The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
12 — Wednesday, January 27, 2021 
statement

N

EW HAMPSHIRE | Seven people, 
clad in sleeping bags and down jack-
ets, are gathered in the tiny cabin 

atop Mt. Cabot, an elevation of 4,170 feet. Outside, 
the White Mountains roll for miles, sliding in ev-
ery direction after hours of rain. Inside, there’s one 
picnic table, four large plywood bunks and clothes 
drying on every available surface. The conversa-
tion drifts from directions to the nearest water 
source to hypothermia to poetry. Each student was 
instructed to bring a few poems, found in the camp 
library, that address the concept of the unknown. 

Four miles and three summits ago, the group 

had camped at Unknown Pond. They’d spent the 
evening reading short stories over the fire, fan-
ning it with a frisbee to ensure its smoky survival 
in the damp forest. Now, the seven crowd around 
the picnic table, journals open and headlamps on. 
After someone pulls the instant hot pack from the 
first aid kit so one student can warm his hands, 
class begins.

Tonight, the students are far from Ann Arbor, 

Mich., the quintessential college town home to 
the University of Michigan, and instead are deep 
in the New Hampshire wilderness. Sitting in this 
cabin is a privilege. They submitted essays, sat for 
interviews, paid tuition and drove across the coun-
try to be here. I suppose I should say “we” because 
the student peeking out of a sleeping bag reading 
poetry by David Budbill is me.

We were the 45th class spending our spring 

semester on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee 
for the New England Literature Program. The 40 
of the 53 of us (40 students, 13 instructors) were 
there to earn nine English credits in six weeks. 
Former Facebook interns bunked with medical 
school hopefuls and creative writing majors; the 
instructors ranged from published authors to a 
hairdresser, a law school applicant and an English 
professor. We filled our days with Emerson and 
Thoreau, Dickinson and Glück, Frost and Freder-
ick Douglass — and with scrubbing toilets, baking 
bread, splitting wood, building fires, pitching tents, 
skinny dipping and writing of this world we’d cre-
ated, our newfound love.

Absent from this world was any form of mod-

ern technology, recorded music, alcohol or com-
munication with the outside, other than through 
letter writing. It might be odd, but the recipe 
has proven successful and remained largely un-
changed for 45 years.

What is alternative education?
The term “alternative education,” which can be 

“broadly 
defined as educational activities that fall 

outside the traditional K-12 curriculum” according 
to National Center for Education Evaluation and 
Regional Assistance, has typically been reserved 
for students who are at risk of failing school: 35 
states associate it with students who have behav-
ioral problems. While such programs, who focus 
on the outdoors as a method of rehabilitation, ex-
ist, this reservation implies a correlation between 
“alternative” and “problem” — that those who 
don’t thrive in a traditional classroom are the issue, 
instead of questioning how everyone could pos-
sibly succeed in the same classroom. But NELP 
requires an entry fee, literally and figuratively, 
and every admitted student counts themselves as 
lucky.

So, there’s a huge spectrum of alternative edu-

cation, and the terminology can be confusing. But 
as the definition explains, it can really be anything.

NELP is only one of the hundreds, maybe thou-

sands, of alternative education programs in the 
United States, and it’s not even the only one at the 
University of Michigan. The University also of-
fers Camp Davis, a geological station just outside 
Jackson Hole, Wyo., and the Biological Station in 
Pellston, Mich. Both programs provide Michigan 
students a break from the traditional classroom 
structure and pull them across the country to-
wards their subjects’ source: Walden pond for 
Thoreau readers and the Teton peaks for geolo-
gists. 

Camp Davis operates on a rolling basis, mean-

ing that classes drive out west from Ann Arbor 
one at a time, and periodically leave camp for one 
to three-day field trips into Yellowstone or City of 

Rocks, Idaho. The professors, many of whom have 
been making the trek for years, bring their fami-
lies and dogs, and every so often a graduate stu-
dent instructor’s significant other will turn up for 
a weekend. One evening in July 2018, there were 
over a hundred people — more than the mess hall 
could hold — so the kitchen staff threw an outdoor 
barbecue. A few weeks later, at the end of the sea-
son, only half of one class remained at the camp 
(the other half had gone camping), so the kitchen 
donned freshly-cleaned aprons and cooked a 
three-course French dinner. Though the kitchen 
staff was mostly U-M students looking for an ex-
cuse to live in the mountains (I know because I 
worked there in 2017 and 2018), meal flexibility is 
representative of the camp’s ethos.

The alternative education umbrella is wide. 

At the Alzar School, high school sophomores and 
juniors spend half their time at the Alzar cam-
pus in Cascade, Idaho and the rest in Patagonia, 
Chile, kayaking, backpacking and skiing their way 
through a fully accredited semester. Kristin Bierle 
founded Alzar with her husband, Sean, in 2004. 
The couple started out running one to three-week 
programs in the U.S. and Chile as they worked to-
ward their vision.

“When we sat down looking at the school, 

and what we need, what we wanted education 
to mean, we saw tremendous opportunities for 
growth and leadership development at the inter-
section of really engaging academics with cultural 
exchange,” Bierle said in a phone interview with 
The Daily. 

The school typically has 40 students per se-

mester, many of whom haven’t spent much time in 
the outdoors (in fact, all three programs don’t em-
phasize previous outdoor experience upon entry, 
though enthusiasm for leaving your comfort zone 
is a requirement). Alzar instructors teach the regu-
lar high school classes — honors and Advanced 
Placement math, science, English, Spanish and 
history — but are also leading expeditions, travel-
ing internationally with the students and pairing 
the outdoors with the class material to teach lead-
ership skills. 

“We’re not an organization where you’re go-

ing to have someone with a Ph.D. in physics from 
Harvard, who has been teaching the AP physics 
class for 25 years,” Bierle said. “I think that’s a tre-
mendous educator, and there’s tons of space in the 
educational landscape for that educator to exist 
and it’s really important, but for our model, that’s 
not where our power comes from.”

Her ideology is echoed in most alternative edu-

cation programs, but specifically at Deep Springs 
College, which calls itself a “unique institution of 
higher learning.” L.L. Nunn, an electricity mogul 
turned philanthropist and education experiment-
er, founded the school in 1917 around three pillars: 
academics, manual labor and student self-govern-
ment. Total student enrollment caps out at 
30 
, and 

the school isolates itself in Deep Springs Valley, 
Calif.

There is no set form for what an educator looks 

like. Kristin Fisher, who led the Unknown Pond 
trip, has taught at NELP for the past five years and, 
like most of the instructors, is a program alum her-
self. She’s been in almost every kind of classroom 
throughout her teaching career.

“When I’m planning a class, especially when 

we’re outside, I’m planning for a five-hour chunk 
of time. And I have to scout where we’re going and 
I have to know about the weather and I have to 
make sure that students are prepared with gear,” 
Fisher said in an Ann Arbor coffee shop, in Febru-
ary of 2020. “This is stuff that I don’t need to do in a 
classroom. I’m taking care of bodies. And in a class-
room, I’m taking care of minds a little bit more.”

But what does it 
look l 
ike?
T

he NCEE’s study found four criteria 
to measure alternative education pro-
grams by: “whom the program serves, 

where the program operates, what the program 
offers, and how the program is structured.” Be-
tween Camp Davis, Deep Springs College, Alzar 
School and NELP
, there were a few important 

similarities: Class sizes are small and instructor-to-
student ratios are high. They’re structured more 

like a community than a classroom, and the goal 
is to offer more than educational learning. They’re 
selective, and students 
want 
to be there.

***
U.S. Highway 191 winds its way north through 

the rolling Gros Ventre wilderness, toward Jack-
son and the sharp peaks of the Teton range. It’s 
punctuated by turn-offs to ranches with names 
like Bourbon Whiskey, Broken Arrow and Spot-
ted Horse. Like NELP
, the trip to Hoback, Wyo-

ming begins in a U-M van, five students each. 
Camp Davis’ driveway is signaled by its hanging 
wooden sign, emblazoned with the University’s 
block ‘M,’ but anyone will tell you it’s the large 
metal moose, property of Bourbon Whiskey, that 
declares the geology students have made it. From 
above, the driveway looks like someone draped a 
ribbon across the land. It’s a full mile of packed dirt 
and gravel road with a 15 mph speed limit. On the 
group’s third day of driving west, a caravan of tired 
strangers inches their way toward Mt. Anne and 
the small camp tucked in at the base.

Even though all four programs are housed in 

the realm of alternative education, they operate 
differently. Camp Davis, Alzar and Deep Springs 
have campuses designed for educational use, 
meaning they have classrooms, labs and comput-
ers for some lessons. The rest take place wherever 
the instructors deem appropriate. At Alzar, that 
means anything from English class on the banks 
of the Payette River, though an empty classroom is 
nearby, to learning about environmental steward-
ship in the woods with a drill in hand. Camp Davis 
students chatter about their upcoming Yellow-
stone trip over the morning’s scrambled eggs and 
bacon. An hour later, they’re running across the 
driveway, towing tents and hiking boots and the 
occasional floatie for relaxing after class. 

Unlike the other three, NELP doesn’t have a 

permanent space. All of its materials — tents and 
camping equipment, kitchen utensils and hun-
dreds of books for the camp library among other 
things — are packed into a shipping container for 
the winter. All 53 members of the community par-
ticipate in Work Day, where the camp transforms 
into a working, educational space. In my six weeks 
there, I attended class on three different docks, in 
the woods, in a tent on a backpacking trip, in the 
camp kitchen and taught my optional, student-led 
elective class in a treehouse.

All four programs also emphasize isolation. 

Though Camp Kabeyun had perfect cell service 
and sat only a few miles from two towns, NELP’s 
world rarely extended beyond the camp’s grounds. 
Just across Lake Winnipesaukee sat our flashing 
green light of civilization, visible and audible all 
hours of the day. We were self-isolating. 

“ 
We value hard work and simple living at 

NELP
,” the educational philosophy explains. “As a 

way to build a solid foundation for our intellectual 
explorations during the program, free of unneces-
sary distractions.” As it turns out, reading that sen-
tence and living it were two very different things.

During the seven-week academic semesters 

at Deep Springs, no one is allowed 
 
in or out of the 

campus, except the student driver. Camp Davis 
students are allowed to leave only on their off days 
and at their professors’ discretion. NELP students 
can drive into town once a week for supplies or 
stop on the way back from a backpacking trip. Al-
zar students live and study on campuses on two 
continents, but the focus rarely leaves those two 
places unless it’s an expedition. And, of course, 
physical isolation is just the first step. Such small, 
remote communities are key to tight-knit, high-
functioning ones. 

“You just have to have higher expectations of 

your students. They’re embedded in it. They don’t 
get to go home,” Fisher said. “And that’s a privilege. 
That’s a privilege to be able to do without — some 
people need to go home.”

During the last week of NELP
, I attended Maya 

West’s class on Thoreau’s “Civil Disobedience” in 
the art room. Maya has been teaching at NELP for 
years and was probably in the double digits with 
this text, but because this wasn’t a lecture, the les-
son changed every time. A handful of us sat on the 
freshly stained porch, frustrated with each other 

and with what felt like a book devoted to contra-
dictions. Across the camp, another instructor rang 
the bell to signal that class was over, and the group 
split off into different directions to unwind. Maya 
and I walked to the kitchen together (for week five, 
we both worked for the lunch crew). 

“Honestly, where does Thoreau get off?” I 

asked, exasperated. “He comes from a huge seat of 
privilege to be able to refuse government services 
on the grounds that he, himself, is in a position of 
not needing it.”

Maya swung open the screen door as Sayali 

Amin, a fellow student, walked in from the mess 
hall. A rising junior in LSA who splits her time 
between studying neuroscience, English and 
working in The Daily’s newsroom, she’d taped the 
NELP flyer to her refrigerator weeks before she 
applied. 

As we went through the walk-in fridge for 

leftovers, heated-up stew and washed lettuce, 
our frustration with Thoreau’s essays spilled over 
into the cooking. We kept poking at his ideas, ask-
ing questions while chopping vegetables, until we 
plated the food and I felt like I’d finally cracked 
open the meaning of his writing.

“Learning never ended,” Amin said months lat-

er on the couches of The Daily newsroom. “Which 
was really cool. It just kind of bled through ev-
ery part of your day, like into your meals and into 
cooking and into cleaning and everything that I 
really appreciated where it just never felt isolated. 
It never felt super concentrated and it never felt 
overwhelming.” 

The emphasis on community in alternative 

education landscapes is essential to the entire 
operation. NELP and Deep Springs thrive on a 
co-op style of living, where everyone contributes 
and cultivates the living environment. At Deep 
Springs, work shifts divide up the farm, ranch and 
everyday chores. Each rotation typically lasts for 
two months. “The labor pillar is valued most for 
its pedagogical function,” the college explains. It’s 
designed to harbor responsibility, trust, leadership, 
and appreciation for everything in your commu-
nity. NELP conducts interviews during the appli-
cation process, but I didn’t realize until after that 
it was mostly to see who would — and wouldn’t 
—thrive in such a small community. There is no 
invisible janitorial or kitchen staff to ensure camp 
runs smoothly and food appears when the dinner 
bell is rung.

“There’s an obvious necessity to the work we 

do here,” Michael Leger, a 2016 Deep Springs 
graduate, explained about the school. “Cows need 
to be fed. The garbage needs to be taken out. Eggs 
need to be rinsed so that they can be used for 
breakfast. You need to take your responsibilities 
seriously because there are immediate and urgent 
consequences if you don’t do your job well.” These 
programs are framed as educational experiences, 
with the understanding that education doesn’t 
come solely from classes. 

At Deep Springs, current students choose the 

next class, and about 200-300 people apply for 
12-15 spots. After writing six essays and sitting for 
interviews, a small portion of the pool spends a few 
days at the school. They mimic Deep Springs life to 
see if it’s the right fit for them. Maybe, more impor-
tantly, it’s a test to see if they’re the right fit for Deep 
Springs. All of these programs assemble a class of 
strangers, place them into an isolated area, add on 
pressures like academics, a new environment and 
shared responsibilities, then use whatever hap-
pens as teaching moments. 

With that community comes redesigned rela-

tionships, specifically between students and teach-
ers. Sometimes, own the third day of a backpacking 
trip, an instructor gets tired. They’re hungry, some-
one in the group twists their ankle and everyone’s 
frustrated. The instructor is only human, and that’s 
just as much of a learning opportunity as when a 
professor lectures to a roomful of scribbling hands. 
It’s just different material. 

For the chance 
of knowing 
something

BY ANNIE KLUSENDORF, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

