I’ve learned much about myself through experiential education (EE) or adventure learning.
Most of my EE take aways are personal and relevant less to a group than to my own ways of leading.
The highly personal learning is often the case with team building events. Some people get little more out of it than another gripe against the organization.
That’s why when I led team building EE events, they were always optional. Anyone could opt in or opt out.
Still, even with its limited appeal, I advocate for EE since I generally learn, even if I do not like what I learn.
In 2010 I wrote about one such experience in which the Outward Bound facilitator found a way to get me past my “sticking point” in a rock climb. He used humor, and silence to help me gear up to do something I feared.
But before I get to myself perched on a cliff, I’d like to take a detour.
I ran across a team building activity in Barcelona, Spain that derives from the Catalonian tradition of human towers (castells). The article’s headline: “No Skirts, No Shoes: The Team-Building Exercise Where You Climb on the Boss” might have turned off all but the most hardy and fit team member.
Still, castells are not much different from a stateside team building activity in which participants scale a 12 foot high flat wooden wall. It’s up close and personal as you crawl over each other to get to the top and then grab and pull over, by hook or crook, the remaining few.
Unlike a castell or a wall climb, I have attempted to build teams by using the “Rope Push”, the opposite of a tug-of-war in which one side seeks to pull the other over a line; the topsy-turvy point of the rope push is to give away the rope.
Sounds like an obvious way to push some boundaries, to challenge some assumptions, right? Not always.
One day I’d like to forget, but can’t, was when I used the rope push during a university team building workshop.
While low energy, the group did give the rope push a lackluster try.
Then the unusual happened. One of the group, Harry– a known problem department head as it turned out – ran off with the rope and stood about ten yards away, leering.
I was bemused and mostly inarticulate, the event sort of collapsed. No one in the group had anything to say. Silence.
That bizarre outcome has been on my mind for years. When I recently asked an AI robot what I should have done, the AI answer confirmed that I had missed a perfect opportunity to expose the organization’s dysfunction.
The robot advised: Stop the event immediately and tell the group:: “Hold up, everyone. Harry just took the rope and walked away. The whole point of this exercise was to practice “giving” the rope to the other side.”
So let’s talk about what just happened, because this isn’t a game anymore—this is, I gather from my previous day’s interviews with several of you, exactly how things play out in the organization.”
And, the robot scripted more to get the group talking: “What did you feel when Harry took the rope? What does this remind you of at work?” “Harry, you’ve got the rope. What would need to happen for you to give it up? What’s the cost of holding onto it?” “Haven’t we seen this pattern before—someone grabs control, the group freezes, and nothing moves forward. Does that apply here?”
I shoulda, woulda, coulda.
But, to happier and better outcomes, here is my 2010 story, The Rope & The Coach, revised:
I’ve taken part in a few Hurricane Island (Maine) Outward Bound adventures. Along with “sailing” (more like rowing for hours!) the Hurricane Island experience included a rock climb.
I was near the top of the cliff, secure as one can be on a narrow supporting ledge of rock 80 feet up. Below, blocks of granite littered the quarry floor, their sharp edges upraised like so many Brobdingnagian molars. I rested against my unreasonably thin safety rope and wondered. How was I going to get to the top? Less rational was the incessant trembling in my legs.
The coach’s voice invisibly hailed me from above. “See the rope? Grab it and I’ll pull you up!”
To the right, several feet away and up, he’d dropped a sturdy looking rope with a knot tied in the end. The kind of rope I never could get up in gym.
“You’ll have to jump to catch it,” advised the voice.
Jump?
“To the side. You can do it”.
What? And leave the safety of my ledge?
“Sure. You’re ready to stretch yourself. Try it.”
What if I miss?
My first shaky try failed and I bounced off and scraped against the granite, cursing, scrabbling back to the few inches of the ledge. I counted my bruises and composed myself. I heard the encouraging shouts of my teammates below.
The voice again, from above. “Nice try. Think about where you want to go and how to get there. Use your resources. Now, tell me a joke.”
I don’t want to tell anyone a joke.
“OK, then sing me a song.”
Go to $%^#@ hell. I definitely don’t want to sing.
“OK, take your time.” The rope slithered away out of my view.
It got quiet. The beauty of the late afternoon sank into me. There was a sky above me and not far away I could see and hear the wind soothing the tremulous trees. Closer in, the quartz crystals locked in the cool stone face glimmered, coming into focus.
Gee, there’s got to be a joke I can tell. Oh, yeah. The one about the armadillos.
My teammates hooted and hollered in appreciation. Feigned or not, it was a tonic, lifting my spirits.
My coach lowered the rope.
I thought about what it would take to make this leap, a leap of faith for me and my coach.
I told myself: “From the toes and up, over to the side, and close to the cliff.”
With a prayer, I launched myself… and soared across the miles.
N.B. For other essays on numerous topics on leadership and literature and fables go to my Nucleus archive from 2010-early 2025.
© Copyright all text by John Lubans 2026