The Day My Dad Sent Me To Live In The Woods

Disclaimer: The events described in this article are based on the authors personal experiences and true life events. This article aims to raise awareness and inspire change through the lens of the author's journey, and it should not be interpreted as a comprehensive or definitive representation of all behavioral modification programs. Heidi’s story aims to raise awareness about the potential pitfalls of these programs and advocate for more compassionate and effective alternatives to help troubled youth. This article, rooted in true life events, serves as a beacon of hope and a call for change, urging society to rethink how we support and guide adolescents in need.

Revisiting these events isn’t easy, but it is necessary. Too many adolescents are sent away to places like this, with the hope that they will emerge better, stronger. Yet, the reality is often far from that ideal. We need to explore and invest in alternatives that truly support and nurture our youth, rather than breaking them down. My journey through the Adirondacks was one of survival, and it is my hope that by shedding light on my experience, we can create a future where no other adolescent has to endure the same.

the program

May 23rd, 2011. I’ll never forget it. The day two total strangers ripped me out of my bed and I was hauled off into the unknown. The image of my father standing in the corner of my bedroom in tears.

I’m sorry, Heidi.

What in the actual fuck was going on!?

I quickly contemplated jumping out of my bedroom window. But, was suddenly brought back to reality, being forcefully yanked from underneath my covers and escorted out of my room.

My dad just stood there. DO SOMETHING!! I pleaded.

I was directed through the house, out the door, and into the back seat of the cruiser. The sleep still not even all the way out of my eyes. Panic and fear setting in. What was happening?

No one said a word. I bounced back and forth in hysterics in the backseat of the car. Both monsters making themselves comfortable in the front, and buckling in for the ride ahead.

We peeled out of the driveway. I took one last look at my dad standing in the doorway, and kissed my life goodbye.

I was 17 years old, and in my senior year of high school. Getting ready to graduate in only one short month. Don’t ask me how. That period of my life was spent focused on anything but school. Drinking and partying with friends, was all I really had any interest in.

My parents had frantically tried to take control of the situation — quickly witnessing me spiraling out of control. My defiance, lack of priorities, trouble with the law, and fearlessness dancing close to death - they felt lost. Helpless. Hopeless. I get it now.

So, this was their answer.

I sat in silence. All I could hear was the chomping of her gum. That asshole. Miss shotgun rider up there. They asked me several times if I was hungry. Do you want to stop for food?

No? How could I possibly stomach anything at a time like this? Idiot.

If I had a heads up that I would be spending the next several months starving to death, I would have answered differently.

Hours go by, or what feels like it at least. I had no idea what time it was, and they sure as hell weren’t going to tell me. I had asked enough questions to make my own ears want to bleed. With not a single response.

Where are you taking me? What did I do? When am I going back home?

Nothing.

I was no longer recognized. I was no longer heard. It would remain that way for the next 97 days.

We’re here. Get out.

Where is here? Because I’ve seen nothing but fucking trees for miles. I didn’t have the energy to dispute. I stepped out of the car, ready to meet whatever fate was in store.

Before me sat a desolate house. Nothing like out of a scary movie flick, more of like a cute older couples cottage. I proceeded inside, where I was met with instant demands to strip down of all my belongings. Weird request, seeming I was only allowed to leave with the clothes on my back.

My “belongings” were tossed into a big plastic bag and replaced with red joggers, a long sleeve black top, and boots. Put that on. Back in the car we went. A much shorter drive this time. We pull off of the main road and park by the tree line.

Let’s go.

This is a literal joke, I remember telling myself. Where do they think they’re taking me? Into the woods?! They pop the trunk, and pull out a backpack that was more than half my size. This is for you. Throwing it to the ground, signaling for me to grab it and get my ass moving.

The sun had now risen. The combination of my high running emotions, and lack of broken sleep had brought me here - in this moment all mental clarity void. Looking down at my feet, agreeing to put one foot in front of the other. I looked over my shoulder as the trailhead entrance grew smaller and smaller. The trees towering overhead. The summer heat coming through, but barely any light.

Welcome to hell.

I stare down at my feet blankly, begging God to just take me. I can see little up ahead walking the trail. I start to question whether I’m hallucinating and if what I’m really seeing is really there. Others ?

We catch up. A line of girls dressed just like me, halted in position. Stopped in their tracks. This is where we part. Best of luck to you. Asshole 1 and Asshole 2 smirk, give me a head nod, and exit the same way that we came in.

GET IN LINE! I scan the area to the face that requested my attention. There in front, blonde hair, scowled scrunched up face — meet Beth.

We were spoken to in nothing but drill tones. Constantly being screamed at through gritted teeth. I’d be woken up in the morning to their piercing voice, “LADIES, YOU HAVE 3 MINUTES TO GET UP PACK UP AND BE IN LINE READY TO GO!”

If even one girl took longer than that 3 minutes to do what was asked, we were required to go back, reset up our tarps, lay back underneath them, and redo the call again in less time, until we all did exactly what was required.

Fuck this place, man.

Welcome To Adirondack Leadership Expeditions

What once was, and no longer is. They say the place was shut down shortly after I managed to get the hell out of there. Advertised and promoted as a “Therapeutic behavioral modification program for troubled youth.” Ha!

This I only discovered after being released to come home. My parents had avoided the manipulative tactics of the interventionist and counselors, emphasizing the importance of shipping me off to a boarding school in Utah directly after completion of the program. Thank God for that.

The day I was dropped off in the woods, I would lose all track of time. I would not be allowed to know what day it was, what time it was, or when I would be going home. I was no longer Heidi… my number was 6.

The first thing you learn - the longer it takes you to comply and follow the rules of the program, the longer you will be there. There are 4 phases: turtle, bear, wolf, and hawk. You have to at least be a wolf to be considered to go home or earn any sort of privileges. By privileges, I mean basic human needs.

The most fucked up episode of survivor, and I’m on it.

The girls all looked like they hadn’t bathed in months (because they hadn’t). No one was able to talk to me or even look at me. I was instructed to join the line formation and follow suit.

Hiking. That’s all we did. From the time the sun went up, until after the sun went back down. In all of the elements. Summer heat, bugs stuck to your face, down pouring rain, there we were — one foot in front of the other, moving forward. Going where? Who the fuck knows.

We would set up camp at night. We were given one big blue tarp and some rope which you had to learn how to properly tie yourself. That blue tarp was the only thing that was supposed to protect me from whatever lurked in the wooded areas we laid our heads down in at night. Wonderful.

I would watch the other girls, as they would secure their spots in between the trees. I spent countless nights sleeping in a pool of water because I couldn’t quite figure out the right angle to tie my tarp when it would rain.

No change of clothes. I would lay awake at night, soggy, waiting for morning to come. The sun would come out and my clothes would dry on my body, as we continued to hike.

The mosquitoes, black flies, and No-See-Ums had eaten through every part of skin on my body. At first, it was an annoyance, torture almost. Then you adjust. I would have welts on my body from the bites, scratching myself to death before I closed my eyes for the night.

I started to forget what the real world was like. The longer I spent in the woods, the more I would fantasize over normal things.

Food, water, my bed.

All day long, hiking in the heat, craving nothing more than a bowl of ice cream. We were required to eat the same thing every single day, and ration it at that.

We would receive what they called a ‘bear bag’ once a week with our food in it. Containing only: dry oats, a small jar of peanut butter, several tortilla wraps, and rice for supper. Each item precisely counted out. Giving us just enough to have small portions each day.

If you were hungry (which you always were) and you ate two peanut butter wraps in one day, then you already knew you were going to starve come the end of the week and your bag was empty.

We were required to drink 4 canteens of water a day, minimum. If you were not meeting your food and drink requirements- you were not going home.

Our water came from whatever water source we’d come across. That goes for lakes and puddles. Instructors would drop our bottles with iodine to kill what ever bacteria resided in our cups. I would dream of the day I could drink water that didn’t taste like dirt and have literal dirt in it.

Hell.

The program was built to break you, and that’s exactly what it did.

We had no communication with the outside world. We were allowed to write one letter a week, with supervision, to our parents. We were not allowed to talk poorly about the program, or ask to go home. A “therapist” would come out and meet us on the trails; speaking with each of us individually. Taking notes of our progress and passing them onto our parents.

My letters were always short, sweet, and straight to the point.

Dad,

I hate you.

-Heidi

I knew if there was ever a chance of me getting out of there, I was going to have to do exactly what they said to do — do the program. There was no avoiding it. There was no running away.

Trust me I considered every option.

You were always in sight of an instructor. Going to the bathroom, being the only time you didn’t have constant eyes on you. In the mere 2 minutes that it took for me to squat behind a tree, I was required, out loud, to say my number…. over and over…. and over again, so that they knew exactly where I was.

6, 6, 6, 6, 6! Not to mention they also take your shoes. So, you’re definitely not running anywhere. I’m sure some people have tried. I wasn’t up for the challenge. My luck, I would turn into bear food. I was not trying to navigate my own way out of those woods.

I was here to stay.

I did what I had to do. I hated every minute of it. Practicing and implementing all of the “soft skills” and “hard skills” that were required for me to go home.

Soft skills entailed things like how I handled my emotions, how I would properly express myself, how I would respect others, and follow instruction.

Hard skills entailed things like learning how to make cordage rope out of tree bark, hand carving a walking stick, and successfully sparking a fire with two rocks. Crazy shit.

If you did not have all of these tasks signed off by your instructors you would not move up a phase — you would remain no closer to getting the fuck out of there.

97 days. I would use my thumb nail to make an indent in the side of my walking stick, to keep track of time, and how many days had gone by. Hoping and praying for the moment I would get removed from my group, and reunited with my parents.

97 days. Then, I saw my dad’s face. Caught up in the moment of pure joy, I ran to him — embraced him in a hug. Tears streaming and relief consuming me. I was finally going home.

I returned back to my house. My bedroom. My life. Resentments set in rather quickly, as I tried to explain what I had just gone through with my father. He shrugged it off and we labeled it “tough love.”

For the fear of having to return, I straightened myself out. Only momentarily though.

I believe the lack of success resided in the form of trauma and brainwashing implemented when within the program.

All of us girls ended up connecting once we got out. When you go through something like that together, it’s hard not to have a special bond.

Two out of the eight in my group, ended up dying of overdoses shortly after completing the program. Others, like myself, went on to struggle and face other hardships for much longer.

Today, we all have overcome demons, built families, have children, and are thriving. No credit due to the time we spent in the woods. I think we were all worse off coming out of there, than we were before going in.

If you asked me what I took away from my time there….. well, if I decided to wander into the woods today, with nothing but the shirt on my back, I’m able to keep myself alive for at least a week. Bow drilling, sparking a fire, making tinder, wiping my ass with lambs ear, those skills will forever be engrained in my brain. So I guess survival is something to be proud of embodying.

As I matured through the years, and surpassed the times of struggling with drugs and alcohol, my relationship with my parents, my father especially, was given room to replenish itself.

We still fail to meet on common ground when it comes to what the definition of what “tough love” is. I have an understanding for his choice. His lack of insight and knowledge as to what I truly experienced while I was there, and his willingness to do whatever it took, thinking this program would save my life, was the reason I chose to forgive him.

The reasoning behind me being sent to ALE was valid. However, in my opinion, there are far better alternatives to helping aid in troubled teen youth.

I am grateful for my experiences, even if at one point I wasn’t sure if I was going to survive them. They have conditioned me into the person I am today. They have forced me to demonstrate a level of strength I would have left undiscovered. Just another chapter in my book.

I invite you to share your thoughts and experiences related to troubled teen programs. Have you or someone you know been through a similar situation? Whether you were a teen in one of these programs or a parent who chose this path for your child, your insights are invaluable.

Do you have success stories or horror stories? I would love to hear about them and connect with others who have shared in these experiences. Your voice matters, and together we can shed light on this important issue and advocate for better alternatives for our youth.

Please leave your comments, questions, or stories below, or reach out to me directly. Let's start a conversation and support each other on this journey.