Austin Littlesun, the oldest of the program's 170 students and one of 98 Native Americans enrolled, was one person McNamara never had to shepherd. Littlesun's educational odyssey began at age 6, in an off-reservation Montana public school. Though fluent in the language of the Northern Cheyenne, he was able to understand just a few rudimentary words of English. "I was kind of treated bad," Littlesun says slowly, his eyes averted. "And I think that really damaged my opportunity for – what do you call it? – the American Dream. The school really set me back. I didn't want to learn. They told me the way I talked was the devil's language."

Humiliated, he left the public school after the sixth grade, barely able to read or write. The memory of the principal's paddle – the consequence of failure – haunts him to this day. With his family's blessing, Littlesun moved from Montana to Washington, where he lived with a Mormon family for three years. The experience gave him self-respect and, with it, enough confidence in his own intelligence that later – despite leaving school for good after the eighth grade – he found work as an ambulance attendant, a firefighter and in law enforcement.

The lack of education caught up with him 11 years ago when a divorce rocked his life. A single father with full custody of seven children and no job prospects at age 40, Littlesun went on public assistance. As the clock ticked toward the end of his eligibility, a local social service agency, the South Puget Intertribal Planning Agency, placed Littlesun in workfare. There, job training counselors encouraged him to climb the next rung. And that is how, two years ago – to his own amazement – Littlesun became a college student.

It hasn't been easy. In those moments when he fails to immediately grasp a math problem or comprehend a sentence, he can feel himself slipping back to a place where failure and humiliation walked hand in hand. Fortunately, when that occurs, Abigail Portugal is there for Littlesun and other New Path/Early College students. A student herself at St. Martin's University in Lacey, Wash., this diminutive summer intern officially held the title of "instructional support coordinator." On campus, she had a more unlikely and gender-inappropriate moniker: the "Whipman." Cracking the whip was barely half of it. More often, the personal relationship she forged with the students called on her to cajole, plead or, most often, simply listen. "It is constantly encouraging people to do the work," says Portugal.

Over the summer, an unexpected ally joined Portugal in the effort – though Littlesun modestly shrugs off the suggestion that he has become a role model for the younger students. "They look up to me, I look up to them," he says. "It's because I know life; they're still growing." One thing he's proud to claim, however, is the example he is setting for a select group of other young people, ages 13 to 26. "I'm doing this for my own kids," he says, "because I want them to realize that education is important. It's the only way we can all understand each other and get along."

James and Randee Runnels have a family role model, too – their grandmother, Helen Malagon. Thanks in part to her example, James and Randee decided to spend their summer afternoons brushing up on English and math instead of relaxing on the horse ranch shared with their parents, an older brother and various cousins on the edge of Shelton. Like Littlesun, Malagon resumed her education later in life, entering college at age 34, the first step toward gradually moving through the academic ranks. Today, as her grandchildren note proudly, she has a college degree and a title: She's a supervisor of bilingual education for the Washington State Department of Public Instruction.

Reserved, steely and determined, Randee and James aren't the types to talk about themselves. "I'm a quiet person," Randee explains, speaking for her brother as well. It's left to their proud grandmother to draw the portrait.

"Randee is actually my teacher," she says. "I always learn something from the conversations I share with her." Randee was always artistic, and the gift of a digital camera in her early teens proved to be a turning point. Taking pictures of her father during his rodeo days sparked her desire for a future in sports photography.

Watching James put a horse through its paces on a clear August morning, Malagon revealed that her grandson suffers from a kidney ailment that will eventually require a transplant. "It hasn't stopped him," she hastens to add. "He still wants to go to college, and he still wants to major in business. I see him doing it."

In the long term, James has his eye on a career as a concert promoter. Short term, his focus is on a family-run foundation that helps at-risk and troubled youth find a better way through horsemanship. "Training a horse has a way of humbling kids," he explains.

On the New Path/Early College spectrum, James and Randee fell squarely in the middle. Neither troubled nor on the fast track, the siblings got a helpful nudge in the right direction from the program. Through years of classroom observation, Malagon says, she has mastered the shorthand of understanding student behavior. She says she can look in the eye of a student – any student – and quickly determine if that student is engaged and involved. When Malagon looks into the eyes of her grandchildren, she sees "a little fear, for sure. But there's also an 'I can do it' attitude. They know where they want to go. They know what they want to accomplish."

Malagon paused to watch James work the horse as Randee adjusted her camera. Gazing resolutely at her grandchildren, Malagon quietly added: "They're going to do it."

So, too, will Austin Littlesun.

He will never abandon his heritage. Each morning, he still burns cedar needles and sage in a shell, smudging the ashes on his face in a daily prayer ritual. If necessary, he boasts, he could still live off the land. And as a Northern Cheyenne, he says he will honor another tradition: the Sun Dance. Four times in his lifetime, each Cheyenne male is required to participate in a ritual of nonstop dancing, without food, for four days and four nights. Littlesun danced five years ago. In his remaining years, he vows to fulfill his tribal obligation by dancing three more times.

"But first," Littlesun says with a smile, "I'm going to finish my education."