Turn the music down. Quiet in the back. Look: a herd of elk. Females, all of them, I think, with some so big I squint in search of moose antlers. Coming from the valley's wetlands out of sight, one by one they leap the fence dividing Refuge from Forest. They cross the road, scramble up the grassy hillside, and pause under the cover of timber.

How many are there? They just keep coming. As sight they flow forward, but as sound they flow back. Beckoning cries reach those behind, and the sound becomes the sight as back becomes forward.

Until, suddenly, the sound reverses, now high-pitched and panicked. The sight halts. Calves, just as many as their mothers, have come up stuck at the fence. The sight breaks and fractures perpendicularly to the cries bouncing back and forth with mother's consolation.

"Mom, help!"
"Where do I go?"
"How do I get there?"
"It's impossible, there's no way through!"
"Mom, help!"
"Help!"

"It's okay, I'm here."
"Don't worry, I'll wait for you."
"I'm right here, you can do it."
"You can figure this out."
"Go over, not around."
"You can do it."
"I'm right here, don't worry, you can do it."

The calves search for a break in the fence they will never find. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, in a sight just like the sound. But each, in their own time, freezes. They turn to the fence head-on, cock their head, and finally apprehend the affordance between its height and their own.

A few hesitant steps back.

A silent charge.

A leap through the air and their sound resumes, triumphantly crying forward in a race with themselves to rejoin Mama. When the last calf has leapt over the barbed wire, back and forth sight dividing the back and forth sound, I look up, and on the hills, I could see at least 100 elk sitting still and silent.

~~~

Leading children in the woods has been harder than I expected -- teenagers are still "children" in ways I had forgotten. I expected cohorts of little Me's, green to trail work but eager and equipped to work hard and learn. I expected to be fulfilled by teaching to dig, brush, and saw, and by sharing the knowledge of ecology and recreation that supports these actions. Often, I am. But much more than guidance in these acts of labor we perform, I find these kinds needing guidance in the mere act of living. Not just in the deep acts of living, either, but in the simple ones.

In cooperating while cohabitating. In taking personal agency and collective responsibility in the simple preparation, administration, and maintenance of a life at camp shared with others. In getting breakfast out yourself if its assigned patron sleeps in. In keeping track of tools and water bottles in the field. In listening and paying attention when we talk of plans and schedules of work, and in keeping these in mind as the principal concern of your life for the moment because, well, you signed up for them to be. In finding value in doing meaningful, hard work, even if it isn't fun all the time. In being kind to others, and kind to yourself. In respectfully protecting your peace. In holding space without shoving.

In teaching these acts of living, I have learned to be more like the mother elk. As I'm sure she does too, I often feel frustrated and impatient. I want to run back down the hill, reach over that fence, and plop them over onto the ground so we can get on with the work we have to do. But, also like her, I always come back to the truth that you can't do something entirely for someone and teach them how to do it at the same time. You can only model how to jump, remain near enough that they know you're there, and then guide, instruct, and encourage until they take the leap themselves.

In coming here to be a Youth Expedition Leader, I thought I would lead as sight, but I have been floored by the power and necessity of guiding as sound. Leading children in the woods is harder than I expected, but the mother elk make it easier.