I have an interesting job. My assignment for this evening: taking a group of children into the woods at night and scaring them. Terrifying them. So badly that they trembled, whimpered and eventually screamed.
Believe it or not, all of them signed up for this treatment, and their parents were in favor. They didn't know it, but they were learning a valuable lesson, and perhaps even helping carry out an ancient indigenous tradition.
The scary hike is part of an outdoor education program for fifth and sixth graders, and it's not without controversy. Some members of other outdoor schools have criticized the practice, but by the end of this piece I hope to have you convinced that it is not only safe, but also beneficial.
Only a fraction of the children earn the privilege of signing up for the scary hikes, as a reward for being the first in bed the previous night. Although there are many choices, including such tame options as catching frogs at the pond or playing ga-ga ball, the scary hikes fill up first every single week, and kids are disappointed if they don't get into one. The elective nature of this practice is critical and can't be stressed enough: I would never intentionally scare children without them asking me to do it! (Often kids reconsider or "chicken out" later in the day after signups, and we always take them off the list, no questions asked.)
The hike begins on a light tone: I begin telling them a story that happened decades ago on this land we're on. It runs like a tour of the places where various events of the story took place, starting out innocuous enough and gradually increasing in graphic sensory detail to its shocking conclusion. I pretend to be more and more afraid, trying to remain calm but showing signs of inward panic and impaired judgment, and this heightens the effect because as the tour guide I am their source of security. I get spooked by strange noises (cars in the distance, insects) and sights (rock piles or downed trees that "don't look right" to me), and I talk quickly and with intensity as I ask the kids to stay quiet and in a straight line, and to walk fast. This is method acting: I feel genuine physiological fear responses such as sweating, dry mouth, higher pitched speech, fidgeting, and fast, shallow breathing. The children exhibit similar fear responses.
At a certain moment my cell phone rings - a setup - and I have a fake conversation in front of the children. I say the camp director's name and then, "Yes?... Which hike was she on?... Where was she last seen?... Yes, I'm close to the pond... Ok, I'll take my group up there and check. (Hanging up) Okay, kids, we have a situation here. Please stay calm and follow my instructions, and everything will be fine. (Under my breath) Why? Why now, why me?" At this point, the kids are whimpering and trembling, wondering why they ever signed up for this hike. I've been telling them over and over to stay calm, and that everything is going to be all right. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could talk them down out of their fear at this point. The darkness crowds in around them, and they are visiting dark places inside themselves.
When we arrive at the pond, I pretend I am looking for a child, and at the same time I am positioning my group directly in front of another group of kids hiding silently in the bushes. The leader of that group is with them and has trained them to wait in silence until they hear me say the key word, which is "Kayla." I whisper loudly, "they said she was over this way.... (a bit louder now) Kayla!" And suddenly the bushes erupt with a shrill, piercing scream that would do Edvard Munch proud. My group is so startled, they scream in kind and many jump up or fall over.
Instantly the tension is broken, as kids' friends shout out, "Hah! We got you good!" The response: "Oh, yeah! Good one!" There is a minute or so of joyful mayhem before the two leaders separate the groups again. I go through a short debrief where I tell my group that the whole story was made up, and that everything I've told them since the start has been a lie. They babble all the way back to camp, totally comfortable with the woods and the safety of it all.
Of course the startle effect is critical: it's the only way to break the tension and convince the kids in a visceral way that they are safe, and that the scary story was a lie. If the hike were to end without that climax, then their fear response might remain more active and they'd have a hard time sorting out the truth or calming down enough to go to sleep. I'd have a hard time convincing them to trust me again, I think.
But right before I dismiss them to their cabins, we have a brief discussion about the valuable learning available in this experience.
Children need to test their fear. They need to explore how their fear fits into the world and how their bodies respond to fear. I went through a phase of enjoying horror movies and novels during middle school. Certain Native American tribes used to initiate children at about this age by making them swim across a lake during a moonless night, telling them to be careful of the sharks. Of course there are no sharks, but when those children had crossed the lake safely, they probably felt an inner sense of their own courage and integrity, trusting themselves to examine evidence rather than blindly trusting authority. I argue that this is a critical developmental step for any child age 10-13. My hope is that the bogus scary story teaches my students to examine critically anything presented to them, even from a trusted adult. I hope that they will grow up to be the kind of citizens who critically examine the stories their government presents to them. I hope that when they hear "terror alert level orange today," as I heard last week in the airport, that they think of all my fearmongering antics (the strange rock piles, the fake phone call, the fake panic) and see some parallels. Perhaps the big, scary Oz is really just an old man behind a curtain. Every citizen needs to make this realization, for our cultural stability, and I have observed that as children come of age, most of them crave this experience.
As I dismiss them from the hike, they disperse back to their cabins, buzzing with joy and relief, knowing deeply in their guts that there isn't anything to be afraid of in the woods, beyond the usual common sense about wild animals, food and shelter, getting lost, etc. They are better able to discern legitimate fears from paranoid ones. The lack of blind trust enables them to trust more deeply because that trust is tempered with wise judgment.
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