I have a gouge on my left shin. I got it on a hike. We took the easy way up and came down a trail called "The Precipice".
"Why do you think they call it THAT," I asked my fearless husband. I'm not fond of exposure to open expanses of air. I like the idea of having at least two steps to regain my balance. This is not what "The Precipice" is about. "The Precipice" is about balancing on little edges, clinging to a line of heavy gauge wire put in place to prevent hikers from plummeting to their deaths.
We used the wire. We did not die.
Yay.
After the dangerous part was done, we got lost. Not serious lost...just confounded by the absence of trail. I'm sure the trail was there, under the blanket of bright leaves. Apparently they take their Fall pretty seriously in Vermont. They even go to the trouble of making it smell amazing.
As we wandered about we met a fellow from Boston - at least that's where he told us he was from. He was also lost. He was talking on his cellphone. I think his wife was trying to give him directions down.
Vermont has a lot of trees. You can't see through them for any distance. I kind of like that. The man from Boston did not share our enthusiasm for the fullness of the forest. He was afraid.
He was concerned that he hadn't worn any insect repellant. He was convinced the cellphone coverage would diminish as we descended. It became clear to Ken and I that he was feeling that he might die.
It was equally clear to us that if we simply headed down hill, by whatever route, we would come to the river and the river would lead us back to town. We told this to the man from Boston, but I think he had issues with the theory. His voice quavered, "Does this mean we're not really on a trail anymore?"
I laughed and I told him, "It's OK. We've been lost in places that count way more than this."
My husband is a gracious man, sometimes beyond measure, and so he was on this day. He calmly explained to Mr. Boston that we were from Canada, that once, on a three day backpack, we miscalculated a route through the Palliser Valley in the Rocky Mountains. He recounted our grizzly bear sightings and told the man how we'd been forced to spend the night in a tiny alpine meadow with a young moose outside the tent.
Oddly, this seemed to bring cheer to our companion.
You can tell, by my writing, that we survived. There was a little bushwhacking, a few small curses, and a scratch or two before we finally emerged from the forest and into the expansive back yard of a really lovely home. The yard had a pond...with ducks. I like ponds with ducks.
The three of us crept sheepishly though the immaculate yard. We walked toward town, amazed at how disoriented we had become on our short trek. Oddly, we emerged from the forest very close to Mr. Boston's hotel, no more than 500 meters. Our car was parked a good distance away.
I could tell, as we parted company, that the Bostonian wanted to give us something more than a thank-you, but his hands and pockets were empty save the cellphone. He was half way across the street when he turned and shouted back, "my wife and I are having dinner at the Simon Pearce tonight. It's supposed to be really good. It fills up quickly, so you need to make a reservation."
Here is what I learned from this experience:
Getting lost is easier than you think.
Our experiences define how we perceive danger.
Even if you've nothing else to give, you can always recommend a good restaurant.
Finally, I believe that somewhere, perhaps as I type this, there is a man in Boston telling the tale I have just told. He's telling it very differently because it is his story. It did not begin at "The Precipice" and it ended in a restaurant we did not visit. I'm sad I can't be there to hear it. I think I would like his version.
That is the glory of story.
Wandering, but not lost...
Kari
