By Emily Mendell
Published Fall 2008

It's probably on your mind: In a few days, kids and teachers will be forced from parks, hammocks, and Slip 'n Slides to rooms filled with metal desks and concrete floors. Even if you're not directly attached to the school calendar, you are probably still aware of the ensuing event. It is, after all, the best time of year to get a great deal on #2 pencils.

At Padilla Bay, back to school means the return of muddy footprints, excited voices, and exhausted chaperones. Each fall and spring, we host thousands of students from regional public and private schools who spend the day visiting the interpretive center, learning how to make "estuary soup," searching for plants and animals at the beach, and viewing life under a microscope.

As we prepare for the upcoming flood, I have taken some time to reflect on my past 10 months here. What can I do better? What will I change about how I teach? What has this job taught me?

I can't remember a day at Padilla Bay that I didn't learn something from a kid. Sometimes, really important things like, "A starfish's face is also its butt." And, "Detritus looks weird." I've picked up subtler information from observing how students act and react when exposed to new things. For example, I've learned that a group of fourth-graders inherently sees more in a mudflat than a group of adults. Perhaps because they are closer to the ground; perhaps because they aren't afraid to touch, smell, and discover. I've learned that kids identified in the classroom as 'the trouble makers' are often the most engaged at the beach. And I've learned that a lot of students who grow up in Western Washington have never had the opportunity to dig up a clam or describe how a sea anemone feels.  

Of course, I've also learned from my mistakes: Never ask a preschooler how old he is--unless I have 10 minutes to spare. Telling students to avoid patches of soft, squishy mud is interpreted as a challenge to seek out the softest, squishiest patch of mud. And if crabs are in sight, trying to get kids to focus on birds, or tides, or anything else is futile.

In the true spirit of reflection, I have also been thinking about what a kid takes away from our programs. As well intentioned as we are, we spend less than a day with these groups. When time's up, did we actually make a difference? I think so.

If there is one element prevalent in all effective environmental education, it's experience. In his book The Thunder Tree: Lessons from an Urban Wildland , Robert Michael Pyle writes, "So it goes, on and on, the extinction of experience sucking the life from the land, the intimacy from our connections." Pyle argues that kids have fewer and fewer opportunities to wonder about and draw excitement from the natural world. We have parks and playgrounds, but these public places are intended for picnics and strolls along short gravel trails. Although these are both good activities, neither encourages intimate connections. They don't (contined from page 7)

necessarily require involvement or discovery. Sometimes, a kid needs to dig a hole, hold a critter, or watch a fish die before the abstract idea of nature becomes real. There are times when observing PowerPoint presentations, doing Internet research, and watching nature documentaries are appropriate. But in many cases, these secondhand activities have robbed us of genuine experience. And lack of experience breeds apathy.

When we take groups of kids to the mudflat, we supply them with shovels, jars, trays, and a very specific job: Find as many different types of plants and animals as possible. Our goal is not for the students to be able to identify everything they collect or remember what each animal eats and how long it lives--we could do that in a windowless classroom. While digging through the mud, we hope they will discover something new and interesting. Something surprising and question-raising. Something that sparks their curiosity to explore their own backyard or schoolyard or the vacant lot down the street. Students do not comb the beach casually here; they are encouraged to (literally) dig in. With the tickle of a polychaete worm, the quick encounter with the mud monster, the sting of salt water in a cut, students are building connections to and finding joy in this place...their place...without being told by an adult what to think. I'm not sure how long a kid remembers the facts that we spew at them (like "plankton provide 50% of the oxygen we breath," but I am certain that the experience (and other ones like it) has a long-term impact.

David Sobel, author of Beyond Ecophobia, wrote, "What's important is that children have an opportunity to bond with the natural world, to learn to love it, before being asked to heal its wounds." An intimate connection to place translates to respect and appreciation for that place, which will grow to respect and appreciation for all places. Where connections are made, Band-Aids will follow.

I've learned a lot in the past 10 months. I've learned about tides, and the importance of eelgrass, and the life cycle of a barnacle. Perhaps most importantly, I've learned that a fieldtrip to Padilla Bay is more than just a day spent digging in the mudflat. And that working here is more than just putting on a pair of hip boots and a smile. We are training our kids to be compassionate, responsible citizens. We are helping to build a sense of community and connectedness to the natural world...one muddy, wet foot at a time.