Lost

I’m soaked, and I’m scared.

Soaked in a thousand places from squirming against the thousand little beads of rain clinging to every stray leaf and branch arching over the overgrown trail, but also soaked by the dark, salty pool steadily flowing over my nape, collarbones, and all the way down my back. It’s no wonder - my pack is heavy. Mountaineering tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, extra clothing, glacier rescue gear, crampons, ice axe, snow picket, helmet, two days’ worth of food, water, etc. It’s a true Cascades two-day pack, about 35 or 40 pounds. On top of it, I’ve been moving for six hours. Four hours this morning to get up to camp, and two more to get back down the mountainside, with only an hour-long interlude in between. Six hours of sweating every once of moisture out of my body, and six hours of the incessant wet caress of the rain-drenched forest that’s pruned my fingers and flooded my gear. 

Scared because I’m alone at the bottom of the first slope leading the long way up to Sloan Peak’s rocky summit, guarded by a monstrous glacier system, and the peaceful meadow beneath it all where I left my two friends, Adam and Julien, just two hours ago. Alone, at the bottom of the very slopes I trudged up this morning with my heavy pack, back where I started, and staring at the infamous bushwack that awaits me. It’s eight in the afternoon, and, already, the sky is deepening, the sun crashing into the tree-lined horizon in a cacophony of colors.

When I look down at my right hand clenching one of my trekking poles, I can see the bloated, grotesque form of my ring finger. Less than three hours ago, I was in my tent relaxing after a hard day of humping our loads to camp when I noticed the swollen, purpling third digit. It was painful to the touch, and I was unable to close my finger into anything resembling more than an obese, grape-colored question mark. I didn’t give much thought to staying. 

“I really think I need medical attention ASAP,” I told Adam and Julien. 

“It’s your choice,” they both said several times. 

They watched me pack up my camp with a sorry look, painfully aware of how badly I wanted to join their summit bid in the morning. I could have asked them to accompany me down the complicated trail and bushwack. I could have said it wasn’t safe alone, but I quickly decided against it. I was fully capable of getting down by myself, and I couldn’t imagine depriving them of their summit bid to increase a margin of safety that was already broad. I bid them goodbye, put in some headphones, and headed down the trail.

“Do You Wanna Get High?” by Weezer blasted away into my eardrums while I picked my way down the waterlogged dirt, scrambling over slimy roots and wet rocks. Two hours later, I reached the edge of a wide riverbed filled with multi-colored, polished stones, marked by a little flat shelf of a clearing, where I now stand looking into the forest. Gingerly, I head down the last few feet of trail and make my way across the riverbed and into the impenetrable forest. I’m reminded of the Robert Frost poem. 

“The wood are lovely, dark, and deep,” I mutter to myself as I cross into the forest, “but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

The canopy is impossibly thick. When I look up I am faced with a botanical barrier, darker and darker greens and browns of all shapes blocking out the darkening sky. Only a few marbled pillars of light pierce through. I move among them, pushing through wet vegetation that crumbles like wet bread, wondering how long it will be before it’s completely dark here. On our way through the bushwack this morning, we saw many itineraries through the woods marked by pink ribbons - some brand new, some weather-beaten and faded. Ominously, we realized that the ribbons had been placed by Mountain Rescue units over the course of several rescues, spanned by several years. The whole forest bears witness to the many climbers who have gotten lost, disappeared, some to be found and rescued, some never to be seen again. 

The bushwack into Sloan is infamous, and its reputation amongst Cascades climbers is well established. It’s a mile-long battle through dense, thorny, prickly walls of angry vegetation, across several ice-cold rivers to be waded, punching through rotting logs, sometimes fighting as much as two feet above the ground, so far removed from the squishy low grass by grids and grids of branches, fallen trees, and stacks of every kind of plant you can imagine. Some have rolled or broken ankles when breaking through the plants and trees. Others have been lost in this vast expanse. I have no desire to join either category. 

And I don’t think I will. It’s eight fifteen, a little later, sure, but I know the way. I recognize the large log leading back into the woods, and a short ways past, the new pink ribbon hanging over a curved branch. From there, I also recognize the nest of knotted branches barring the way, and the short detour over a prickly patch of briars to get past it. I head further in, row after row of trees closing over the blue drape of sky behind me, until I can no longer perceive it at all save for a few little green-framed windows in the canopy. I am in the world of the forest now, a world of wet dirt, roots, plants, prickers, cold streams, squishy swamps, and drenched ferns disgorging rivulets of water each time they are prodded. It’s a narrow, claustrophobic world, disorienting, its every inch of space already occupied, with no friendly trail to show the way. 

I think of how little I’ve appreciated trails in the past. Such a small thing: a strand of clear ground woven into the trees, the unoccupied space the very thread needled into the compact forest world. A trail here would change the approach into a cakewalk. I think of my fast-moving body moving unencumbered down a trail bordered by thick woods, the way always easy and obvious.. I imagine my legs are eager to be guided by the empty space blazing between two edges of vegetation. What I wouldn’t give for a trail now! 

But instead it’s the woods, and already I can no longer tell which direction I came from. I’m surrounded by endless platoons of trees of all shapes and sizes, equally thick in every direction. Still, I have a decent sense of orientation, and I have a good idea of where the parking lot is. I continue fighting my way past the branches and briars, cursing when I punch through rotten wood, slipping, tripping, wrestling my way into the woods, getting even more drenched in the process. I have to take many detours to avoid tall, fallen logs and swampy mud puddles sucking at my yellow La Sportiva boots. Still, I believe in my internal compass and I know I am headed in the right direction, though these short detours keep taking me off course. Eventually, I reach another riverbed and a small slope on which I detect the faint outlines of a trail. I breathe a sigh of relief - I must be around the corner from the last river crossing, just a quarter of a mile away from the parking lot. It hasn’t come a minute too soon. The woods are certainly certainly getting more dark and deep and a little less lovely. 

I scramble across the riverbed, up the slope, and find myself back on the little flat shelf from which I set out an hour ago. 

I look around as if to find the person playing the trick on me. But there’s no one here. Just the empty gurgle of the stream dying under the round stones, and, far into the distance, a vague smear of orange melting into the frayed edges of the forest. The entire world is turning over, all things teetering on the edge of night. A dark blue shade still colors the sky, and a pale moon shines through wispy silver clouds. I can still see out here in the clearing below the uncovered sky, but the woods have become an inscrutable black wall. My heart starts thumping angrily. I’m scared. Its nine o’clock, and I still have the entire mile of the bushwack between myself and the safe haven of my car. On top of that, my confidence in my navigational abilities has just taken a steep plummet. 

I eye a patch of sandy beach nestled among the stones. Should I set up my tent and stay put for the night? Or risk another attempt on the bushwack this late in the day? 

I have perhaps thirty minutes of semi-decent light, and there’s no real reason to push on. I have shelter, a stove, food, a water source with the river. I can have camp set up in fifteen minutes, and a nalgene bottle filled with boiling water to warm my sleeping bag in thirty. My finger is starting to throb painfully, but I doubt a day will make a difference in treating whatever infection I have, and I have painkillers in my first aid kit to help me sleep through the night if it gets too painful. I can camp here safely and then have all day long tomorrow to find my way out. 

But the thought of unpacking everything in my bulky pack, of accepting the abject defeat of another night out, is somehow too much to swallow. I stupidly let my pride decide, and I dive into the forest for another crack at the bushwack. 

This time I decide to follow the riverbed a few hundred feet to where I can see another faded pink ribbon. This requires a pleasant, short walk across a sandy beach, and then a rather acrobatic climb up and over a beaver dam, followed by a hard right back into the woods. I fight my way past clutches of wet ferns, and find myself on the edge of a broad river. I don’t recognize this crossing, but there’s no time to waste, and I tell myself that all paths lead to Rome anyways as I pull off my boots and tie them on top of my pack. The water is freezing, and I soon feel the kind of cold that shoots into your bones until they hurt. My feet are aching with each step, and soon the river deepens until I am in to my knees, the cold water lapping at my rolled-up pant legs. I fight my way up the sucking, sandy bank, and pull myself on the other side. Quickly, I lace my boots again and forge ahead into the woods. 

It’s darker and darker, and I quicken my pace with a growing sense of urgency. I keep telling myself that I have to get out today, repeating it like a mantra to combat the urge to head back to the beach and set up my tent. But soon I understand that is no longer an option, as once again the battalions of trees have closed in on all sides, forming equally impenetrable barricades. I squirm on, crossing a patch of prehistorically large-leafed plants for the third time. An edge of fear resembling panic is seeping into my blood, and I feel a vaguely painful churn in my bowels. I start breaking into a small run, or as close to one as the vegetation will allow. I jump over a log, take a detour across thorny briars, circle around a large section of swamp, and find the large-leafed plants tickling my knees for the fourth time. Out of breath, I stop and try to calm myself down. 

“You’re okay, Jean. You’re okay. You’re not lost. You’re not lost.” 

But looking around at the little light I have left, I can see how thick and dense the woods are, how enclosed they are around me, as if the trees were consciously surrounding me. I am lost. But still, this is how people get even more lost: panicking and running around in circles alone in the woods at night. 

“You can’t panic. You just can’t panic.”

I take long, meaningful breaths. I have to stay calm, but the fear is churning in my guts. Time to give them some relief. Right there in the dark, I lower my briefs and let my bowels loose. Once one of the soft big leaves have helped me conclude my business somewhat pleasantly, I already feel a little calmer. And then I remember something.

I have an inReach. And I used it to track our path this morning. I dig through my pack with a beating heart and am so delighted to see the little orange device I could kiss it. I switch it on, and there, on the little screen, is our track. And I’m nowhere near it...not even close. Doesn’t matter. I can just follow the direction towards the road and hike back to my car. I don’t need to hit the parking lot, just the road. I put on my headlamp and click it on, now the only source of light in the entire dark forest. I follow its shivering halo as it glides over more plants, my eyes glued to the inReach. 

But now I encounter a new difficulty: I have to take so many detours to avoid obstacles that I am completely unable to keep to the direction of the digital arrow. I find myself moving an average of fifty feet in the wrong direction for every ten-foot gain towards the direction of the road. Oh well, it can’t be helped. Too many of these plant-based barriers are impassable. I make progress in long, curving zig-zags, weaving a drunkard’s track across the inReach, but it’s okay. I am slowly getting nearer to the road, and I am confident that I will soon be free of this labyrinth. 

“You’re okay, Jean. You’re okay. You’re going to sleep in your bed tonight. You’re okay.”

I take another turn around a gigantic fallen log, hop over a prickly bush, and suddenly the vegetation falls away, the dark blue sky swinging over my head. My eyes adjust to the comparatively bright colors. 

I’m on the road. 

With a sigh of relief, I let out a victory scream and punch my fist in the air. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, my finger is still killing me, and the memory of being alone and terrified in the dark thick woods is still too fresh for me to feel calm, but I now carry within me the irrevocable conviction that I am going to be okay, and nothing can topple it. 

I consult the inReach, and realize I’ve strayed half a mile from the parking lot. No matter. I whistle a tune while following the curves of the dirt road. A car passes by, surely two fellow climbers returning from some other adventure. I think of sticking my thumb out, but decide I’m enjoying the ability to stroll in a clear, indicated direction, and simply wave at the couple as they woosh past. I take the opportunity of the walk to reflect, and think how lucky I am. I can’t quite grasp what madness possessed me to not consult the inReach for so long, or why I even plowed on through the vegetation the second time when I could have camped. Lessons, to be sure. There are always lessons.

I reach my Toyota Highlander fifteen minutes later, jump in, and start the long drive back to Seattle and the walk-in clinic, where I’ll soon find out I have a serious staph infection requiring a painful draining of my finger and a week-long regimen of antibiotics. 

But for now, I don’t know any of that. All I feel now is the receding fear, so ancient, so primal, and so humbling, this all-too human terror of being alone and lost in the woods at night.