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At a small cutoff in the trail, we waited in huddles for the remaining climbing gear to descend the mountain. The sun was near setting and the looming canyon walls cast large shadows with only a few pockets of sunlight for us to scurry towards to stay warm. Together as classmates we joked and reminisced over the events of the semester. I remember regretting not bringing a thicker jacket as the night air began rolling in. However, this seemed hardly a nuisance as the lively nature of our conversation distracted us from the chilled winds cutting through Rock Canyon. This was the last time we would find ourselves together like this. The class itself would continue into December, but our days of climbing together would not.

Last semester, through the guided teaching of my Wilderness Writing professor, combined with the therapeutic benefits of nature, I discovered the importance of choosing wisely our zero-or-a-hundred moments. Rapelling off cliff faces into aspen trees below required me to be all in; the drive home at dusk from a faraway forest thrived in my passivity; thought-provoking prompts in my leather-bound journal required everything along the spectrum, capturing in words everything that these experiences had to offer me. The class became the catalyst for all these realizations, as we were taught the beauty of written reflection. As vivid as our experiences are, our written reflections are what capture their importance in time. Though the color of memories may fade, the words that capture our colorful experiences do not lose their detail. Without written reflection, the realizations I have had through my own all-or-nothing moments would have been bound by time stamps of the past. It is through written reflection that our experiences transcend these limits, and become lasting parts of who we are.

Planting our skis and poles into the snow so they stuck up like giant misshapen toothpicks, our little group tromped over towards the edge of the ridge. We perched along the knobby length of a log, chatting and looking out over the sparkling Uinta slopes. I think it was our TA, Wyeth, who first asked me if I needed some water or a granola bar. I was conspicuously free of any kind of pack for an afternoon of cross-country skiing. Anxious to practice faster skiing, I’d skied ahead of my friend with whom I was supposed to swap carrying a backpack with water and snacks for the both of us—only to find out a mile or two later that this group wasn’t planning on going the same route as the other half of the class left behind. And my friend had the bag.

As a graduate student and writing instructor, I’m almost ashamed to admit that the tapestry of my own academic past is pockmarked by boredom and disengagement. I’ve sat through more than one or two classes, chin in hand, half-listening to the drone of lecture and discussion, half-imagining I’m somewhere else doing almost anything else. Then would come that bite of guilt when I’d hear an enthusiastic comment from a classmate or watch my professor’s face light up when they talked about such and such text or concept. How could I feel bored when clearly there was something here engaging someone else?

As a senior in high school, my favorite class by far was Literary Magazine Staff (affectionately referred to as Lit Mag) with Mr. Ericson. Up front, he told us that if we were going to have a literary magazine filled, designed, and printed by the end of the year, it would be because we (the students) had made it happen—not him. And with that declaration, we knew that he had complete faith in us. We all worked hard together that year to make our dream a reality. As a team, we identified strengths and skillsets, volunteered and delegated, and constantly met back together to check in and be accountable. By the end of the year, we had a magazine that we could say was completely our own. Undoubtedly, Mr. Ericson was a huge part of our success, but he didn’t drive the magazine or the class for us. He helped us formulate strategies, gave feedback on ideas and processes, and worked hard himself to secure funding and administrative support for our product. We couldn’t have done as much as we did without him. But his choice to hand the class over to us and to let us direct ourselves made it one of the most formative and satisfying experiences I had throughout high school.

Just a few days in London was enough to know that Londoners take their green space seriously. As a study abroad student who had never been to the UK before, I was amazed at how frequently this bustling city built itself around green spaces. Step out of any Tube station, walk a few blocks, and you run into a patch of grass and trees and benches (and invariably, someone sitting on them). The size of the trees—sometimes wider around than my arms could reach—clearly indicated that the city had preserved these nature spots, not built them in after urban development. That respect for nature and desire to incorporate it into the city landscape was inspiring. These green spaces weren’t just leftover scraps either. The crowning jewel of London’s green spaces, Hyde Park, merged with the adjoining Kensington Gardens provides approximately 625 acres of walkable green space. And London isn’t the only city like this. A survey published in The Guardian estimates that the 10 most populated cities in the UK still have considerable green space: Liverpool, in 10th place, is comprised of 16.4% green spaces and Edinburgh, in 1st, clocks in at 49.2%.

It was Saturday—finally. Every week of the semester had crept on tortoise legs, and weekends had turned into the one refreshing gulp of life before plunging back into the fray. But in the past few weeks, even Saturday found itself encroached on, looming reading and paper deadlines pressing me to abandon my leisure and keep my nose to the grindstone.

ENGL 317: Wilderness Writing climaxed in a three-day cross-country skiing/backpacking trip in the Uinta Mountains. As a novice cross-country skier and backpacker, I was pretty proud of how far I had come out of my comfort zone in this class. But on the second night, after trekking out into the dark forest, dousing all our lights, and hearing the story of a boy dragged off by a grizzly bear in Alaska—the plan my friend and I had to sleep out under the stars that night set my stomach to nervous bubbling. I’d come too far though in proving to myself that I could do new and uncomfortable things to turn back. But apparently that wasn’t enough to fend off my newfound fear of bears. I spent most of the night crammed deep into my sleeping bag, heart pounding as I imagined that brazen grizzly dragging off his prize. Sunrise the next morning was about the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen as I scrambled out of my bear burrito sleeping bag, wholly intact.

Dr. Christianson teaches courses in nineteenth-century American and British literatures. He specializes in literary realism, transatlanticism, and the novel. Professor Christianson began teaching at BYU in 2002. He received his Ph.D. in English from Brown University and his MA and BA degrees from BYU. Currently serving as an Associate Dean in Humanities, his portfolio includes oversight and assessment of experiential education programs, including study abroad and internships.

Albert Einstein has been credited with saying, “It is not that I'm so smart. But I stay with the questions much longer.” As a writing instructor and graduate student, I have often considered what drives someone to be a lifelong learner. It is my hope that students will transfer into post-graduation situations with skills and a desire to “stay with the questions”. In in my own life, I seek to be engaged in conscious life-long learning, but I haven’t always known how to engage with experiences in constructive ways. During my time at BYU, I have come to learn that three components can help lead to continual growth.

Nineteen years ago, I started a new job as the receptionist for a title company. By title, I mean title insurance, which is required for most real estate transactions. I was 23 years old and a newlywed. I had no idea what title insurance was or why consumers needed it, despite having just purchased our first home (a 1 bedroom, 750 square-foot condo) in which we had been issued a title policy of our very own. Title Insurance is provided to protect new homeowners and lenders from past property issues and errors which can legally (and expensively) affect properties. As I began to learn and experience what the title industry entailed, I found myself writing in new ways. I was more aware of how my writing would be received and understood. I had to reflect carefully about everything I wrote (including emails) by crafting words to communicate properly and effectively for the business I was engaged in.

Reflective writing helps us work through difficult problems, learn about ourselves, and gain understanding about others. When we write we create and recognize change and often reach conclusions we didn’t expect to find. Reflection helps us become aware of the importance of being present in experience and how to process the feelings that come with life events; even when those experiences are hard. Just over a year ago my friend was in a biking accident which left her in a coma for seven weeks before she ultimately passed away. She was 32-years old and the mother of three beautiful children. Writing about my experience with her death has been important in navigating my grief.

After a rigorous ride down the mountain I pull off the trail, walk into the trees, and put down my mountain bike. My breathing slows. The quiet expands. Sitting, I focus on relaxing my body one limb at a time. I soak in the small sounds that interrupt the silence; rustling leaves, running water, the whir of the occasional bike tire. I am not afraid, or lonely, or bored. I relish the feeling of being insignificant to my surroundings in this moment. I feel content in my solitude and ready to write. But this ability to be at peace here—to be alone—has not come easily. It is a hard-won skill.

With a growing population, water conservation is a major concern in Utah. Yet, capturing water can prove difficult. Often, watershed runoff can be too high. Growing up in the arid desert region of central Utah, I understand what runoff looks like. When the ground closes itself off during hot summers intense rain fall or snow-melt can come too fast for the soil to drink in, making runoff waste inevitable. All this got me thinking: In this fast-paced world, how do we capture the things we need? How do we avoid closing ourselves off? How do we conserve the best parts of ourselves and learn from experience?

There’s reality, and then there’s our perception of reality. There’s what happened, and then there’s our recounting of what happened. The band The Decemberists have lyrics that touch on this pattern: “And we'll remember this when we are old and ancient, though the specifics might be vague. And I'll say your camisole was a sprightly light magenta when in fact it was a nappy bluish gray.”[1] I think of these words whenever I hear an elderly couple stumbling through an event from their past, trying to get the details right, but invariably spilling some inconsistencies.