SEPTEMBER 19, 2020 – Even though I got lost in the woods yesterday, the main point of this post is not about that—since I’m no longer lost—in the woods, anyway. Nor is this about anything broad- or big-minded; just something . . . down to earth.
Know, however, that being lost in the great outdoors produces an unsettling effect. As every seasoned hiker is aware, “the way out” on a trail looks markedly different from “the way in” on the same trail—especially when you’re the first ever hiker on “the trail.”
After bushwhacking my way in, I turned to go out, except . . . the path I thought I’d created looked much like the wake of my canoe in rough waters—the trail had vanished. My phone battery was dead, so none of my guidance apps was accessible. As I tripped on a log, which threatened to hurtle me into a grand fall, I imagined a broken femur, death by thirst and starvation (my body hidden by the brush until winter)—all in the nano-second it took me to recover my balance without mishap. The sun was at high noon, however, so I knew if I worked my way due south, I’d eventually reach the power line easement, and from there I’d be . . . out of the woods.
After lunch back at the Red Cabin, I returned to the woods to clear a wider trail—to leave a more permanent wake. The job would require my red, long-handle shears—which I’d not used on my morning expedition.
But the shears were not where I was certain I’d placed them (along the well-trod trail in my tree garden, south of the “back 40” where I’d been blazing a new trail). I retraced my steps five times and scoured the ground. No go. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, the shears were declared officially lost . . . in the woods.
This state of affairs drove me to despair. I’d worked all spring and summer without having lost any trimming tools, and now I’d misplaced an expensive set of shears. How could this be?!
I’ve lost—or misplaced—stuff before. Everyone has. Long ago I decided the problem isn’t a bad memory. It’s a matter of not paying attention. If I reserve an instant to think about where I’m placing an object—keys, a phone, earbuds—I’ll remember its location, no matter how haphazard. But if I’m not paying attention and I lay an item on a shelf, table, or counter—or my nose, in the case of eyewear—it’s as good as lost before I even think about searching for it.
That’s what happened to the shears. Distracted, I wasn’t paying attention to where I’d left them. The best memory in the world wouldn’t help me. Until I search the earth more closely, the shears will remain . . . lost in the woods. I won’t blame my memory except for . . . not remembering to pay attention.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
