University of New England

A Path Less Beaten: Curt Senita, UNECOM Class of '09

[Editor's Note: This profile originally appeared in the October 2006 COMmunicator]

In a trackless wilderness, the traffic might kill you.

Alaskan grizzly bears can tip the scales at 1500 lbs. and leave paw prints bigger than dinner plates. When provoked, grizzlies stand on their hind legs and whoof loudly like a dog barking in the distance. “You know exactly what it is,” says second year student Curt Senita, “whether you’ve heard it before or not.” He watched a bear burn him with its beady black eyes before it dropped to all fours and bumbled off in a huff. “It was only 25 yards away,” Curt recalls, “We shouldn’t have made camp by the grizzly trail.”

Curt Senita grew up somewhere between town and country, and that means he’s always been on a path less beaten.

The Candy Bar Tree

Curt was born on the outskirts of Erie, Pennsylvania. Five minutes in one direction brought him to concrete city; five minutes the other put him out to golden pasture. His grandparents owned a dairy farm, so Curt’s childhood was a boy’s dream of romping in the hay with three brothers, a clutch of cousins, and the various animals associated with his dad’s veterinary practice.

Large-animal calls were his favorite, when Curt would accompany his dad on farm calls to inspect sheep, pigs, cattle, and horses. He was James Harriot among the dells of northwest Pennsylvania, and the experience shaped his life. He has always been at home in the field.

“I was five years old when I accompanied my dad on my first hunting experience,” Curt remembers. They packed a little lunch, bundled against the mid-December chill, and went out early - “but not too early”- to find game. Curt was too young to hold a weapon, so while his dad scanned the bleak forest, Curt did his part and slowly fell asleep against a tree. When he awoke, his dad decided it was time for a candy bar from the “candy bar tree.” Curt watched wide-eyed as his dad pulled a chocolate bar from the crook of a nearby hardwood. The “candy bar tree” was very rare and only produced a harvest during hunting time, his dad said. Curt never thought to doubt it. To him, in the big woods with his dad, it was gospel. Such are the delightful yarns spun between a young boy and his father.

Quiet Mr. Everything

Curt’s figure-skating lessons were not so delightful. “I think they were my Mom’s attempt to make a daughter out of one of her boys,” Curt chuckles. For two years he did his best to jump and glide before giving it up as a bad job and devoting himself to guns and athletics. Honestly, there were few things Curt did not try, and few of those to which he did not display some affinity. With a farm-boy’s body and an academician’s mind, the only trouble was deciding which area to pursue. He ended up tramping through the wilderness with his nose in a book. He made his own path.
 
Curt tried wrestling in middle school, but dropped the sport after he attended a high school awards ceremony where only two wrestlers received academic honors. He didn’t want to put himself in a culture where academics were not treated seriously; plus, the practices conflicted with hunting season. Instead, Curt became a varsity volleyball player at McDowell High. Incidentally, he also enjoyed swimming, ran track, played baseball, rode Western style, and became an Eagle Scout. He was a quiet Mr. Everything.

“I was always pretty self-motivated,” Curt says, “I always wanted to do well.” His parents encouraged him academically, and Curt’s dad placed special emphasis on the importance of math and science. His only encounter with the academic Gestapo came in 3rd grade when he decided that he could slack off in spelling and brought home a “C.” “My parents made clear that that was not acceptable,” says Curt, “I could do better.” 

Corps Commander

While at McDowell, Curt signed up for Junior ROTC at his parents’ behest. “My older brother had gone through the program,” says Curt, “and it had done him a lot of good. My Mom was particularly pleased that they had formal training in etiquette and social interaction, besides all the training in physics, weapons, weather, and wilderness survival.” Mrs. Senita had decided that if she couldn’t have a daughter, she could at least refine her sons. And Curt loved it.

“I learned to become comfortable introducing myself to all sorts of people,” he says, “and I learned how to set a table for all sorts of occasions.” Curt maintains confident eye contact while speaking, and smiles readily with just a hint of bashfulness that shows he hasn’t lost his humility. JROTC, however, was far more than just folding doilies and wielding butter knives. As commander of the arms drill team, Curt worked his crew with vintage World War II M-1 rifles.

As a senior, Curt was commissioned Cadet Commander of the Corps, with oversight of 140 cadets. Again, Curt rose to the occasion and enjoyed every moment. “I learned to speak confidently in public settings,” he says, “and I helped to organize a volleyball tournament, besides being the physical fitness officer for the Corps. It was a great experience.” With his close-cropped hair and upright posture, there is still a bit of military in Curt Senita.

Nittany Lions and Salmon Passes

Curt started an application to the military academy at West Point, then reconsidered. Instead, he went to a little school down the road called Penn State, where his father, older brother, uncle, cousin, grandpa, and nearly every other relative had gone before him. Curt became a biology major without a clear sense of where he was heading. “I thought it would give me plenty of options, and I could just decide when the time came,” he says, “I knew I wanted to do something health-related, I just didn’t know what.”

It was between semesters at Penn State that Curt went to Sitka, Alaska for three months with the Student Conservation Association. In a land where death was often just a six-inch step off the side of a gorge, Curt had the time of his life. “We were there to build salmon passes so that salmon could swim farther upstream,” Curt says, “and the only way to get to that particular location was 2 hours by boat or 45-minutes by float plane.” The remoteness appealed to him, and he lived it as high adventure.

“We had to sling in everything by helicopter,” Curt recalls, “and then backpack most of the explosives and cement down the side of the gorge. We rigged a zip-line to unload re-bar and cement-mixers, and spent a week at a time blasting channels in the rock and mixing concrete.” Fish passes are like a series of steps built into the bottom of a gorge where a waterfall used to thunder. The idea is to give migrating salmon a graduated ascent so that they can travel farther upstream to spawn.

So Many Ways to Die

In the wild beauty of Alaska, there were so many ways to die. To compound the risk of accidental death by slipping, crushing, or blasting, there was always the chance that one could be mauled to death by a bear. “I worked with twelve other guys and 23 different bears,” Curt jokes, “We identified the bears by their distinctive markings.” Days off could be spent hiking, fishing, or hunting; all at your own risk, of course. Curt grew a Grizzly Adams beard and hiked to his heart’s content.

He soon found that his unruly whiskers were not the only brown mass of fearsome furriness in the neighborhood. Curt and a friend went hiking through uncharted territory one day, rifles at the ready. “It was all bush-whacking,” he says, “there were no trails except grizzly trails, so that’s what we used.” After pitching their tent, the two adventurers settled down for a relaxing night, forgetting momentarily that they were not the highest level of the local food chain.

Suddenly, a large bear wandered past, took offense at the strange squatters, and whoofed loudly to show its displeasure. Curt opened the tent flap to see an enormous grizzly standing on its hind legs, staring at him. After an ocular dressing-down, the bear dropped to all fours and ambled off. Curt and his friend moved their tent a little farther from the grizzly trail. They survived the night, learning once again that a path less beaten is often best.  

“They All Seemed Unhappy”

After a few rough semesters at Penn State, things started to click and Curt’s grades improved. “I just try to work hard at whatever I’m doing,” Curt says, “and then look at my options to see where I should go next.”

Despite his dad’s veterinary practice, “next” seemed more and more like medical school for humans. Curt shadowed an ER doc who was into cranial osteopathy and was also a UNECOM alum. “Dr. Tim Barrett, ’97, got me excited about medicine and about osteopathy,” Curt recalls, “and so I applied to UNECOM. The interviewers were great, and I loved the location.”

He also noticed a qualitative difference in the students he met in Biddeford. “Most of the students seemed pretty laid back, down-to-earth, and friendly,” he says, “whereas at other schools they all seemed unhappy. Why would you want to go someplace where everyone is depressed all the time?” He decided that medical school didn’t have to feel like a mortuary and came to UNECOM in the fall of 2005.

He has no regrets. “It was really a lifestyle choice, as much as anything,” Curt says, “I decided that I have a certain approach to life and I wanted to be around like-minded people.” The slower-paced, friendly ambiance of southern Maine agreed with Curt’s natural disposition, and the gorgeous scenery and rugged mountains didn’t hurt, either. For an outdoorsman who wants to become a doctor, UNECOM is the proverbial fish pass to higher elevation.

Otter Dog

Even in Maine, Curt is no typical medical student. One of his greatest passions is training Chesapeake Bay Retrievers, a love his mother instilled. “She was the president of the Presque Isle (PA) Retriever Club,” he says, “She got me started with training dogs when I was a teenager.” Chesapeake Bay Retrievers are moderate-sized, chocolate-brown dogs with silky soft fur and quiet, bright dispositions.

Many years ago, market hunters saw the sleek animals slicing through frigid waters to retrieve waterfowl and called them “otter dog.” Curt gave his own retriever the name “DaweDo,” short for the Seneca Indian phrase “DaweDo Jiyah,” or “otter dog.” Curt and DaweDo participated in many hunt tests hosted by the American Kennel Club (AKC) or the North American Retriever Association (NARA). Hunt tests are simulated hunting scenarios that showcase a dog’s obedience and an owner’s ability to train. Curt reached Master level status, an elite ranking that put DaweDo through multiple-bird, one-look tests in the wetlands of late autumn.   

According to Curt, Chesapeake Bay Retrievers have a throw-back personality that makes them a little less domesticated than golden retrievers. “They can be a little stubborn,” says Curt, “it takes a little longer for them to learn something, but then they don’t forget it. When you’ve trained them daily for years, and they do well, it’s like seeing your kid succeed.” He spent many patient hours teaching DaweDo to trust his hand signals, whistles, and various subtle directional devices in search of fallen birds. When a stiff wind is blowing, the water is creased, and the ducks are migrating, there is no other place he’d rather be. 

Sometimes He Hunts Alone

At UNECOM, Curt has been able to combine his medical and outdoor interests in a way he never thought possible. “I had an epiphany last year,” he says, “ when I realized that life was not ever going to slow down. I would never have tons of free time as a physician. So I made the decision to keep doing the little things I love while still a medical student.” Exercise, sports, and outdoor activities are areas he has chosen to resurrect.

He has also encountered unexpected areas of growth. Living with three fellow students has been like having “three sisters,” and the girls have encouraged Curt to socialize and do more than just study. A lifetime spent around men and guns has not necessarily prepared him for the vagaries of convivial friendships or the intricacies of living with women. Hardly a day goes by that Curt doesn’t stumble unwittingly into some feminine faux pas and hear the anguished, “Cu-u-r-r-t-t!” that means he has earned several sheepish minutes in an admittedly mild doghouse. He doesn’t mind. “They’re great,” Curt says simply.

One day, Curt hopes to be an ER doc in some small town. “Someplace with a slight city feel,” he says, “but where I can still enjoy rural activities.” He likes the excitement that emergency medicine offers, and he wouldn’t mind having some semblance of regular hours. While he will be a physician by profession, he will always be an outdoorsman by affection. And while you’ll often find him hunting with friends, he also hunts alone.

He’s never happier than on a path less beaten.

(Take a look at www.sitka.com - even the wilderness has a website!)

-Steve Smith, RSAS