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| In Defence of the Arts |
by Steve Metcalf, BA'97, BEd'98
With a loud Yahhhh!, we're off. A sliver of yellow sky is barely visible through
the woods as we lurch down the trail. In minutes, the sun disappears behind
a dark, ubiquitous bank of thick cloud 
typical
of late winter in Thunder Bay. Warmer temperatures conspired with the grey sky
last night, leaving a heavy blanket of deep snow throughout Kaministiqua. Somehow,
it's colder now. It's a lesson I've learned many times during my brief stay
around The Lakehead: It can always get colder. The team of dogs struggle up
through a thin line on a steep hill. I run slowly beside the burdened sled,
helping to push the load. It's early and I shed my parka in preparation for
a long day. "The woods are lovely, dark, and deep," I think -- remembering a
piece of Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening." Although I'd
spent much of my life interested in literature, I muse that this might be the
first time I actually connect with my studies. Strange thing is, most of my
friends think I'm crazy for studying the classics. "How can you get a job with
that?" they ask.
With looming financial practicalities such as loan re-payment, it's a valid question -- one even my English professors seem to shy away from. After all, our culture demands results or a discernable, positive ROI: Return on Investment. But is finding a career a legitimate expectation of the university experience? Should arts faculties be downsized or compromised to provide more certificate-based or technology-oriented programs? Gasping for air beneath the weight of exams, familial pressure, societal expectations, and monetary challenges, one might be tempted to agree. But five years after graduating, my answer is, emphatically, no.
Studying arts in Thunder Bay provided the ideal background for my current
position as editor-in-chief of Powder Magazine, 
the
world's leading ski-oriented enthusiast title. Where else in Canada could I
ski fresh snow, camp in a provincial park, climb a big wall, or paddle class
IV rapids and still make it to class by noon? What's more is that the small
class sizes allowed for real friendships with professors and instructors. Cultivating
a bond with the natural environment and the content of my classes proved to
be invaluable, as my livelihood now depends on that relationship. In short,
my years on the northwest tip of Lake Superior provided an atmosphere that invited
me to dream. They allowed me to answer that visceral voice inside that whispers,
"Who am I?"
I didn't have a job when I graduated in '98 -- I had much more. I had memories of brilliant sunrises glancing off the surface of Lake Superior while wolves gingerly crossed the ice. I possessed friendships that continue to play pivotal roles both personally and professionally. And although I always knew I wanted to write, my experience at Lakehead helped me build the mental landscape to become a writer. Unemployed? Yes. Empowered? Absolutely.
I can't think back on that morning -- mushing a team of dogs through wilderness -- without wanting to rush back to Thunder Bay and re-capture that moment. "But I have promises to keep," continued Frost. "And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep."
Steve Metcalf resides in San Clemente, California, and has been working as an editor for Surfer Publications throughout the last four years. He is currently the Editor of Powder Magazine, a ski magazine with over 100,000 subscribers annually. He can be contacted at steve.metcalf@primedia.com.