Our practicum was two weeks of canoeing and two weeks of backpacking, culminating with a final student-planned-and-led five-day expedition. Students were constantly under a microscope as staff observed and documented their efforts to be outdoor leaders. In addition, students had to keep a journal of their experience. It was demanding for students and staff alike.

As inevitably happens, students sometimes complained about our decisions. One of the most challenging practicums was when we had a record number of students. We ran three 10-student expeditions concurrently and got together only once during the entire 33 days to do a mid-course assessment near Raquette Falls. My group and another arrived first.

When the third group trudged in late in the day, I greeted the instructor — whose face was sadder than Melpomene’s — with, “How’s things?”

“Not good,” she said. “I’ve got some students that are a giant pain in the rear, challenging the whole idea of outdoor leadership.”

Staff assessing student litter building (Provided photo)

She took a deep breath, sighed and then continued.

“One even said, ‘Who’s Jack Drury to define outdoor leadership?'”

Indeed, who is Jack Drury?

We had a group meeting, and it was clear three of the students didn’t buy into the course, didn’t want to be there and didn’t like what we were teaching. It seemed the best thing for them to do was leave. They agreed and I had them escorted back to civilization.

If that wasn’t enough, we had a couple of other students who just couldn’t cut it — we wouldn’t trust them to lead our children in the wilderness. So, they passed the course but didn’t get certified as outdoor leaders.

Students taking notes during a class (Provided photo)

Being in the field is difficult enough but when you get back, dealing with parents and administrators is sometimes worse. Knowing that when I got back to campus, I would be held accountable for my decisions, I documented the event thoroughly in great detail in order to cover my butt.

I felt good about the decisions I made in the field, but some administrators didn’t. I was put through the wringer. I was called to a meeting with my boss and three administrators. They questioned my decision making, they questioned my assessment process and they questioned everything but what I had for breakfast.

It became clear to me that what drove this was not a concern about the program and the students, but what the students’ parents might do. In hindsight I was amazed how much second guessing was made by people who’d never spent a night outdoors, much less had tried to train outdoor leaders.

After much hand-wringing such as, “What are we going to do about this terrible sequence of events?” — one administrator suggested I talk to the director of nursing. They observed that the nursing program had clinical training similar to my practicum, and that they have a standardized state exam with a more than 90% rate of passing. I was told to meet with the director and see what she did regarding assessment. I was assured I’d find a lot of ways to improve my assessment process.

I came out of the meeting shell-shocked.

As my boss — who had my back throughout — and I left, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, that wasn’t the worst I’ve seen a faculty member treated by those people.” That hardly made me feel better.

Barbara Rexilius, the director of nursing, was a smart collegial woman. I duly made an appointment to meet with her to discuss student assessment. She welcomed me into her office, and I said, “The powers that be told me to talk to you about assessment. You have over a 90% passing rate on the state nursing exam. I thought there might be some secret sauce to teaching and assessing nursing students that would be a magic elixir for assessing my students.”

Before I could say another word, she laughed, raised her hand and said, “Stop. You have to realize that by the time the students take the exam we’ve weeded all the poorer ones out, so we only have the best ones left. Of course we have a 90% passing rate. It should be even higher.”

She continued, “We observe them closely during their clinical experience and we have a rigid assessment process, but it all boils down to a simple statement we use to determine whether they should be nurses or not.”

“What’s that?” I asked, expecting to hear a sophisticated, jargon-filled, profound answer to the secret of life.

“It’s this and only this,” she said. “Would you trust this person to care for your grandmother?”

With that I thanked her and headed back to my office, chuckling to myself and confident that my program’s assessment process was on par with the Nursing program’s.