Moonshine- Republished

Into the Wilderness: Story 2

When I think of moonshine it’s not bootleg whiskey that comes to mind. It’s the bold calling of the moon through the sugar maples and hemlocks on the Blue Ridge mountains. Late summer heat and humidity be damned, Catina, Chuck and I snuggled together on her sleeping bag looking at the moon through the canopy of branches. We had not seen her in over 8 weeks and had only communicated through weekly letters. But here we were, together at last.

Wilderness therapy, for those who do not know, is an intensive behavioral modification and self-awareness program located completely in nature. Programs range in approach, but Catina’s, Blue Ridge, required living outside 24 hours a day, seven days a week. In small groups, these teenagers created their daily living, from setting up base camp, sleeping area and latrines to cooking three meals a day and syphoning fresh water from nearby streams. They pitched their own tents every night to their favorite shape– a flat splayed bat wing or inverted V. Everything they needed, they carried in massive packs, water bottles bouncing against their legs like buoys. They had one bowl and one spoon, used for every meal, wiped clean with leaves. They were completely isolated. And they were happy.

Happy. Away from the seduction of cell phones and other influences, the teens had slowly slid back into themselves like a ship entering a slip. An unmistakable feeling of pride vibed through the group. Weeks before, many could not get out of bed, and here they were caring for themselves. Waking early with the sunrise. Building and tending the fire for cooking meals. Cleaning up. Working in tandem for “bear hang.”

Trekking the woods is absorbing work, and it becomes a means of therapy. Because wilderness therapy is, well, therapy. The safe container of the woods strips away all pretense. Several times a day, the teens gather in groups to check in, share feelings and communicate. This is the hardest work. It means prying off the bark they had developed to isolate themselves.

Catina’s first few weeks in the woods were not easy for her. They were excruciating for us. An enormous black hole was in the space she used to fill.

Two weeks passed before our first letter. Our therapist had warned us: it would be angry or manipulative. It was the latter. She was barely escaping bear attacks. She had tumbled down a mountain. She had seen the light. In the following weeks, the letters got darker, deeper. Uglier. What we learned devastated us. Catina was finally opening up. And her truth was much worse than we could have imagined.

But now, underneath the glistening moon, we felt safe. And peaceful. We lay in our socked feet- shoes are confiscated to prevent easy escape- and listened. Earlier in the day she had taken both our hands and led us to a sloped spot on the mountain and said, “Let’s talk.” Two words. Two powerful words. What she shared is her story to tell. But this is what I heard: Talking is healing and healing is hope.