Food can sometimes be more than a physical necessity. It can be a means of connection,

acceptance, or profession. If any number of people can find no thing that links them, food is what

can. This proved true for me in a more apparent and direct way last summer in a Wilderness program

located in Oregon, an event meant to help troubled teens through hard points in their life. Amid the

recovering drug-addicts and thieves, I sat alone as anti-social, a problem that seemed, at least to me,

insignificant compared to those of my peers. But I found a place with food.

The program Sagewalk begins for me in the office of ???, a psychologist who works closely

with the company to refer teens. Once you're entered, there's no real escape. As I was dropped off

in a small shed-sized guest house by the main office, I was stripped of my clothes and put into the

standard issue of orange, yellow, and brown camoflage cargos and an orage T-shirt, much as I imagine

the army might be. The pants even have an accompanying hat in the style of the Marines. From there,

your belongings are stored in a plastic storage box, placed among the rows of dozens already there, and

you're handed a large hiking backpack. Here I was rationed enough food to last me until the next drop,

as well as replacement clothes, socks, and a sleeping bag. The most interesting items, however, I set

aside to study for a moment- the food I mentioned. Simple fare consisting of rice, lentles, beans, ten

kinds of mixed grain, oats, a bag of Raisins, a potato, a red and green apple, and an orange, my boots,

obviously top of the line and durable, and two large speckled mugs, a small green one and a large blue

one. The food was not exactly gourmet, but I'm not a picky eater, the boots fit my style, and I was

baffled at the use of the cups. As the food drop was only two days away instead of a normal week, I

snacked upon the red apple stoicly while they explained the procedures and a basic outline of the rules.

I studied the cottage more than the rules, glancing around at various native american paintings, and

noticed the counscellors were strategically placed at both doors, effectively lowering my chances of

escape. Another new arrival, a girl older than I, sat crying hysterically for her mother. Ten minutes after

she was briefed through her tears, we were loaded into a rickety old SUV and blindfolded for an hour-

long ride out into the wilderness. When we arrived, I found my eyes quickly adjusted to the light once

again, but hers did not and pained her so; I gave her the sunglasses I smuggled in with the claim that

they were prescription, something that would start my reputation with the others. We picked up our

heavy gear and trudged down a hill to our new "group." the people we'd spend every minute of every day

during our god-forsaken visit to the woods. The sun was quickly setting on the day, and I was sat next to

an older girl of freckled face and bespectacled eyes, obviously "emo." She coldly ran me through the

procedures as the fire crackled, from washing our hands and feet with soaped water in the green cup,

and preparing our food in the blue. I found no appetite, and politely differed from eating, though I was of

course forced by the counselors- comfort isn't a concern of theirs, it seems. Every day, a single routine

of meals, hiking, and mental work. I found out that the counscellors had a two-week rotation; They were

here with half the time, and all of them obviously enjoyed it. We would receive an occasional repreive

from our clockwork drills with Tuesday and Thursday, when new food arrived and professional therapist

from outside took a ride in to speak with us one-on-one.

The first few nights there were the most difficult, and I was all but force-fed despite my lack of

appetite. As time went on, the others with me became more and more curious about this condition -

everyone in the group ate ravenously, but all I did was eat a piece of fruit every other day. They quizzed

me incessantly, unable to understand this lack of hunger (or hunger pains) that I had, and thus had a sick

fascination with me. During Thursday counseling, my therapist "Free Bird" took a half-hour to speak to

me about this. I gave him the same honest answer I gave the others: "I'm not hungry." From then on, I

was given a can of Ensure every morning. Halfway through my stay, which would be about a month in,

everybody was loaded onto two buses and blindfolded once more. We were changing fields. Everyone

was given a PB&J sandwich, (which I still refused and so gave to a counselor,) When we were permitted

to remove our blindfolds, we found ourselves staring at dust in every direction, save South, which was a

(relatively) wooded beside a mountain. I had peeked the entire way, feigning sleep, and saw as we came

in that we were only two or so miles from the highway. With our move came a new load of food,

exchanging rice an lentles for couscous and peanut-butter. There was a fire ban in effect now as well, so

everyone was to use a personal stove. People were more thrilled about this than you might imagine,

considering the awful taste of Lentles and the pleasant one of couscous.

With my supplement, I seemed to be healthy enough for not eating, until my grandmother sent

some beef jerky in an attempt to tease my appetite. It failed, and I asked that they give it out to the

others in the group. They agreed, under the condition that I shared some. How could I say no? This

generosity further improved my standing in the group- when you're in the middle of the desert, a single

piece of spiced meat. As the days rolled by, I found the others more and more inclined to encourage my

eating, and saw more and more sympathy cross their faces. I still felt no hunger, but was amazed that

they would be so moved over such a simple thing. As I sat back watching the others one dinner, one

commented about how they still had flour, despite not needing it to thicken their Rice. I took my own

untouched bag and poured some water in, and as they watched on, made a thick dough. I rolled them

into small balls, with bits of sage from the many bushes around and cheese in the middle, makeshift

dumplings, and wordlessly passed them around. They were astonished, and without much goading,

tossed them into their boiling couscous. When the time to eat came, the same who had commented on

his supply sampled a cooked ball, and his face spread wide with approval. I couldn't help but smile as

well as they all began eating with a gusto, and even made it a staple of their meal. The food was so

different from what they were all accustomed to that they ate for simple energy, but they praised me for

adding a little enjoyment to their stay. Now, instead of an out-of-place loner, I was an accepted member

of the group, because I added a little bit of pleasure to the wilderness.

Food, whether it's a necessity that's needed, or tasty joy, is something people from any

background can recognize and connect with. Even the most isolated child can find something in

food, if it's compassion for lack of, or appreciation for a delicacy. Food helped me to solve my

social detachment; What might it do for you?