Lost

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.

George Carlin

Many years ago on one of my long treks in the Pasayten Wilderness of Washington’s North Cascades, I set up camp in a lovely site near Crow Lake, one of my favorite sites, for it included a rustic chair that someone had fashioned out of tree limbs held together by rawhide. The water source was close and flowed through a chute, and the site was off trail, so I was not likely to have people tramping through my temporary home. It was the kind of place that invited a long stay, so I decided to spend several nights and explore the surrounding landscape by day hiking, returning to this lovely spot in the afternoon to sit in the chair and read.

The following morning I set out to explore a little used trail that followed the southwestern side of Sand Ridge through Whistler Basin. It was exactly the kind of trail that calls to me, rarely maintained by the Forest Service and receiving little traffic, out of the way for most hikers headed west towards Bunker Hill.

I made my way on the main trail to Peeve Pass, where I sat in the sun swatting flies and eating some lunch. Then I reached into my day pack to retrieve my map and study the route, but the map was not there. I had left it behind in my backpack. I reached for my compass in my pocket and was reassured to find it was there where I always carry it, but it would not provide me with trail information.

Of course there were no cell phones in those days, no GPS devices nor trails apps, only a map and compass, which served me quite well, but I had only half of what I needed to find my way on a wilderness trail. The sensible choice would have been to retrace my steps to camp and retrieve the map, but that would have added five miles to the trip, hardly an insurmountable distance but enough to lengthen the day’s hike by a couple of hours and result in a late arrival back in camp. I wanted to spend quality time in that lovely place sitting in that comfortable chair, so lengthening the hike was out of the question. I reasoned that I would be closely following Sand Ridge on its west and southern slope, then returning to camp over Corral Pass. The ridge was the most prominent feature on the landscape. I could not possibly lose sight of it.

I set out on that lovely day, blue sky overhead, subalpine larch trees surrounding me, Jack Mountain on the distant horizon in the southwest and Sheep Moumtain rising to the north. I stopped again in Whistler Basin, taking out my field guide to identify some plants that grew by my feet as I walked through the meadow. I forgot my map, but of course I never forget my field guide. I looked up towards a low spot on the ridge, reasoning that would be Corral Pass, where a sign would point the way to Corral Lake and an obscure side trail would lead downhill to my nicely hidden campsite and that welcoming chair. Then I put my pack on after making a note in the field guide and began the ascent towards the pass.

But the pass wasn’t the pass. Instead I ascended to a low spot on the ridge where there was no sign and no trail junction. The landscape was barren tundra, as you see in the photo above, and looked nothing like I had anticipated. I had a moment of panic, and the thought came to me, “I’m lost in the wilderness, and I’m alone.” It was one of the most frightening experiences I have ever had on my long solitary treks and one of the few times I questioned the wisdom of hiking alone.

The panic did not last long and in retrospect many years later I believe that feeling was way out of proportion to what was really happening. I was still on a trail; I just wasn’t sure it was the trail, as animals create side trails all the time that lead to nowhere. That’s where I was. . .nowhere.

When the panic subsided I weighed my options. I could turn around and retrace my steps, or I could continue on the trail that led over the ridge. I was fearful of going further astray if that route did not turn out to be the correct one, so I set a time limit. If I did not reach Corral Pass in thirty minutes I would turn around and go back the way I had come.

It was actually a little longer than thirty minutes by the time I arrived at Corral Pass, but I was close enough to see the sign in the distance when that time was up and was greatly relieved. I followed the side trail to my lovely campsite.

It had started to rain lightly, and I made a hasty retreat to my tent, where I took the map out of my waiting pack and studied it. It was not at all difficult to find where I had gotten lost. The low spot on the ridge where I had stood in anguish was actually Whistler Pass. There were two passes, not one, and if I’d had my map with me I could have spared myself all that anguish. I leaned back against my pack, listening to the lullaby of the rain falling, and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke after a restful nap to a yipping sound. The rain had stopped, so I climbed out of my tent to seek out the source. The light rain had left the air fresh and gentle. I looked to the rise above my camp and saw a coyote standing there, watching me intently. For the rest of the evening that trickster was there, circling and offering its critique of my foolish behavior. “Silly woman,” I heard it howling. “You should have brought your map with you.” This continued as I prepared dinner that night and climbed into my sleeping bag. I listened to its beautiful song as I lay there, reflecting on what had happened that day. The song grew increasingly faint and then stopped. I wanted it to come back, but it did not. The coyote had said everything it needed to say: Silly Woman.