Where Twigs Become Tools: The ‘Soulful’ Science of Learning Beyond Four Walls

By RUSSELL HUFFMAN

TIJERAS, N.M. — In the modern world, the average American child spends between four and seven minutes a day in unstructured outdoor play. Sally Stevens, founder of the SOL Forest School, likes to drop that statistic into conversation like a stone into a still pond.

“We’ve done a really good job as a culture getting kids out for sports,” Stevens says, gesturing toward the rugged, pinon-dotted landscape of the East Mountains. “But that’s on flat, manicured lawns, being told what to do by someone else. It’s different than getting muddy, building a little village of children, and deciding for yourself what to do. That just doesn’t happen anymore, and yet it is crucial to human development.”

At SOL Forest School—where the name is both the Spanish word for sun and an acronym for Soulful Outdoor Learning—the classroom has no walls, no desks, and no whiteboards. Instead, there are “sit spots” under ancient trees, “bushcraft” lessons over open flames, and the kind of “feral freedom” Stevens remembers from her own childhood. In an era of digital saturation and “be careful” parenting, Stevens is leading a quiet revolution in the New Mexico wilderness, one muddy boot-print at a time.

The ‘Lifeguard’ Philosophy

Stevens, a veteran educator with 35 years of experience, didn’t build SOL on a whim. Her background is steeped in special education and the “Reggio Emilia” approach—an Italian pedagogical philosophy born after World War II that views children as capable, resilient co-conspirators in their own learning.

After decades working within the “four walls” of traditional schools, including a tenure as an assistant principal at the New Mexico School for the Deaf, Stevens had a visceral reaction to the forest school model during a research project. “I saw an image of a child in the woods, looking at a bug with pure wonder. It shook me. I knew immediately: this is for me.”

At Sol, teachers are called “guides,” and their primary role is what Stevens calls “lifeguarding.”

“We swoop in when absolutely necessary, but we allow a lot of freedom for children to sort through physical and social challenges,” Stevens explains. This includes “risk management,” which feels revolutionary. Instead of telling a child not to climb, a guide might ask, “Does that branch feel steady?” or “Do you have three points of contact?”

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It is a strict pedagogical model that Stevens studied in Canada and the UK. “We aren’t just letting kids run wild,” she says. We complete site assessments. We clear rocks from the base of a ‘climbing tree’ to reduce the risk of a fall. We are saying ‘yes’ to the things children are naturally wired to do—spinning, running, climbing—while managing the risk behind the scenes.”

From a Fallen Branch to a Physics Lesson

To the untrained eye, a morning at Sol looks like simple play. To Stevens, it is a high-level cognitive and academic workout. She points to a fallen branch on the forest floor.

“A plastic fire truck can pretty much only be a fire truck,” Stevens says. “But a fallen branch? It’s a fishing rod, a sword, a broom, an airplane. It’s fodder for a fort roof.”

This “loose parts” play is the engine of the school’s emergent curriculum. If children become obsessed with building a bridge over a dry arroyo, the guides pivot. They might introduce lessons on tension and weight, or use the opportunity for pre-literacy.

“If we’re a good educator, we use that interest. Maybe I break up small twigs into the same size and set up a ‘provocation’ on the ground where we spell out names in the dirt,” Stevens says. “We practice a ‘backwards curriculum.’ We follow the interest first, and then we look back at the state standards and realize we hit every measure of science, math, and literacy—we just did it through joy instead of rote memorization.”

The Science of the ‘Edge’

The benefits aren’t just academic; they are neurological. Stevens explains that when a child pushes their physical limits—climbing a foot higher than they did yesterday—they are operating on their “edge.”

“They are exhilarated, bordering on fear. That success, that ‘I did it’ moment, creates a massive download in the prefrontal cortex,” she says. Stevens notes that while modern schools are trending toward “SEL” (Social Emotional Learning) as a buzzword, the forest provides it naturally.

“We have two four-year-old boys who went off to a gymnastics class in the city. The teacher asked the parents, ‘What is your parenting trick? These boys are so mindful, so caring of themselves and others.’ The parents just smiled and said, ‘Forest School.’”

A Village Born of Necessity

Sol Forest School was born from a period of deep personal loss and professional disillusionment. In 2017, after losing her brother to suicide and feeling the “shove-it-down-your-throat” pressure of standardized testing for toddlers, Stevens launched Sol. She started with a tiny LLC and 12 children she “hunted down” in local libraries and Smith’s grocery store.

“I told the School for the Deaf I needed a four-day work week to take care of myself. I had no idea SOL would be born from that space,” she says. Today, the school is a thriving non-profit with a waitlist, operating sessions for “Tree Tots” (ages 0-3), “Tree Schoolers” (3-5), and “Tall Pines” (6 and up).

The community is self-sustaining. Approximately 80% of the current staff are former or current parents who were “ruined” for traditional education after seeing the forest model in action. One guide, a former wildland firefighter, now teaches “SOLCraft” bushcraft skills, showing children how to respect and harness the power of fire and tools.

The Fight for Land and Equity

Despite its success, SOL faces a unique challenge: the “money versus freedom” trap of state licensing. New Mexico currently lacks a clear licensing path for schools without buildings. Without licensing, SOL cannot easily tap into the state’s universal pre-K funding, which would allow them to serve more families from diverse economic backgrounds.

“I’m nearing 58, and for my last decade of work, I want to re-engage the public system,” Stevens says. “We want to widen our forest circle. We want to show that this isn’t a ‘hippie’ luxury—it’s a human right.”

A major pillar of this expansion is the “Children’s Forest” initiative. Based on a UK model, it involves children planting trees from seeds they’ve gathered themselves. They tend the saplings in a nursery and then plant them into the earth, returning year after year to “tend” their tree.

To do this, Stevens needs more than just grants; she needs partners. “We are looking for private landowners in the East Mountains who want to plant a legacy,” she says. “It requires a conversation and an agreement, but imagine a piece of property where a generation of children is growing alongside a new forest.”

The Wintering Period

As the December chill settles over Tijeras, Stevens is preparing for what she calls the “wintering period”—a five-week break to recharge. She admits to feeling the burnout that comes with being a pioneer.

“I’m an eternal optimist, but I’m exhausted,” she says. “But then I see a child who struggled with loud noises in a traditional classroom sitting quietly at the base of a tree for ten minutes in a ‘sit spot.’ I see that soulful smile that tells a parent their child has had their ‘brain time’ for the day. That is the gift.”

The transition from the forest to the “real world” of public school remains a point of anxiety for some parents. They ask Stevens how their children will cope with the “harshness” of four walls after years of mountain air.

“I tell them that our intention is to give them the tools to always feel good about themselves,” Stevens says. “If they know they are competent, if they know how to work through a conflict without a timer or a shouting teacher, they can handle the four walls. They carry the forest inside them.”

As Stevens walks back uphill, her dog trailing behind her through the brush, she looks at the Cholla cacti and the hidden bird nests. “We aren’t just teaching kids about nature,” she concludes. “We are teaching them that they are nature. And that is a connection you can never unlearn.”

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How to Join the Circle

SOL Forest School offers ongoing openings for their Treeschool and SOLcraft programs, including summer camps and Saturday sessions. They are currently seeking:

• Private Landowners: Those in the East Mountain area (Tijeras, Cedar Crest, Edgewood) interested in hosting tree-planting initiatives or “Children’s Forest” sites.
• Donors/Grants: To support the “Outdoor Equity” mission for Title 1 students.
• Families: Enrollment for Tree Tots and seasonal camps is ongoing, though space is limited.

Contact: Sally Stevens, Founder Email: solforestschool@gmail.com

Web: www.solforestschool.com