Hey guys, I'm about ready to send my commonapp to all my schools, and I'm just looking for some final input. Also, a title.
I spent four months of my junior year living in a small, spartan cabin with no electricity, the only heat provided by a small, wood-burning stove. This unique program was offered through the High Mountain Institute (HMI) in Leadville, Colorado. I lived and studied with forty-two other high school juniors from across the United States, each of us having made the commitment to take part in an unorthodox learning experience for one semester. I was drawn to the program by the opportunity for personal challenge and change, and also by my strong interest in nature and wilderness.
We lived communally on a small, rural campus at 10,000 feet where each student had a role in supporting the entire group. Classes were held six days a week in order to make time for three expeditions. In addition to academics, I cooked, cleaned, chopped wood, and supported the other students and faculty with my time and attention. My experience living among such a small group of people changed my definition of community. It was interesting to live with such intimacy, where the well-being of the group truly relied on the willingness of individuals to participate.
The classes at HMI were as extraordinary as the living conditions. We were required to take an ethics class called Practices and Principles: Ethics of the Natural World. The subject matter was fascinating; we focused heavily on moral issues surrounding wilderness and the environment and read literature pertaining to those topics, such as Thoreau's Walking. For the first time, I pondered my place in nature.
HMI challenged me on every level, shifting my understanding of personal responsibility, risk, freedom, and the unpredictability of life. One unexpected challenge occurred during a 12-day winter camping expedition in the Mosquito Mountains of Colorado. Four of us were in a camping group. We all lived in snow caves we had built. Just like every other morning that week, I crawled out of our snow cave at about 6:00 AM to start melting snow for water for our group. After a day and a half of blizzard conditions and cold weather, I was happy that it had warmed up that morning. It was particularly calm and quiet. A few feet of snow had fallen during the storm.
After breakfast, we all put on our backcountry skis and backpacks and prepared to ski to the next site. We had just set out when things started to go terribly wrong. I watched as my friend, Max, fell to the snow, not 50 feet from me. A split-second later, my group flinched as the snowpack collapsed on itself with a massive sigh. A cascade of white descended toward Max as he struggled to free himself from his bindings. The rolling snow picked up speed as it approached Max, who was unable to move out of its path. And then, as quickly as it started, the avalanche stopped not five feet from him. He survived, not because of skill or preparedness, but because of luck.
During the next several hours, there was a lot to think about. I have had scary moments in the past, yet there was something distinctly different about watching as one of my very close friends narrowly escaped being buried alive. I experienced an odd juxtaposition of shock and relief as time progressed, and I couldn't shake off how unsettled I was after such an unexpected event. As the expedition progressed, the shock faded away, but I remained emotionally startled that such an event could actually happen to me.
I wouldn't trade the experiences I had during my time at the High Mountain Institute for anything. I learned the true meaning of a community: a place where every person cares for each other. Even the scary moments taught me lessons about life that I don't think I could have learned in any other way. Most importantly, I came away from the semester with a greater appreciation that some events in life that are outside of my control.
I spent four months of my junior year living in a small, spartan cabin with no electricity, the only heat provided by a small, wood-burning stove. This unique program was offered through the High Mountain Institute (HMI) in Leadville, Colorado. I lived and studied with forty-two other high school juniors from across the United States, each of us having made the commitment to take part in an unorthodox learning experience for one semester. I was drawn to the program by the opportunity for personal challenge and change, and also by my strong interest in nature and wilderness.
We lived communally on a small, rural campus at 10,000 feet where each student had a role in supporting the entire group. Classes were held six days a week in order to make time for three expeditions. In addition to academics, I cooked, cleaned, chopped wood, and supported the other students and faculty with my time and attention. My experience living among such a small group of people changed my definition of community. It was interesting to live with such intimacy, where the well-being of the group truly relied on the willingness of individuals to participate.
The classes at HMI were as extraordinary as the living conditions. We were required to take an ethics class called Practices and Principles: Ethics of the Natural World. The subject matter was fascinating; we focused heavily on moral issues surrounding wilderness and the environment and read literature pertaining to those topics, such as Thoreau's Walking. For the first time, I pondered my place in nature.
HMI challenged me on every level, shifting my understanding of personal responsibility, risk, freedom, and the unpredictability of life. One unexpected challenge occurred during a 12-day winter camping expedition in the Mosquito Mountains of Colorado. Four of us were in a camping group. We all lived in snow caves we had built. Just like every other morning that week, I crawled out of our snow cave at about 6:00 AM to start melting snow for water for our group. After a day and a half of blizzard conditions and cold weather, I was happy that it had warmed up that morning. It was particularly calm and quiet. A few feet of snow had fallen during the storm.
After breakfast, we all put on our backcountry skis and backpacks and prepared to ski to the next site. We had just set out when things started to go terribly wrong. I watched as my friend, Max, fell to the snow, not 50 feet from me. A split-second later, my group flinched as the snowpack collapsed on itself with a massive sigh. A cascade of white descended toward Max as he struggled to free himself from his bindings. The rolling snow picked up speed as it approached Max, who was unable to move out of its path. And then, as quickly as it started, the avalanche stopped not five feet from him. He survived, not because of skill or preparedness, but because of luck.
During the next several hours, there was a lot to think about. I have had scary moments in the past, yet there was something distinctly different about watching as one of my very close friends narrowly escaped being buried alive. I experienced an odd juxtaposition of shock and relief as time progressed, and I couldn't shake off how unsettled I was after such an unexpected event. As the expedition progressed, the shock faded away, but I remained emotionally startled that such an event could actually happen to me.
I wouldn't trade the experiences I had during my time at the High Mountain Institute for anything. I learned the true meaning of a community: a place where every person cares for each other. Even the scary moments taught me lessons about life that I don't think I could have learned in any other way. Most importantly, I came away from the semester with a greater appreciation that some events in life that are outside of my control.