Mastering "Leave No Trace"

The lobster boats have long been in the water by the time we launch from a dock in Sorrento, a coastal town about an hour's drive from Rockland. We journey out to Stave Island, where we are treated to an uninterrupted view of Mount Desert Island's western shore. Though this is one of the most heavily trafficked areas of Maine, we do not see so much as another kayak once we paddle beyond the fishing vessels, inducing the feeling that we are the only people here. We indulge in this fantasy of being alone, of having gotten away from civilization. For many, this solitude is the essence of the wilderness experience. Once ashore, we carry our kayaks above the high-tide line and hide them in the trees so that we do not shatter another paddler's delusion that she is the only one on the water this morning.

After a snack, the thinking part of the course begins. We were given teaching topics to research and prepare prior to our arrival, and the bulk of the information shared will come from these topics and the discussions that follow. LNT Master Educator courses are"designed for people who are actively teaching others backcountry skills or providing recreation information to the public," and the folks on this trip are the real deal: a National Outdoor Leadership School instructor, five Outward Bound instructors, a wilderness survival pro from Nova Scotia, a Maine Guide, a college outdoor-ed teacher, a trail designer, and an assistant director of the Navy's outdoor adventure program. Being with them is what I imagine returning to teach at my old high school and eating that first lunch in the school faculty lounge would be like. It's exciting and mildly intimidating, and ultimately much more normal than I'd anticipated.

The nature of experiential education is using what you learn, and watching these people work makes me feel that more classrooms should be moved outside. We become a part of the action, role playing, imitating, rarely just listening. With "Honey, I Shrunk the Educators" charm, Barbra—an Outward Bound instructor—reduces us to mouse-like proportions. Letting her fingers do the walking, she leads us on a tour of a mini-environment she has built from shells, driftwood, seaweed, and stones, encouraging our full-size selves to follow established trails, spread out when there is no trail, avoid fragile areas, and to rest and camp on durable surfaces.

Later, we learn the where's and why's of pooping on the beach from Jody Conrad, a survivalist from Nova Scotia whose unflaggingly positive attitude is accentuated by the word "appreciation" at every turn. Even when he squats over a cathole he has dug in the sand, demonstrating the proper inland method of disposing of human waste, he is appreciative for being given the chance to pretend to take a dump. Because we are on a remote coast, however, we will not be digging any catholes. No, we will learn the art of the "shit-put."

On coasts of pristine islands such as these (where group size is low and there are no tidal pools or oyster beds), the accepted method of fecal disposal is the ocean itself. Abby, Thor's kayaking partner and an experienced guide, gives us the details. "One of the best ways to get it out there is to, um, deposit it on a rock—a large flat stone, preferably—and toss the rock carefully into the sea, far away from the campsite." Though primitive in form and function, this method of disposal is actually an innovation in coastal camping. Burying the waste in the sand, where there is no organic material to aid decomposition, is a more harmful option.