Katie Powers
Adirondack Semester
12.07

"Nate! Ice cream's on sale!"
$1.89 for two scoops on a waffle cone; what a steal. Ah, gas stations: those hubs of bright lights, diesel engines and sloppy anonymity that so wholly embody this culture. Though we've been living outside for weeks now, calling ourselves environmentalists and balking at the over-consumption of fossil fuels, our stop at the Tupper Lake Stewart's feels somewhat routine. Ice cream, Mountain Dew, cigarettes. A full tank of gas for two Chevy Suburbans. We storm the rest of the little town, elbowing our way through the laundromat, Shaheen's IGA, the library, the Brick Oven Café. Though we advocate a simple and sustainable lifestyle, and smell like we haven't showered in months (okay, some of us haven't), we are undeniably adept at using cell phones, checking email, spending money. Twelve reckless, dirty college students clumsily straddling the line between the woods and the world.

Unfortunately, those doses of civilization weren't entirely rare. Yes, we all love nature and yes, we all want to stop global warming. And yes, we all shared the romantic idea that we'd be spending the semester cut off from the world, isolated in deep Adirondack wilderness.

For part of the time we were. We woke to the piercing cry of a loon splitting through early morning fog. We came to know the birds, mammals and tiny plants that shared their woods with us. Gaultheria hispidula, Tsuga canadensis. We bathed in the lake, and fired up our small barrel sauna to take off the chill of the water when late fall arrived. There was no running water, no shower, no flush toilet. There were solar panels to collect enough energy for a refrigerator and a few lights. There were cozy sleeping bags on the floors of our yurts, and woodstoves to crowd around. There were canoes, sailboats and kayaks for exploration, solitude, and adventure. There were hot meals prepared with organic produce from a North Country farm. We learned to work with wood, to cook for fourteen, to paddle a guideboat, to crochet. Our immediate surroundings dictated our lifestlye, and we grew accustomed to slightly more thoughtful, ecologically conscious patterns of being.

While we inhabited this quiet forest, drinking in its secrets, subtleties and grandeur, we also absorbed the bigger picture of environmentalism through our coursework. We learned about the natural history and ecology of the Adirondacks. We discussed the potential for changes in America, and across the globe, that would foster a less destructive relationship between people and the planet. We studied issues of land use, both in the Park and elsewhere, that play a significant role in that relationship. We explored our personal connection to the natural world as well as the thoughts and writing of environmentalists from across the country. We read about visions of a bioregional culture, wherein humans embrace local resources and both physical and social communities, thus cultivating a greater respect for the earth.

If we weren't studying, cooking, canoeing, or sitting in the sauna at "Arcadia," our tiny yurt village, we could be found indulging in some of the many luxuries of an American lifestyle. We traveled throughout the Park on various field trips, enjoying the convenience of having two SUVs at our disposal. Almost any food we could think of, food that traveled thousands of miles to get to Tupper Lake, New York, was a mere fifteen minutes away: avocados, bananas, organic coffee and chocolate. Twice a month we had access to cell phones, computers with high speed Internet, buffalo chicken wings, and the infinite wonders of modern technology available at the local Stewart's. Over fall break many of us welcomed the opportunity to take hot showers, sleep in a warm bed, and cook with running water. We didn't long for these luxuries in their absence, but found that we had developed a fresh appreciation for them.

For part of the time we were wrapped in a microcosm of "green;" it surrounded us in our physical environment as well as our social climate. For part of the time we felt isolated, and for part of the time we didn't. Our time in the woods was challenging because bathing in the lake became uncomfortable and writing papers by hand became tiresome. Conversely, our time in civilization was challenging because we were struggling to integrate new ideas into our everyday lives and experiences in the world.

We weren't roughing it on the Adirondack Semester; we bought Cheez-Its and used propane, we listened to iPods and used cordless drills. We certainly weren't living like the average American, either; we went about our days more deliberately, and with a greater awareness of the wake left behind by our actions. Those days spent beneath towering Hemlocks allowed us to construct a foundation. We were outraged at the glaring disconnect between societies and their resources, and we were challenged to imagine a world in which humans live differently. Through time spent in direct contact with the woods and direct contact with civilization, we can now start down the road toward a compromise.

From my perch on the short dock that juts out into Massawepie Lake, I gain a better view of this place and of my role here. I've thoroughly enjoyed my time in these woods, the weeks of growing closely tied to this small corner of the world and to my fellow students. I know that I've grown closer to nature, and that I've learned a great deal about the work that goes into creating a strong, cohesive community. But the understanding I worked hardest for, the understanding that is perhaps most important, is the knowledge that we must find a balance. It was difficult to go from a canoe to a car, and from the forest to Tupper Lake, but it was through these contradictions that our purpose became clear. For me, this semester wasn't a quest for solitude; it wasn't a vacation. It was the first tangible answer, the groundwork for feasible, practical, imperative change. We won't solve environmental problems by hiding in cities, constructing walls of technology between our lives and the natural world. And we certainly won't solve them by hiding in the woods, ignoring the societies from which problems are born. I learned a valuable lesson this fall, one that I hope I can pass on to friends, neighbors and fellow citizens: we must inhabit a place that is somewhere in between. We must know and cherish the nature that we care about and depend on, and we must also know society, economy, technology. Though we will at times feel clumsy, it is this balance of the woods and the world that promises a successful, sustainable future.