I began my final year at Dartmouth the same way I began my first: with the more strenuous hiking First Year Trip. In previous years, the weeks before trips had me brimming with excitement, putting on the ‘Medley,’ casually dancing along to “Shower” and “Blame it on the Boogie” as I meandered through my days. Although I was just as excited this year, that excitement was now laced with a quiet dread I couldn’t quite shake. This time, I was painfully aware of the finality of it all. This would be my last safety talk, my last batch of Annie’s Mac on the Trangia, my last Lodj Croo dinner and my last group of new trippees. This was my last First Year Trip, and I couldn’t escape the thought that I might never experience anything like it again.
Ever since my own trip freshman year, Trips has been my favorite activity at Dartmouth. There’s something truly ineffable about it — a sort of magic that creates a four-day bubble of radical sincerity.
On campus, as time goes on, we often slip into a certain social armor. With each passing quarter, we retreat into the quiet, mistaken belief that social circles have solidified and that approaching an interesting stranger is no longer welcome. On Trips, however, that armor naturally falls away. The change is almost inevitable once you realize you’re living showerless with strangers for four days. Phones are left behind, and all social responsibilities remain with them. This shared vulnerability, combined with some of the most bizarre traditions you’ll ever encounter, makes the armor dissolve. As a trip leader, I find myself adopting a persona that’s a highly exaggerated version of the person I am on campus. When I meet my trippees, an inexplicable energy surges through me, giving me the inexorable urge to dance, tell my deepest stories and ultimately make a giant fool of myself. I sometimes question if the person I am on Trips is the same one who exists on campus. I suspect the answer is no; the person on Trips is much closer to my truest self — who I’d be if I were unburdened by perception, free to act without fear of social consequences.
I’m confident I’m not alone in this assessment. Other TLs I’ve known for over three years adopt similarly exaggerated versions of their own personalities once Trips begins. This is the core of the Trips magic: the fear of vulnerability simply evaporates. The often rigid social dynamics of campus unravel into a beautiful, chaotic mingling of personalities. First-years, buzzing with nervous energy, are instantly welcomed. TLs reconnect with friends and forge new bonds with co-leaders who may have been strangers just hours before. It’s an environment built on shared vulnerability and a collective, unspoken agreement to be completely open.
That feeling, and the nagging fear of it ending, came to a head as I enjoyed my final Lodj dinner at Moosilauke Ravine Lodge. The room was electric, a cacophony of song and perfectly choreographed dance. As the Lodj Croo performed their final song, a “Hey There Delilah” parody, my eyes locked on one of the captains — a student who, just three years prior, had been one of my own trippees. As I watched him welcome a new class with the same boundlessly warm enthusiasm the two of us were once welcomed with, a wave of emotion so immense washed over me that, without realizing it, I began to cry. As I looked around, I noticed I wasn’t alone; several other ’26s were also in tears. My tears didn’t purely stem from sadness, but rather a profound sense of gratitude for Dartmouth and a heartbreaking reminder that my time here was coming to an end.
In the glow of that dinner, I realized that of all the iconic Dartmouth experiences I’ve had the privilege of enjoying, amazing as they were, nothing has ever measured up to the magic of First Year Trips. And I’ve come to believe that this is primarily my own fault. I’ve realized there are countless people I have walked past for three years and never had the nerve to greet with a simple hello, all of whom I’d undoubtedly have greeted if we were on Trips. The absence of that magic on campus isn’t due to some external force — it’s a series of individual choices we all make, myself included. I’m writing this to hold myself publicly accountable for chasing that feeling throughout my final year.
For years, the biggest piece of advice I’ve given my trippees is that the real secret to Dartmouth is people truly crave new experiences and friends, so long as you seek them out. It’s time I took my own advice. As you get older at Dartmouth, it’s easy to find your friends, your group, your team, your Greek letters and accept that contentment. But to do so is to miss the point of a place like this, a place buzzing with thousands of brilliant, passionate and unbelievably interesting peers. To draw lines and stay within them is a tragic waste of opportunity.
Ultimately, there’s a reason Trips endures as the soul of the Dartmouth experience. It’s not just the ridiculous songs or the stunning hikes. It’s because for four days, we create a microcosm of the community we all crave: one built on vulnerability, openness and acceptance. Across all Croos, one of their most enduring lines they deliver to first-years is the promise that “Trips never ends.” It reminds us that the spirit of Trips doesn’t have to be a memory; it can be a choice. The world, as the final song at Lodj proclaims, is ours to change — and perhaps that change begins not with a grand gesture, but with the radical decision to take off the armor and risk a moment of connection with the stranger walking past you on the Green.
