
I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know what’s happened to this kid but there’s no way I’m taking her music away from her. Someone else will have to do it.
“You walked into me and you’re wearing one.” It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice. I force myself to look away so I don’t stare at her. Shit, she’s right and I muster every ounce of strength I have to lose the smile that wants to form across my face.
She’s still sitting on the ground so I hold out my hand. God, please let her take it. I just want to help. Her hand feels so small in mine and I don’t want to let go even once she’s up on her feet. I hope she didn’t feel that, whatever it was.
“Hide that iPod, Olivia, or it will get taken from you.”
I run off to find my dad, butterflies in my stomach, my legs feeling shaky.