Lost

 

On the morning of January 23^rd, overwhelmed by a complex brew of feelings and desperate, on an uncommonly warm and sunny day,  to escape from laboring in the studio on projects which had “stalled,” I got in my car and drove up to Mountain Lake for a hike.

            Though warm in Blacksburg, it was chilly on this mountain top. In a “normal” winter, there would have been snow on the ground. The resort was closed for the season. Nobody was around. I hiked without stopping straight up to the magnificent overlook behind the picturesque stone hotel, pausing long enough to see the New River, far down in the valley, snaking its way past bright cliffs. I hadn’t dressed for the wind though, so I kept going, down along the ledge rocks, through a copse of small trees, to the wide corridor of tall grasses under the powerline towers. Turning onto a gravel service road which led back into the woods, I soon came to a rustic stone bench, nicely made, and turned onto the 1.9 mile Bear Cliffs Trail.

I walked quickly, noting the new trail blazes—bright yellow patches on tree trunks, spaced every 25 yards or so. About halfway to the cliffs, I stopped to take pictures, of mossy outcrops and bent trees, brown leaves gleaming on the ground. A few minutes later, stair-stepping up and over a pile of slab rocks, moss and lichen covered, I lost the trail. I “scouted,”  then backed down the way I had come. I saw a trail leading left, skirting the rocks. I followed this—a faint track—stopping every few feet and turning around, to be sure I would recognize my way back. I found a trail blaze—whitish, this time, an old one. Walking forward, and turning back every few steps, I came suddenly upon a deep, rocky crevice, with a screen of trees on the opposite side, and beyond, another vista. I bent over, looking down into the crevice. There were strewn boulders at the bottom, and cave-like hollows: a good place for bears. Had I arrived already at Bear Cliffs?  This was to be the climax of the hike, where I would explore, take pictures, exhilarate in the view, and in my own sense of adventure.  But these expectations were overridden now by anxiety. I lingered only briefly, and turned back, disappointed, but uneasy.

         Through the trees I saw the familiar pile of slab rocks, to my left. Good!  But when I arrived at the spot where I comfortably expected to turn right, and find the trail home, I could not discern my way. I took a few steps, this way, and that. Suddenly, I’d lost my bearings. I could see no trail; and then trails seemed to lead off everywhere. Bright light—like being in an over-exposed photograph, wind, small, twisted trees all around, silence. I thought: this is what it’s like to be lost. This is the state of mind people fall into. I imagined myself wandering, exhausted, at nightfall, shivering in the cold. I visualized the character in Jack London’s, To Build a Fire, clumping wildly through the woods on frozen feet.

           I struggled to maintain my composure—my god, imagine the embarrassment of calling 911, I thought, and having to be ‘rescued’! I walked slowly, searching for trail sign: flattened leaves, scuffed rocks. Then, yes! A marker I recognized. I turned around, and saw it plainly, a signboard hanging crookedly on a tree, to the right of the slab rocks: Bear Cliffs, in yellow letters, with an arrow. I had been lost. I had gotten off the trail. I turned toward home. As I came down the Bear Cliffs Connector Trail toward the lake, and my car, I thought of John Muir, with his little knapsack, tramping exuberantly, alone, for weeks at a time, through the vast Yosemite wilderness. What a great spirit he was!

         That night, my wife Ann, sensitive to my moods, as always, asked me what was wrong. I struggled to describe my feelings, and the reasons for my feelings. “I don’t know,” I said, over and over, between long pauses. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.”  She waited for more. But I couldn’t seem to articulate anything more. Me! Who was so comfortable teaching American Literature, and leading discussions on novels, and analyzing the complex motivations of characters—and yet who at this moment, when it really counted, could produce no understanding of my own motivations!

        Finally, I described, haltingly, the hike, and getting lost—or at least, the feeling of being lost, which, though total, might actually have only lasted for a minute or two. At once, Ann climbed out of bed, saying, “I have a poem for you.” She returned a few minutes later with a scrap of paper in her hand, and read aloud the following poem, by David Wagoner (from Collected Poems 1956-1976):

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are  not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where  you are. You must let it find you.