Lost In The Woods
It was only a 9-mile run. I was 25 years younger and 20 pounds lighter. Seven of us had been hiking, canoeing and mountain-biking the remote land of lakes in Northern Wisconsin for over two weeks. This run, the final leg on our journey, would return us to where it all began.
After dismounting our bikes, we were given instructions to wind our way through the thick woods by following a trail of tiny red flags. I was excited, maybe a bit overconfident, about finishing strong and outdoing the other six, all in their twenties, who had called me “Pops” from day one. For me, it was all about winning. I ran with ease, without a care in the world, decked out in yellow shorts, a flannel shirt, wool socks and water logged tennis shoes. A light snow brushed against my face.
Then, like a fist to my stomach, I realized that I had not seen a red flag in a very long time. I cursed the approaching darkness, then yelled a few expletives at myself for my competitive and grandiose attitude toward the others.
I slowed my pace and started re-tracing my steps, back and forth, back and forth, hoping and praying to see a familiar spot—the place where I had stopped paying attention, made a wrong turn and left the designated path. But every tree, every stupid rock looked the same. Panic took over. I ran faster, breathing hard, looking and searching for one of those freakin’ red flags. Nothing. As the sun disappeared and the snow continued to fall, I figured that my friends were back at base camp, showered, finishing a hot meal and hopefully putting together a rescue team to find “Pops”. Finally—I’m not sure why—I stopped running. It seemed like an hour, but was probably less than five minutes. I stood completely still and waited until the only sound was my slow, shallow breathing. There was no “still small voice”, but I picked up something in the night air—a whirring sound—far off in the distance. It would fade and come back. When I moved in its direction, the rustling leaves muffled the sound, so I had to stop again. And wait. And listen. The whirring grew steady and louder until I recognized the sound was that of 18-wheelers barreling down the interstate miles away. Four hours later, I was sitting in front of the fire with a full stomach and six grateful friends. My triumphant romp through the woods had turned into a humbling, 16-mile jog on a narrow black top road. The lesson wasn’t lost: When I’m in the woods...stay with the team. It’s seldom—if ever—about winning. When lost, confused, discouraged or afraid—stop running. Be still and wait until the silence and the solitude take over and the only sound is my breath. Then, listen.