Parents' Weekend poems
Parents' Weekend Poem: Laura "Jamaica" Messenger
Dear Mom and Dad:
Do you remember the look on my face
The first time I reached the bottom of a ski slope?
Do you remember the pink in my cheeks and the
bright look in my exhausted but eager eyes?
You were amazed because on the way down,
I had fallen so many times that we needed to take a break
After that one little green trail.
But I was still so excited.
And remember how I said,
This is the best day of my life. I made it down.
I have that bright look in my eyes every time I step
out of my cabin in the morning, trying not to make the door squeak,
and I see HMI, quiet and still blurred around the edges,
waiting for a new day of adventures.
HMI is that pink in my cheeks every time I notice
the clouds around the mountains have cleared
and there is a blanket of snow, untouched,
watching over all of us.
HMI is the smile I couldn't keep in anymore
the moment I hiked into Who's Hall after second expedition,
knowing that there would be hugs, laughter,
and a better community of people to greet me then I could
ever have wished for.
HMI is the smell of chocolate pancakes after
a five mile run, the sick but content feeling after eating
a pint of Ben & Jerrys from Safeway while waiting for
my laundry to dry.
Mom and Dad,
At HMI, I'm that girl at the bottom of the mountain again.
And I love knowing that I am a part of something that
makes my cheeks pink and my eyes bright again.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Pete James
Dear Mom and Dad: I have a story for you.
It was late August.
It was getting late; the sun was falling slowly
Behind the ridge above the Grizzly lake.
I stood above my pack, rubbing my cracked, dry hands,
trying to make a decision.
On our walk in, we had trudged, tired and hungry,
Past a beautiful little stream born from the lake.
Now, I judged the amount of sunlight that remained in the day
Versus the amount of time I would need to fish.
Satisfied with my calculation, I pulled out my rod tube,
Hurriedly pieced together the sections,
And twisted on the reel.
I sat to choose a fly and looked around:
Not enough wind for a hopper, not enough water for a nymph.
I chose a Parachute Adams, a small brown and white
Pattern you gave me, dad.
I tied it on, hands fumbling in the growing cold.
Satisfied with my work, I made my way to the river.
It was a small one, but beautiful, flowing
Hard and proud down through the valley.
I could see the cutthroat holding in the current,
And my heartbeat increased, just a little.
Knowing my time was limited,
I worked farther downstream, to a deep hole.
Positioning myself below, I dropped my line into the water.
My hand assumed its position on the worn cork handle,
Which smelled of sweat and dirt.
I raised my rod, hesitated, and shot my line forward,
Sending my fly to the head of the pool.
It swirled and drifted across the surface,
Cutting its own path through the evening sunlight,
Dancing in the shadows.
I waited.
Silence.
Then, I watched as the black nose of a trout
Emerged from the darkness,
And enveloped my fly.
I waited a moment, lifted the rod tip,
And set the hook.
It was a big, beautiful fish. It really was.
As wild as they come, its body coursing with strength.
I held the fish in my hands, watching it,
Before returning it to the dark water.
When I first thought of HMI as a possibility,
I also saw day fading away and dusk approaching.
I didn't have much time, many days,
Left in my high school career to head out into the dusk
In search of that wise, old, cutthroat.
Without your support, your influence,
I never would have pieced that rod together.
I never would have smelled the sagebrush in the air,
The powerful, bitter scent I have grown to love.
I never would have felt the snow on my face
As I stood above a stunning alpine lake
Early on a late-august morning.
I surely would have missed the sting
Of morning air on my face as I jogged, with a friend,
In the shadow of a snow-capped peak.
Had you not given me this opportunity,
I would have forty-two fewer friends,
Friends I would give almost anything for.
I wouldn't know and love the sound of gas
Squeaking through a whisperlight stove,
Or the heat of a hot drink against me,
A simple comfort in the bitter cold.
You two led me to the top of my first fourteener,
Introduced me to a group of wonderful people,
Laid out my sleeping bag so I could sleep under the stars,
And helped me understand so much about myself.
HMI has allowed me to learn, and embrace,
The fact that I am no longer a boy.
I am a man, and I am independent and strong.
Mom and Dad, you let me take a
Jump into the unknown.
I couldn't be more thankful.
HMI is my dark, beautiful cutthroat.
I only wish you could see it with the clarity that I do.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Corey Sobotka
Hey Y'all
It's been a while since I've seen your smiling faces. Two of the best months of my life, or close to it. I feel like I've grown here, in these few months, but I'm not sure I could tell you how. You'll just have to find out for yourselves. Shouldn't be that hard. I've learned a lot here. How cook for 50 or so people, how to build a quigloo, how to be completely open with people, and how to keep some things to myself, because some things just don't need to be shared, that when there is a full moon, you don't need your headlamp, and that the trees cast their long shadows some nights, that if you do things for people, they are more willing to do things for you, that things put out into the open are much easier to resolve than those kept inside, that words are more than just words. That everyone has something to teach you, and everyone has something to learn. That people appreciate it when you wake up at four to stoke the fire, though they might not ever know you did it. That jumping into snow after getting your cabin to 110 degrees feels nice, and that running up and doing a front flip off a sand dune and feeling that you can fly is more important than worrying about whether or not you will be sandy for the next hour and a half in the van. That there is no harm in trying, and that putting your best into everything really does make a difference, whether or not other people notice. That character is something that cant be defined by what you do in front of others, but rather by what you do when no one is there to see. That getting a face full of snow, and digging a couple of feet for your sunglasses gets you laughing far more than if you hadn't. That snow can get pretty warm if you stuff four people in it at night, and that you can tell a lot about a person by how they eat trail mix, though i'm not sure exactly what it is. That Cholla are prickly little plants which should not be sat on, that sleeping outside might get your face a bit frosty, especially if you haven't shaved for twelve or thirteen days. That an hour or two on the climbing wall can make you feel more tired than running 6 miles, that having blisters on every joint on your hands from those two hours really isn't all that bad, especially if you can suffer with someone else who was climbing with you. I've learned that everyone can rhyme, that the deuce is full of some of the greatest guys I've ever met. That sometimes, the silence between people is full of more words and thoughts and shared feelings than any conversation ever could be. That the more down someone is, the more they appreciate it when you pick them up, and vice versa. That when things seem tough, that that is when you have to put a smile on, and that no obstacle is insurmountable. That sometimes people need their space, and sometimes people need their space to be invaded. That playing dodgeball in two bathrobes is pretty fun, and that looking ridiculous everywhere you go just means you are there to take as much from it as you can. That Assassin is much less stressful when you know who is out to get you. That college is a match not a prize. That if something is growing in water, it must be good to drink. That after two months, you might start to miss your family a whole lot. That friendship is one of the most valuable things you can have, and one of the most valuable things that you can give. That getting lost is sometimes better than being found, and that the desert sky is covered in an infinite blanket of stars, so every once-in-a-while, look up- you wont regret it.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Maeve O'Connor-Bethune
Hi guys,
I sit here in Who's Hall, listening to Death Cab, eating the lollipop my dad sent me. (It's really good by the way). Looking at the crooked pictures on the wall, the silence of productiveness is overwhelming. I remember moments here, moments that define who I am, here, in this place. I am someone who wears hipster hats every day and braids on expedition. I wear the same sweatshirt everyday because I don't have another one I like. I have a friend to watch the Hannah Montana movie with, who likes it more than I do. I can hide from dance parties and not feel like an outcast. I feel comfortable making odd animal noises in front of ten people in Animal Kingdom, and have the grossest, greasiest hair of my life and not feel uncomfortable. I can cook kalzones in a kitchen made of snow, and cheesy bagels in a blizzard. I don't mind the painfully slow Internet or the absence of cell phones, or the icy paths, or the chapped lips. I laughed five minutes after got here with people I'd known for that long. I enjoyed hiking eight miles, because of the people I was with. I wore a pink shirt, make-up and pigtails to bowling night. As I look out the window, I remember when I jumped into the snow with just jeans and a t-shirt on and wasn't cold. I can feel safe spending an entire day on my butt at ski cooper, and buying sippy cups that other people besides me think are awesome. I can watch Mulan and have a group of people behind me because they think it's such a great movie. I am Cheetos. Having no time to shower doesn't bother me (I do shower though, that would be gross if I didn't) I'm still just as disorganized, my cubby overflowing with things I didn't know I had, and the vortex being pretty much entirely my stuff, but I can do two straight hours of work without being distracted. (Impressive, right?) The people and place that is HMI make me a better version of myself. I'm no longer troubled with thoughts of what other people think, because I feel so safe. I've learned things here that I never thought I would. Not just about hiking and in school, but about people. I've learned that sometimes waking up in freezing cold weather isn't so bad when you slide through of the death tunnel and out of the snow cave to see a sunrise peeking out from behind a mountain range that stretches forever. I've learned that hacking on the back porch and jumping into the snow is more fun than being on Facebook or watching TV. I can debate ethical issues in Spanish, albeit with terrible grammar, but I can get my point across. I've learned that ten minute chats with friends in front of cabin four before going back to my cabin are some of the best conversations I've ever had. I've learned to appreciate bathrooms after experiencing poop buckets, and the soft leather chairs in the library. I've learned how to thrive off of the thinnest air I've ever breathed. I've grown here, in the best way possible, better than I could have ever imagined. Think of my life as a stage, where I am hiding behind the curtain. It is only here that I have begun to peek into the audience, and feel almost no fear.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Sam Friedman
When you find a place like this, you find a place to call home...temporarily.
A place where the overflowing cubbies, poorly designed, well for 42 students that is, mud room, and below zero mornings are the defining aspects of what make this place home.
Lessons here are provoked, not taught.
When it comes to mundane tasks I wasn't told to look at what I'm doing, but soon it became necessary as the 8 layers bulging from my chest made it difficult to button my pants.
Lately, it has become apparent that knowledge from the self, or rather knowledge that is self taught or self experienced is much more valuable than knowledge that is lectured to you.
Specifically on expeditions, my time here has been one of appreciation.
A time where I have come to realize the luxury of toilets and calm skies after being faced with poop buckets and two blizzards backed by 70 mile per hour gusts.
Here, meaning is seen through the realization of the beauty of this place.
Impossible is to explain the serenity of staring into what soon seems like influential blankness.
Gazing at 14,443 feet of sheer might tests the minds perception of reality.
Though, here it's real.
Views such as that and the one from 12,000 feet above Leadville bring the body and mind growth, no other place nor person can.
The meaning of home, here, is transformed into something much more than where you
simply reside.
Home is where, without force, you grow as a person, as a human being, and as an individual capable of nearly anything. Capable of growth as a leader, personally, as one still full of ideas yet quiet and unconfident, to one comfortable in almost any environment and competent in my leadership-like social interaction skills among group and individual alike.
Home is here, where my own character has evolved to show my complete uniqueness, unmatched potential, and tremendous respect.
Home is here, at 10,152 feet of pure and meaningful bliss.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Tyler Gump
Dear Mom, Dad, Justin and Molly,
I've been here for two months. I only have two days to show you around HMI. And I only have two minutes to convey my experience to you in this poem. So I'll try my best.
I'm standing in front of Who's Hall
Watching as the rental Infiniti FX takes a right down the driveway
And disappears from sight
And with that right turn, every remnant of my life
The life I've known for sixteen years
Disappears as well
I'm taking my first steps up a mountain with a fifty lb. pack
I think of toddlers taking their first wobbly steps of their young lives
And I'm filled with sympathy for them
Because I'm learning to walk as well
My life of carrying everything I need to live on my back is just beginning
And it's a life full of pain and soreness
I'm bundled up in my sleeping bag
Puzzled over how the day was so hot yet the night is so cold
Enveloped by an awe-inspiring amount of layers and a tiny sleeping bag
Two inches to my left, my tarpmate is snoring obnoxiously loud
And two inches to my right, my other tarpmate
Smells like he hasn't showered in ten days, which would make sense
Because it's true
I'm sitting on a rock
With my three other tarpmates laughing hysterically at me
I have just tested the limits of my body and mind and barely survived
I am filled with conflicting feelings of grief and triumph
I feel awful because I've just consumed 17 cloves of garlic in forty-five minutes
Yet I feel triumphant because now my tarpmates owe me 105 dollars
Thanks, Ben
I'm awake at 6:45
And it's a Saturday
If the brochure had said that I would wake up every Saturday before 7 AM
I would be in New Jersey right now
But alas, the brochure said nothing of this so here I am
With Ryer teaching me how to cut cantaloupe
To make breakfast for 35 other kids
And almost chopping off my index finger in the process
I'm venturing out of my tent on the second expedition
Thinking how foolish I was to think that the last expedition was cold
Or for thinking I was cold at any other point in my lifetime for that matter
Because I now know the true meaning of cold
It hurts to move, hurts to breathe, even hurts to open my eyes
Every drop of moisture on my boots has solidified into ice
And every single one of my extremities have lost feeling long ago
I don't want to cook cheesy bagels, take down the tent, pack my pack and hike
I just want to curl up in a ball and think warm thoughts
I'm on top of Mt. Massive, 14, 021 feet above sea level
And it's 12:35
If I had decided to continue my old life and relive the same old monotonous day From September until June
I would be in conference period right now, bored out of my mind
Wishing I had decided to come to HMI
I'm on the dance floor, encircled by my peers
Performing the Cha Cha Slide, my signature dance
And everyone's cheering my name
While simultaneously marveling at my atrocious dance moves
And I become aware of how lucky I am
To be part of a community that doesn't judge each other
That supports each other
That cares for each other
That gives each other a clean slate
That in the span of two months, has transformed from 41 apprehensive individuals
Into one cohesive unit, determined to make RMS 23 the semester of a lifetime
And now I'm here, standing before my English class and their parents
Thankful to be almost done with this poem
And even more thankful to my parents for urging me to come here
Mom and Dad, you have been beside me,
Guiding me along the path to become a better person my entire life
All of my successes and triumphs can be attributed to your unwavering support
Without you, I know I wouldn't be here at HMI
Without you, I couldn't even dream of being blessed with such an amazing opportunity
So thanks for everything, Mom and Dad
Parents' Weekend Poem: Sarah Bates
Have you ever climbed a thousand vertical feet over one mile on skis with a pack on your back and a sled trailing behind you?
Have you ever squeezed eleven girls onto one tiny twin-sized bed?
Have you ever debated illegal immigration over brownies and hot chocolate with your Spanish class in a coffee shop?
I have.
Have you ever carried a bursting pack that weighed almost half of your weight?
Have you ever eaten canyon dirt in your food, drank butter in your hot chocolate, or consumed pounds of butter and cheese in eight days?
Have you ever seen Mt. Massive wreathed with snow, the night sky sparkle with stars, or the perfect stellar snowflakes that perch upon your eyelashes?
I have.
You should have meaningful conversations while dancing in the walk-in refrigerator.
You should learn to measure the temperature by whether it's colder in there than in the outside air.
You should laugh so hard that you almost have an accident.
You should ask your tarp-mates what spices went into your dinner and have them tell you that those "spices" are the gunk left over from last night's dinner that stuck to the bottom of the pan.
This should make you laugh, but not really surprise you.
You should learn to find joy in simple pleasures: mountain views, warmth, laughter.
You should develop a relationship with your lighter. They work better if you're nicer to them.
You should wake up first and climb out of your quigloo to watch the sun make glittering diamonds out of snow.
You should get past the point when you care about the dirt, leaves, and other inexplicable detritus in your water bottle. But the spiders and the worm should concern you a little.
Know how it feels to take a bitingly cold, clear gasp of winter air and smell its snowy potential.
When you finish your runs, no matter how long they are, sprint the last bit of the driveway with your eyes closed and let the wind ripple your hair.
Drop off the top of Mt. Zion and into the powder. Let the sight of snowy peaks stun you into silence.
Learn to fall. Fall in snow, in canyon dirt, on rocks, on ice, in powder. Fall with skis on, with skins on, with a pack on, with a sled on. Someone will help to pick you up.
Learn your toughness. Measure grit in miles, blisters, climbs, loads, early wake-ups. Measure goodness in smiles at the ends of rough days.
Learn responsibility.
Learn resilience.
Learn how to take a three-minute shower after twelve days of dirt.
Learn to open yourself up to those around you.
Learn how almost everything you own can fit into your pockets, but how you can't bend over when there are two hot water bottles, the Nutella, ski skins, an avalanche beacon, your fleece booties, a dough baby, and two pairs of socks in there "somewhere".
Feel the slice of your skis through fresh powder.
Feel the jarring shake of your skis on ice.
Look at the clouds. Look at the stars. Try and find constellations. Look for shapes in the clouds and wish on the stars sometimes: you don't have to grow up yet.
Dance like a maniac for three minutes in study hall every night. Dance in your cabin with your friends. Dance to the port-o-potty and back.
Sing Jewish songs on Mt. Zion with your expedition group, sing lullabies with Chewie when she comes to your cabin at night, sing on van rides to and from expeditions, sing in the cabin in the mornings when your voice sounds like a dying cat, sing at table order, sing during chores.
Climb, run, ski, hike, laugh, sob, scream, squeak, marvel, and love.
Mom and Dad, I wish you'd seen these sights and had these chances.
But if you'd been here in high school, your time would have been different.
Unique as a fingerprint.
And now I'm ready to make my mark: to put my own fingerprint on the world.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Kevin Lewis
Mom, Dad, and Shayna,
You are here at HMI for 2 days, and my job is to get you to experience what I've experienced here in 2 months,
So close your eyes.
Now keep your eyes closed and pretend you are just waking up
You slowly become aware of your body,
Of the warmth spreading from your head to your toes
Of the cold tip of your nose, which is the only part of you out of the sleeping bag,
Of your ski boot liners stuffed under your feet so they don't freeze,
Of the two pairs of wet socks uncomfortably plastered to your skin so that your body heat will dry them out.
And most of all, of your extremely full bladder, which is about to burst from the full nalgene of hot chocolate that you drank before bed.
Now you open your eyes, but everything is pitch black.
You grope your way up to the opening of your cocoon but it is closed tight and won't open.
A wave of claustrophobia crashes over you.
Your hands fumble with the drawstring and you finally get the hole open
You can breathe again.
You sit up, thinking about going back to bed,
But you know that there is no falling back to sleep now.
You put on two layers on top of the ones you are already wearing.
You feel like the Micheline Man, but you don't care;
You're warm.
That's all that matters.
You put on your shoes and crawl out the door into the night.
As your head pokes through the entrance of your quigloo,
You feel the temperature drop.
The cold night air nipping at your face.
You walk away from your winter home to pee.
Your headlamp illuminating the way.
On the way back your headlamp blinks and shuts off,
As if the cold air is draining the remaining life from the batteries, and transferring it to you.
You feel recharged, full of life.
Standing there in the snow, the forest around you illuminated by the stars.
After the initial panic of being alone in the dark woods at night,
You realize that there is nothing to fear.
You take a deep breath of the crisp night air,
You stand perfectly still,
Not moving a muscle,
Not making a sound,
Just listening.
You become aware of everything around you.
All of the sudden all the nature around you washes over your senses.
You hear all the trees surrounding you,
You feel all the animals asleep, hidden from view
You smell the fresh scent of pines in the midnight air.
You feel connected to everything around you.
You understand why you are here.
You understand your place in the world.
This is where you belong.
The trees, the animals, the air, the night;
You are a part of it all.
And it is a part of you.
For that brief moment, you feel the nature around you shaping who you are.
Who you are becoming.
You feel yourself shaping the wilderness surrounding you.
And then...
It is over.
As quickly as it came.
You are left standing there in the dark
Stunned,
Wondering if you just imagined the entire thing.
But you are no longer afraid of the night.
You walk slowly back home,
Pondering.
Trying to understand what just happened,
But you cannot.
Even weeks later, thinking back on it, reliving it, you cannot explain it.
Try as you might, you cannot put your feelings into words.
But even if you could, you wouldn't want to.
This is your experience,
Your feeling to be selfish with,
To keep to yourself,
To hold on to.
Even as I am explaining to you, trying to make you feel what I did,
I know that I cannot.
I know that for the rest of my life, I will have the recollection of this one moment,
Burned into my memory by an intangible force,
Leaving me different from when it found me.
Leaving me more mature,
More Aware.
This one moment that taught me about myself,
This one moment that allowed me to be who I am,
This one moment, where I knew who I was, and where I belonged.
This one moment that showed me how to live.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Katie Fisch
Dear Mom, Dad, and Sami -
It would be impossible for you to notice every detail in two days
As closely as I have in two months.
I once said myself that the important details
Are the ones you notice on your own -
But I'll help you along.
I want you to feel that although the air is thinner up here,
It somehow seems fuller.
Full of life, full of love, full of something more.
See mountains in the place of buildings,
Trees instead of crowds of people,
The ground without pavement.
Feel connected to a place
Where everything stops except the seasons,
Where the only things that change
Are the things you can't influence.
But know that every minute you spend here,
Everything around you is growing and changing -
Including me.
I'm not the person you knew two months ago.
I'm stronger, more open-minded, more independent.
But there is still so much more that I can be.
I'm gaining the perspective on life
That I wish more people had.
I've learned how to step back
And listen, and see, and feel,
How to look at everything around me
And know why it matters,
Even if it's impossible to articulate.
And it is.
Every story I could tell you,
Every little thing I could describe,
Would only begin to skim the surface.
But if I could say one thing
And hope that you understood,
It would be that I fit here.
I would tell you that I never wanted to climb ladders.
Reaching the top of a fancy office building
Will never make me happy.
The only ladders I want to climb
Are intellectual ones.
The only top floors I want to reach
Are the tops of mountains.
You might wonder why -
Two reasons come to mind.
Mountains don't have elevators,
And you can't see the world
From an office building.
Look around now in any direction you choose -
There is nothing more than two stories tall.
Nothing to obstruct the views
That you will never forget,
Nothing to hide you from Elbert and Massive
In our backyard,
Nothing to keep you
From feeling small.
It's humbling.
Maybe not in two days,
But in two months, it's life-changing.
There are things you won't experience
That I wish I could share with you:
Running in below zero temperatures,
Laughing for no reason,
Sunsets over canyon walls,
Snowstorms at dawn.
I wish I could explain how
Losing a friend at home
Brought me closer to those around me,
How connecting with others
Helped me figure out who I am,
How contrasting opinions
Help me see things more clearly.
I know you never really understood me
Before I left,
But I hope that you take the time now -
You might see something there
That you didn't see before.
I owe you for all of the above,
Katie
Parents' Weekend Poem: Sarah Baranes
I haven't hit the bottom yet.
I'm still falling. No longer fast. I'm in freefall.
It's a feeling like I've never felt before.
It's the excitement that everyday is a march that breaks down barriers,
It's the frustration of having your lungs held in a vice by the unforgiving oxygen-less air after climbing a flight of stairs,
It's the pride of climbing to the top of a mountain,
Yet it's the humbling of the feeling of wanting to scream but not being able to for knowing that your lungs may bleed.
It's the comfort of forming unbreakable bonds.
It's becoming the girl dancing down the street to the music only she can hear. She finds her rhythm.
It's the terrified feeling of not knowing what's at the bottom of the fall.
I continue to descend
Yet I am grounded; it's the most surreal reality.
The beginning overtakes the end in chaotic contradiction.
The days melt into months yet the hours stretch into years.
It is the free-fall; the point of equilibrium where time becomes irrelevant.
The fall sends me toward the bottom,
But as I look up the mountains send me forward.
They could trap me, surrounding me in isolation,
Yet they propel me towards something new and exciting.
For forward is the only place to go.
There is no back, for what's above the precipice is gone.
As I fall I breathe and realize I am exactly where I need to be.
The bottom seems too close, yet I take comfort in knowing that as soon as I reach it I will begin to fall again.
This time I will be able to jump with a running start.
I am becoming the girl who dances to her own rhythm. I could start to dance.
It doesn't matter who is watching. It will never matter again.
I have more space to fall into and I have no where to grow but towards the top.
I still feel scared.
I still crave the reassurance of familiarity.
I still fear the bottom.
Changes may not come overnight, but together we can make them happen in a day.
Mom, Dad, Elena, and Hannah, I can't thank you enough for pushing me into this fall.
Without it I would not be here falling today and I would not have learned to jump for myself.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Max Feldman
You find yourself sitting in the window seat of an airplane, and you notice that the boarding pass is still in your clutches, 2 hours into the flight. It says that your final destination is Denver International, and every time you read this, you remember that this is it. The day you have been waiting for for the last year. You are going to the High Mountain Institute, in some remote town called Leadville-where ever the heck that is.
2 hours and 15 names later, you leap from the van that took you from the airport, and you step into the parking lot of the most amazing campus you have ever seen. Molly, the lady you know only by the fifty documents and forms her name has been on, is standing there. Turns out she is a real person, and she is now welcoming you not to your new home, but your new life, for the next four months and four days.
You are eating your first dinner as an RMS student-pasta with a glass of water. This is all you can stomach right now, because the 10,000 foot elevation gain almost just took you down to the floor. Maybe it's not the elevation that is causing this dizziness. No. It has to be this emotional overload that is causing your world to spin about like a tornado.
You wake up in a strange cabin, on a strange bed, in a familiar onesy that you pray was a good idea to bring . Now that you have survived your first night in Colorado, its time to fast forward two months, and review some of the many ground rules that have kept you in good condition here:
#1. Always remember to keep your belongings together. Preferably you should fold and pile your clothing, but anything within a 3-foot radius of your bed can safely lie on the floor. After 3 feet an 1 inch, you may end up putting on a pair of socks that have your bunkmate's name scribbled on the bottoms, and a sweaty feeling unfamiliar to your feet.
#2. Get to Who's hall early in the morning. AMX, breakfast, and chores tend to come together and plot to steal time away from brushing teeth, putting in contacts, or even getting changed. If you don't want to attend classes in your onesy with bad breath and no vision, it is suggested that you invest in an alarm clock. This may mean sacrificing the respect of your lazier bunkmates, but it will pay for itself in a week.
#3. Wear a watch, for the love of God. When you have to attend classes that last 90 minutes, it is worth keeping track of every single minute. Looking over at the clock usually doesn't fly with too many teachers, but a watch is an under-the-table deal. And in order to maintain your sanity and your seat, it is vital that you know when that 10 minute, 30 minute, 50 minute, 1 hour, and 1 hour 29 minute mark comes.
#4. Nourish the wood stove in your cabin. Putting wood in that stove is like putting a kid into college, you want to be damn sure it's the right fit! If you put in a log that is too big, you will end up trying to close the door and force it in, and no matter how hard you try, that darn thing aint gonna budge. Then you will be left with 2 options-you can either wait half an hour in front of the fire for it to burn down, or you can grab it, pull it from the flames, and gun it to the door. It is in your best interest, therefore, to use utmost caution when heating your cabin.
#5. Bring a headlamp to study hall. Believe it or not, a miraculous event tends to occur while you are hunched over your history homework. The sun dips below the mountains outside in what is called a sunset, and unless you are equipped with a supplementary light source, you will be feeling your way back to the cabin on an icy and treacherous path. This is not fun.
If you take heed to these instructions, you should be in no trouble living safely and comfortably as a member of your Rocky Mountain Semester. This abridged list, although quite accurate to the RMS experience, is only my own, and so I cannot say if others in RMS 22 have had better luck with their woodstoves, or if they can make it through their classes without the comfort of a wristwatch. What you have just read is the perspective of one forty-second of the RMS 22. What makes this semester so extraordinary, though, is that we are so close here, so tightly bound like the truckers hitch that held up our shelters in the backcountry, that many things we see are though one pair of eyes. On different days, in different ways, we have all laughed, cried, loved, sighed, given up, tried, admitted, denied, taken away, supplied, and have been caught in an avalanche of overwhelming majesty from which we cannot escape. There is no avalanche beacon that can detect how lost in our experiences we are, and there is no probe that can touch us in the ways we have touched each other. For now, there are only the people of Leadville, who faintly understand who we are.
I walked around Safeway for about a half an hour last week, picking up supplies to fill my cabin-and my appetite. I approached the check out counter with a pack of Double Mint gum, some hostess cakes, a bottle of Arizona Iced Tea, and an eight dollar rib-eye steak. A short, aging, kind-eyed man began to take food out of my bag to run through the scanner, and as I handed him my traveler's check, he asked "HMI?" Taken by surprise, I replied with the stupidest thing I could have possibly said, "Yea-how did you know?" Of course this man knew I was an HMI student, because it is a well know statistic the HMI accounts for about a quarter of the active youth population of Leadville, Colorado. I just never realized how open people could be in this place, and so began my short but sweet conversation with the cashier at Safeway.
It is my belief that people like this man are part of a rare breed in our species. It is also my belief that through HMI, forty-two young Americans will absorb enough of this lifestyle in four months to become permanently a part of it. We are now at the two-month mark, which means we are all halfway to the rest of our lives. This may not be good news for all you parents who like your kids close to home. Mom, dad, I love you and thank you for understanding that I'm moving to Colorado.
Love, Max.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Andrew Berkey
Dear mom,
I am writing this to let you know I am still alive. Don't worry, I haven't been in a avalanche, or gotten frostbite or hypothermia--not too badly anyway. I haven't been eaten by a bear, and I haven't gotten lost in the wilderness, only confused once.
I have only scrubbed toilets, only eaten amazing food, only played frisbee golf, only listened to Sam on his guitar, only ran my fastest, only laughed my hardest, only had math class in a coffee shop, only had science by the lake, only read Dave Barry in history.
I have only slept in a tarp, only learned how get an entire free trip across the country on Amtrak from Danny, only learned what a good flea impression Katie does, only learned how it's all right to put butter in hot chocolate to keep you warm at night, only made the best macaroni and cheese ever, only seen the one bright green bear in the world, only hiked my fastest three miles at six in the morning to get to the van.
I have only summitted my first fourteener, only woken up to my boots and gaiters frozen solid, only felt my feet once in 3 days, only made fried dough in a half-pound of butter, only hiked through a foot and a half of snow.
I have only taken the long way around, only seen the amazing views, only learned how amazing forty people can be, and only had the best time of my life.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Patricia Echeverria
Afternoon of August 23: I am sitting in the San Vicente Coffee Bean terrace with my friends. The idea of HMI seems so distant. Even though I have just bought my equipment this morning, I am still wondering what a cagoule is. I am bringing seven hiking shirts, clueless of their futility, ignorant of their weight impact on a backpack I will be carrying for ten days. I do not realize the futility of wearing a clean shirt when I haven't showered in ten days. I cannot imagine the odor. The thermometer marks seventy-four degrees; I can't even imagine what all the layers are for. I can't imagine my butt freezing simply as a result of sitting on the ground during circle at night. I cannot picture the rain flooding our fried rice, and my enthusiasm when snow replaces the wet rain. I cannot imagine my hyperactivity, a product of tarp-made vanilla ice-cream (after shaking the tarp, collecting the falling snow in my bowl, and mixing it with brown sugar, milk powder, and vanilla extract). I cannot picture the white snowfield covering our campsite near Heart-Shaped Lake, and Ali singing Christmas carols to it; I cannot yet imagine myself, ecstatically moving arms and legs, battling the tingly feeling of a frozen numb toe, while baking cinnamon rolls.
Surrounded by diet-obsessed angelenos, I stare at the Coffee Bean board. All the drinks claim to be fat-free, even the hot cocoa. The idea of adding a stick of butter to my hot cocoa, just for the sake of keeping my feet warm at night, sounds absolutely disgusting.
And the idea of consuming massive amounts of cheese for the same purpose seems Martian. It doesn't occur to me that eating as much fatty food as I possibly can is necessary to stay warm, when everyone around me eats celery for lunch, and has tried everything from the Atkins to the Zone diet.
I am having a typical conversation with my friends in LA; we talk about the new couples in school, about last weekend's party, about the people we saw there, about our friend who has just gotten a Beemer for her sweet sixteen. We are having the typical superficial conversation, pretending it is just another day in LA. As I sip my ice-blended, fat-free cocoa, wearing vintage sunglasses, and soaking up the sun, my cell phone rings. Before picking up, I look at the screen. It's my mom; I wonder why she's calling. She tells me that I am in the wrong place; I am supposed to be at HMI. Everyone is already there, and somehow, I am still in LA. Somehow, we got the tickets for the 23rd and somehow, we thought I was leaving on the 24th, and somehow...when I arrive here everyone says "hi" and, surprisingly, knows my name. Even on the first day, however, I remain ignorant of the beautiful sky I have been deprived from in LA; mostly, I am ignorant of my luck.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Sam Barber
Being a couple thousand miles away from home is a big step. Let me re-phrase that-- when, for the past 16 years of your life, you have lived in the same place, in the same house, with the same parents, going to the same schools--well, then moving away from that for 4 months is a very big step.
I am going to change. I have changed. Not physically, physically I will stay the same. My hair will still be longer than mom's, and I'll still wear sandals in the middle of winter (don't worry, I get as much crap for this here from my teachers as you give me back home). But I will change mentally. Already I have become more motivated, doing things like finishing all my homework and getting up at 6:45 to run five miles. I have learned to work hard at things I don't want to do, like walking all the way to the outhouse to go to the bathroom instead of walking 5 feet away from the cabin.
But most of all, I have learned to love wherever I am, whenever I am there, with whoever I am with. Imagine 4 boys. Imagine 4 boys who haven't showered for weeks. Imagine 4 boys who haven't showered for weeks, underneath a tarp. Imagine 4 boys who haven't showered for weeks underneath a tarp with no air holes because it's snowed 24 inches in the last day and a half. Ahhh, the great outdoors. I love everything about this place, my friends, my classes, the food, the jokes, everything--so much so that I might have to bring home some of HMI with me. Think of the possibilities: rap battles to see who gets to eat dinner first, not showering for weeks on end, or maybe I'll just build a climbing wall in our living room. Who knows? The point is that I know you spent more money than I am worth to send me here, but I promise you, it was worth every penny.
Parents' Weekend Poem: Lucia Cowles
To Mom, Dad, Col, and Max, as well as anyone else who just might be listening:
Imagine the world is very dark. In fact, not only is it dark, but it smells, and unfortunately, like nothing at all pleasant. Imagine now that you are fumbling about above your head until you find the hole in your sleeping bag, and then that you are pulling your face up so that, looking out, the world is still very dark, but the vague outlines of the tarp above your head are now visible. Imagine the cold air hitting your face, and the relief it brings from the smell of the sleeping bag. The sun is still far from gracing the horizon: it's probably around 4 in the morning. And you have to pee.
This is a terrible thing. It remains a terrible thing as you unzip the sleeping bag, pull on your layers in the cold and shove your feet into your frozen boots that refuse to tie and that are missing insoles because they're in your sleeping bag keeping warm. It is terrible as you squeeze out of the tarp and stomp off into the woods in a good foot-and-a-half of snow. It is still snowing. It continues to be terrible until halfway back to the tarp when you stop and look up. There are no stars this night, but imagine instead thousands of small, white flakes illuminated by your headlamp falling softly down around you. Sound and space are muted by the thick white blanket covering the ground, and for a moment, enclosed in the space made visible by the headlamp, you feel totally alone. Imagine not a bad alone, the kind where you are in constant fear over what could be lurking just beyond sight. Imagine, instead, a brief moment of absolute peace. Peace from others, peace from any other obligations, peace from your own thoughts. Imagine for a moment that you just are, and that that is enough.
There are a lot of things that I could try to explain about HMI in this poem. I could talk about the dash for the best washing machines in the laundromat, the obscene amount of food consumed in the cabins at night, or the euphoric feeling that arises when you realize the big package in the middle of the mudroom is addressed to you. I could, in fact, talk at you for hours about all the funny jokes, and even the not-so-funny ones. I could talk about all the things taught and learned and all the amazing people here at HMI that make this place come alive. I have, however, learned from the past that telling the story, unless phenomenally done, is only a bland and watered-down attempt at recreating the past. There is no way to duplicate the experiences I have had here, but experiencing is the only way I can think of for another person to understand. So I asked you, instead, to imagine you were there in my shoes, though frozen and missing insoles. If, for even one moment, my description of that night came alive for you then you will know, if even only in that one, specific situation, what it is like to be at HMI.
I am not the type of person that can stay settled in one place for a long period of time. Even now I am thinking of where I will and must travel to next, and though it is probably difficult to watch me walk out the door so frequently, I thank you for allowing me to follow my whims. Thank you for letting me experience the world without restraint and I will do my best in return to bring my experiences back home. Imagine.
Love,
Lucia
Parents' Weekend Poem: James McKenna
Dear Mom,
First of all, I would like to thank you. These two months I have spent at HMI have been an incredible experience. Your help in getting me here made it possible. Thank you. HMI has changed my perspective on things I have felt rather strongly against in the past. For instance, I find myself very interested in the work that I am assigned, despite the lethal dosages of it. I find my self truly enjoying school. Within this two-month period of time I have experienced so much; here are just a few of the highlights:
1.Expeditions: the two expeditions that we have taken so far have been awesome. I have seen and learned so many interesting things while being in The Winds and The Sawatch Mountain Ranges. We did everything from summiting 14,000-plus ft. peaks to hiking independently from the instructors and finding ourselves extremely lost. Getting lost, freezing with my tarpmates under two feet of snow, and making hot drinks in the freezing rain and snow have all been (strangely enough) great times.
2.Cabin Life: living in a cabin these past months has been awesome. I have become so tight with my four other cabinmates. The five of us hang out in the common room, keeping warm in front of the wood-burning stove. Cabin One is where it is at; we even have a homemade flagpole made from an erected dead tree. And the pranks that have begun between cabins have been interesting. Waking up at three in the morning to an army of girls clanking pots and pans was horrifying, but girls, heads up, you have no idea what is coming to you.
3.Opportunities: the opportunities at HMI are like nothing I could ever have at home. After I have lunch or dinner (by the way, the homemade food is amazing) some buddies and I head over to the climbing hall and work on some of the routes we have set up on the wall. Or, we will spend the afternoon climbing on some nearby rocks. And soon enough will be learning to telemark ski. Nights after study hall we hang out with everyone on the porch, under the bright stars lighting up Elbert and Massive, listening to Sam play his songs on the guitar. (My personal favorite is Josh: parents, you'll have to ask him to play it for you some time.) Or even AMX: going for a walk through the woods before breakfast, or some days running five miles at ten thousand feet, all with the beautiful views of the rising sun on the two mountain ranges surrounding us.
The friends I have made, the places I have seen, my accomplishments, and my struggles. All of these things I am so grateful for and could never give up. So thank you for everything that you have done to help me be here.
Parents' Weekend Poem: O'Mara Taylor
Dear Mom and Dad,
I know that when you talk to me on the phone you can't picture where I am, what I'm doing, or how I feel, and that you must think that I am in some black hole of kids who never call their parents nearly enough.
But here we are, palpable buildings, students, faculty, and you can see my world. I can hardly convey to you the overwhelming emotions involved with my new home, because this is my home right now.
Please understand that I don't call often because I am running to a meal, or class, or chores, and all the while I am trying somewhat frantically to soak up everything while I am here. I am learning and doing things I never imagined I would or could do. I have carried a 65-pound pack, which as I explained to the fourth graders that I help teach for one period each Thursday, is a pack about the size and weight of them. I have carried that pack for 10 days, almost 50 miles for the first expedition, and have loved all of it.
This place is so incredible because of all the small things that make it up. Every evening we have a different competition to determine the order in which the tables get food. We have had dance-offs, rap battles, everything extraordinarily random but it somehow works. On top of that, it is openly an every man-for-himself situation when it comes to seating; if you leave your chair for any reason, even if you have your water bottle there, sometimes even your plate, it is completely acceptable for anyone to take your seat, it's a free-for-all.
Each Friday my math class and I go to the coffee shop in town for class, and somehow a mocha and a packet the size of a small book of math problems seems like the perfect combination.
We subconsciously make rituals that we follow, like Kayla saying "it's 6:15, here comes the light: 1, 2, 3..." in the morning, or me taking the trash out of the bathroom during chores, and how I always dance to at least one song during study hall, headphones in, probably looking insane to all the innocent bystanders. But within our rituals we thrive on spontaneity, like last week when the dinner cook crew declared that we must dress up like a 90's pop icon otherwise we wouldn't get fed (I was Ginger Spice), or when we have impromptu cabin dance parties or sing-alongs.
I could go on about this place forever, but being restricted to one page for the group's collective sanity, I find I must stop my gushing prematurely. I'm having the time of my life and thank you so much for allowing me to come here and experience this. I love you, and I'll be home before you know it, so please let me roam while I can.
Love, O'Mara