When School Starts: Environmental Education in Middlebury, VT

The school day begins with the ring of a bell, but not for the fifteen elementary Bridge School students at nine o’clock on a late September morning in Middlebury, VT.  Their day of learning begins with the call of a chickadee, the squish of damp earth beneath little hiking-boot encased toes, and the glow of cool sunlight against freckle-sprinkled faces.  As I approach the trailhead leading into Wright Park, a flurry of little people about waist high scramble out of a white school bus, reminding me of fairies leaving a stump-made house. As I come closer, I hear the familiar chitter chatter of energetic children, brightening my morning as a smile stretches across my face.  

“You must be Haley.” A woman motions to me from the throng of hippity hoppity, seeming rather calm given the nature of the chaotic atmosphere.  Meet Jen Grilly, co-director and environmental educator at the Bridge School. With a Vermont signature flannel, down vest, and much-loved green REI backpack, she is just the kind of person I thought I would be meeting. Her face is warm and inviting, and I admire her obvious sense of place in the natural world.  Jen seems confident in her role as a teacher and frankly, as a human on the planet.  

Once the children are settled with turtle-shelled backpacks adjusted and shoelaces tightened, Jen addresses the class as we stand in a line, asking us to observe and comment on what we can see around us. “What doesn’t belong here?” Jen poses to the group.  As if on queue, at least half of the students shoot sapling-twig arms into the blue air. Patiently, she calls on the students, letting them share what they observe. Vivvy, Andre, Daisy, and Max (all around age seven) comment on the tossed-aside apple core looming on the edge of the trail and give their variously creative explanations as to how it could affect the local ecosystem. Kindly, Andre approaches the apple with pride, picks it up, and puts it in a nearby trash can, followed by applause from his classmates.  

The children, mashed in a single-file line, weave along the trail together like an enormous caterpillar.  Tiny backpacks bounce in synchronization as innocent, curious voices are carried on drafts of chilled autumn air.  I hear comments made about worms withering in shallow mud baths, and tiffs between friends attempting to assert their dominance in recognizing bird calls.

 “That’s a bluejay!” 

“No, Tiger, that’s a crow.” 

I’m slightly amused by this boy, whose name of Tiger fits him perfectly. A rolling bundle of fiery energy, I’m fearful he may physically explode at any moment.  As the crisp sunlight begins to wake the students from alert slumber, I watch the bobbing pin heads in front of me, and I picture the spinning gears inside their brains, trying to make sense of this still very complex world in front of them.  I smile to myself as I recollect my elementary school years, none of which were quite as exciting as wandering through forests, memorizing the feeling of frosted dirt slathered on baby bear paw hands. On this chilly Vermont morning in Wright Park, a unique educational system is in the making.

As we continue on our hike, Jen pauses often, engaging the group in observations and  activities. About midway through the walk, Jen asks if anyone knows what trail etiquette is. Unlike the previous question, this one stumps the group. Etiquette is a big word.  Jen’s intuitive nature as an educator and environmental saint allows her to sense the questioning that glistens in the bright eyes looking up at her.  It’s clear she’s comfortable in her role standing here in a Vermont forest clearing. Jen began her experience in environmental education at the McKeever Environmental Learning Center in Pennsylvania and has since continued her work, taking with her her skills as an educator and role model.  With an aura of tranquility like twirling sheets of honey-colored mist, Jen explains what it means to be a polite and respectful hiker, simultaneously interweaving lessons of vocabulary, common sense, and environmental awareness. 

Throughout the morning, I find myself near the back of the line, sandwiched between Daisy, with purple hair and a jacket to match, and Vivvy, a tiny little nymph with fuzzy pink gloves comforting her hands. I let them drive the conversation, and we talk about our favorite colors, foods, and shapes. I learn that Vivvy’s father teaches at Middlebury College, but when I ask what subject, she timidly states, “Oh I can never remember.”  Tromping through the forest with the students makes me feel like I am once again seven years old, my only worries involving the next play period or the ill-fated caterpillar that was lying in the middle of the path. When we stop for a snack, Daisy and Vivvy ask if I want to sit with them, and I accept, enjoying listening to the back-and-forth randomness of youngster conversation. As I sit on damp moss, feeling like the new kid at school, Daisy hounds me with questions. “Guess what I’m allergic too.” Knowing that the answer could be practically anything, I take an educated guess. 

“Nuts,” I say. 

“Nope! Apple juice.” 

I find Daisy’s response to be questionable.  But sensing her eagerness to converse, I respond, “Oh that’s interesting that you’re allergic to apples.” Never in my life have I met anyone allergic to the simplest fruit out there, so I’m intrigued.  But genuine interest soon turns to questioning as Daisy explains that she in fact does eat apples (and applesauce, apple juice, apple pie, and apple cider), it’s just that darn apple juice that gets her. I have to keep myself from laughing out loud.  That’s the thing about kids though, it’s all about perspective. This is what I appreciate the most about environmental education. While a traditional classroom setting rarely warrants communal perspective on learning, environmental education does just that.  As Sam unconsciously drops crumbs from his almond butter sandwich, Jen uses his carelessness as an opportunity for exploration.  

“Why do I ask you to sit while we have snack?” Jen poses to the group among sounds of delightful munching.  Seemingly too preoccupied with their tasty treats, the students sit quietly, staring up at her. Trying a new approach, Jen asks the students to think about what squirrels and birds eat.  She gives them a hint.  Traditionally not almond butter.  I watch as the children absorb the information that Jen lays out, emphasizing the importance of leaving the wild, wild.  It is in these instances that I see a groundwork for fighting against much larger environmental villains. The solution to the global climate crisis lies in the insight of people like Jen, and institutions such as the Bridge School.  The Bridge School students and myself have developed a sense of identity with Wright Park. We have learned to care for this fraction of land, and thus have learned to care for all lands.  Just as Sam realized his mistake in leaving traces of nut butter crumbs amid the pine needles, humans must realize that it is not our place to tirelessly exploit Earth’s natural resources.  Today Wright Park is the place that fifteen youngsters and I call home. But it is also home to blue jays, gray squirrels, warblers, and New England cottontails. It is home to red maples, and white pines, and poison ivy.  

We often see the environment as a commodity and pay little attention to the impact of our actions.  Like the Bridge School students are learning, environmental progress is about altering a mindset. In Wright Park, my little friends reflect on what it means to be human in a natural space. Quite a large task for a group of seven year olds.  Yet they are so far ahead of many of us. We have some catching up to do, but here lies a hopeful beginning in redefining our relationship with our surroundings.   

Preoccupied with dried mango and a spilled handful of almonds, my group doesn’t seem to notice as I leave and make my way over to Jen where she sits snacking on granola, cross-legged, like a mother bear watching her cubs.  I express my gratitude towards her for letting me accompany her class on their Monday adventure and tell her how inspiring her program is. What I love most about Jen is that she is fully present. Naturally resting calmly in a patch of grass, it’s hard to remember that she is in fact human, with obligations outside of this setting.  But perhaps that is what draws me to Jen’s work and environmental education. Learning through natural spaces strikes the perfect balance of being present and respecting the future. As we wander along the forested trail, we learn through the persistent creaks in the trees how dependent we are on their life. We come to appreciate those pieces of nature we so easily take for granted.  

As we talk, Jen expresses her enthusiasm towards my interest in the program as light glistens off her hair from cracks in the maple canopy.  Even though I have only known her for a mere morning, I am eager to continue our connection. During my time spent with the Bridge School, it’s clear that an impeccable service is being provided to the Middlebury community.  It is people like Jen and students such as Daisy and Vivvy that inspire me. It is in these moments that I remember there is hope for changed environmental practices. As the day winds down, I say goodbye and make my way back along the trail, my thoughts already wandering to the prospect of the following week, eager to lose my mind for a little while, join my new little friends, and become a curious, trailblazing kid again. 

____________

The next Monday, smells of mud and crisp air drift toward me as I enter Wright Park followed by the usual parade of Bridge School students.  A little hand prods my arm, pointing towards a knotted pine needle that rests in the spritely child’s outstretched palm. I look down at a cluster of browned needles intricately woven together, forming a handcrafted ring. “Here,” my new friend says, “this is for you.” Graciously, I take the offering from Alex and examine it as he watches me from behind blue-squared glasses, proud of his creation. 

Today a misty film coats the meadow, wrapping me and the children in a low-hanging fog. Below us, the well-loved trail is a darker shade of stone and soft underfoot, reminiscent of the recent rains. A rusted cattle gate hangs haphazardly from two posts, dark green paint chipped away, welcoming visitors to the park. This is the southernmost access point, off of Seymour Street, about a seven-minute bike ride from the center of town. The entrance boasts a colorfully handcrafted sign reading Wright Park written in painted bubbly letters accompanied by a misshapen teepee, reminding me of elementary school art projects. I look back as bobbing heads bounce toward me from the parking lot followed by waves of laughter and youthful energy. Here I become a second grader once again, giddy with excitement as my fellow friends bound down the trail. 

As the mist begins to evaporate from the meadow, I join the Bridge School students along the winding path shaped by caramelized leaf litter and numerous pine needles, much like the one Alex gives me. Chitter-chatter follows in our wake as we meander along. 

“What are you going to be for Halloween?” 

“You’ll never guess.” 

“I’m going to be a vampire-princess-zombie!” When Daisy learns I’m not planning on trick-or-treating, she proudly states, “College kids are not too old to go trick-or-treating,” stretching a smile across my lips.  

Trodding along, I fall into step with Daisy, Tiger, Alex, and Sam, but the boys are soon distracted by their own games and at one point claim to have seen a chicken in-between the barren stick trees lining the path.  As I peer into the woody maze, looking for the described chicken, Daisy sighs behind me. Apparently this is not the first prank these little jokesters have played. Laughing at my own susceptibility, I notice how the students ahead of me naturally morph into the landscape, much like Jen.  Small fingers don’t just point out hopping insects, but imitate their jumping patterns, translucent wings buzzing. High-pitched voices don’t only squeal at drops of dew that land on their heads, but exclaim in wonder at the way the water glistens as it falls. Like the children, I too am a piece of a greater picture.  Here, we are no longer learning about ecosystems, we are a part of an ecosystem. We are no longer imagining what a blue jay call might sound like because we are hearing it pierce through the overgrowth, mimicking it as we weave along the trail. 

After a few more bends in the trail, our group stops at the much-anticipated Terrahana camp. It is here we will be having English class. Through the glowing lightly leaved trees, a slight clearing unfolds in the midst of forest shade. A mossy twigged teepee–much like the one pictured on the park entrance sign–a tarped hut adorned with a wooden sign reading: “Site of the Terrahana Village,” and a set of hanging rings swinging from a tree in the slight chill cut out the space. Sunlight glints through the overhanging branches, dappling the rugged playspace in speckles of warmth. The children splinter into smaller groups around the camp for their lessons, and I follow Daisy and a few others into the teepee. 

Log stumps form a ring inside and we claim our seats, all of which are coated with a thick layer of grime and sticky mud. This is no bother for these woodsly youngsters, however. As Diane–the Bridge School’s reading specialist with a peppered-gray bob, stern features, yet an incredibly calming voice–reads The Trumpet of the Swan to the children, I feel as if there should be a fire ring in the middle of our formation, hot cider ready to be poured into cups held by outstretched dirt-caked fingers. The surrounding dampness and chill clashes with the atmosphere we create in our huddle. The stiff scratching sound of pencil on paper as the students doodle remedies with the excitement to answer questions posed by Diane. I’m at ease as I listen to the shhh shhh of rain-booted feet making circles in the pine needles, and feel Daisy’s occasional nudge, asking me what I think of her impressive drawings.  

As the lesson continues, I notice how Jen wanders around the camp like a bear marking her territory, ensuring her cubs are safe.  Seeming satisfied with the progress of the classes, she announces–much to the children’s delight–that it’s time for a snack. The forest floor becomes our banquet hall and I am soon surrounded by a crowd of little ones, chomping on apples, trail mix, and fruit strips. Here, I am not a decade older than the students, I am a student, mixed in with the rise and fall of stressless conversation, watching as Sam and Tiger debate how to properly spell meow. 

“M-E-A-W.”

“No, it’s either M-E and then O or M-O and then E.”

In the glow of late autumn air, I take in the scene around me.  The dampness of pine needles flattened beneath footprints, the gleeful laughter ricocheting between tree trunks, the lone chirping of a warbler.  Rosy cheeks windblown by the cold, and the last of the leaves straining to hold on another minute. Just another minute. Yes, let me stay here just another minute, wrapped in this comforting familiarity of mud-streaked hands and curious eyes.  

But it is time for me to go. Regretfully, I leave my little friends and slip back down the hill to the main trail, watching the sun peak above the treeline, warming my face. Down the gravel-coated path, back out the rusted gate, past the simple welcome sign. And as my feet adjust to the paved road that now lies beneath me, I swear I can hear the wind wishing me to come again, carried by little voices growing fainter and fainter in the distance. See you soon. 

Wright Park and Bridge School Students 

Entrance to Wright Park

  Wright Park, South Entrance

Bridge School reading lesson at Terrahana 

  Late fall in Wright Park

Terrahana Village in Wright Park

  Terrahana fort 

Glossary 

Environmental Education: A process that allows individuals to explore environmental issues, engage in problem solving, and take action to improve the environment. As a result, individuals develop a deeper understanding of environmental issues and have the skills to make informed and responsible decisions (epa.gov)

Land Trust: A legal entity that takes ownership of, or authority over, a piece of property at the behest of the property owner (investopedia.com)

Trail Around Middlebury (TAM): A MALT project that defines a footpath over 18 miles long that encircles the village of Middlebury and links several hundred acres of town land, conserved properties, schools, and other local landmarks (maltvt.org)

The Bridge School: Alternative elementary school in Middlebury, VT that nurtures children’s development as inquisitive scholars and kindhearted community members. Through collaborative, project-based, community-engaged learning, Bridge School cultivates children’s natural curiosity, and joyful creativity (bridgeschoolvermont.org)

MALT: Middlebury Area Land Trust that works to promote community well-being while conserving local natural areas (maltvt.org)