Mom and me in the Inyo National Forest in the mid 60s.
Note: this story is on the “author ” page of this website. I’m not sure how may people find it, so I thought I might re-post it here. It relates my first great hike in the Sierra Nevada. I hope you enjoy it.
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I can remember my very first camping trip and my first exploration of the Sierra Nevada quite clearly, even though I was no more than ten-years-old. The world was different back then. Instead of children being constantly supervised or enrolled in “activities,” kids my age were often booted in the rear end and sent off to play on their own. Such was the case this amazing afternoon.
We had pulled into the campground (someplace near, but not in, Yosemite) at about midday, and within a few minutes I was ready to explore. I got permission from my Mom and was on my way. Suffice it to say that I wasn’t carrying the ten essentials.
I crossed a small creek on rocks and a log and made my way into the forest. I noticed immediately a stretch of redwoods growing almost in a straight line. I kept them on my right and walked for what seemed to me a long way.
It was probably less than half a mile.
At the end of the line of trees I found a small clearing with a patch of yellow flowers. I turned right, and turned right again. I figured that after those two turns I could walk in a straight line back to the creek, cross it, and be back at the campground.
After walking about twice as far back as I had walked out, I got the first inkling that something was wrong. I was lost.
You should know at this point that no one in my family was a hiker or backpacker. I was not a Boy Scout. I was out here on my own, armed only with the wilderness knowledge I had accumulated after living the first decade of my life in places like Detroit and Orange County, California. In other words, I knew what a tree looked like, and that’s about it.
I decided to retrace my steps. I remembered my group of yellow flowers and there was that line of trees. (These images are still pretty clear to me, some 50 years later.) Except, of course, that it turns out lots of trees look like they’re growing in lines if you look at them from different angles. Oh boy.
In the end I just kept at it. I was confident about my patch of flowers, and from that spot I stepped off in a number of different directions, always carefully paying attention so that I could return. I must have walked back and forth for at least two hours.
Eventually, I retraced my steps almost exactly and bridged the stream using the same rocks and log. I wandered into our camp and my Mom asked if I was having fun.
Now, I may have been a poor route finder, but I wasn’t stupid: I knew that if I told my Mom I had gotten lost my days of trekking through the wilds would come to a quick end. It stayed my secret for decades. (I think I worked up the nerve to tell her when I turned forty. At least I think I did; maybe she still doesn’t know!)
That was the day I fell in love with the Sierra Nevada. You see, even though I was lost and should have been scared out of my wits, I had a blast!
Later, on the same and subsequent trips, we would visit Yosemite National Park, the Emigrant Wilderness, and June Lake. In ensuing years I would discover Shaver Lake, Huntington Lake and Dinky Creek. I would repeat my meandering at each (with a much better appreciation of the finer points of land navigation).
Each step I took within the Range of Light was pure joy. Each time I left I regretted it. One year, when we first entered the mountains on a week-long trip to Shaver Lake, I recall turning to my wife and saying, “You know, I love this place so much that I start to lament the fact we have to leave the day we arrive.”
The ultimate pilgrimage, however, escaped me until 2009. For eighteen days late that summer, I walked from Happy Isles to the top of Mount Whitney. The experience was indelibly etched into my memory. I still remember, quite clearly, the bus ride to the trailhead, the first night’s campground (almost all the campgrounds, really), turning a corner and seeing three bears, each wind-swept mountain pass, the friendly marmots, the friendly people – almost everything. While writing the “favorite spots” portion of the book it was more like RELIVING the experience than remembering it.
Think of it as a virtuous opposite to “post-traumatic stress disorder.” Call it “post-euphoric delight disorder.”
And I remember thinking everyday on the trail: more people should do this. I still think that.
Good hiking, Ray
Properly, if one gets lost, it is best now to stay put and let search teams look for you. Wandering around will probably have search management miss you. For example, an area is searched and then you wander into that area – they will miss you. However, there are other things I teach, since I have been a trailing dog handler for years. Leave a scent article or two. Also, leave a footprint for the man-trackers. These help the search immensely.
As for essentials, kids are taught to carry two basic items: whistle and trash bag. Whistle for blowing. Trash bag for shelter and warmth. Water can be from the creeks (giardia is not a concern for a few days), and one can go without food for several days more. If one has to relieve themselves, do not worry about burying, a simple cover-up is sufficient. After all, this is an emergency situation and not many parents will outfit the kids with a ton of stuff. The whistle and trash bag are both small and can be put in one pocket.
Many search stories are out there where the lost person wanders and the person was not found by the search teams. Then end up being found within 1/2 mile of the PLS/PLK (place last seen/place last known).
Thanks for the comment, Derek. I certainly didn’t intend for this to be a recommendation on what to do if you become lost. What you wrote makes perfect sense.
Couldn’t agree more Ray!! Great story, and your ‘philosophy’, if you will, is spot on . . . post-euphoric delight disorder. I too fear the day I must leave the mountains and return to the ‘concrete jungle’, but I almost immediately begin planning the next trip. Those around me don’t understand it . . . “sleeping in the dirt” . . . as they call it. “How can that be fun”, they ask. It 100% brings me back to my childhood and those exploratory years in the forest while camping and fishing with nighttime campfire stories and sleeping in the tent listening to the forest noises always wondering what the next day would bring. I cant help but get those same emotions every time I first step onto a dirt trail that leads to the unknown. I’ll be doing a section of the JMT this year in late July out of Onion Valley and north to Vermillion. Was forced off the trail last year due to weather that I was a little unprepared for.
Thanks for the comment, Phillip. We’re lucky to have the opportunity to wander through these spaces. Good luck this summer!
I have a feeling we are approximately the same age, as I too, remember the days when your parents booted you out the back door to go “play.” We spent the summers exploring different parks, neighborhoods, etc. Not like today, where parents keep children within an arms length. I actually miss those days, the innocence, the ability for a child to explore his world and develop a little self-sufficiency. Great reading your story and I love your term – post-euphoric delight disorder. Perfect!
I sometimes feel a bit “the youngster” when reading this blog, but this time I can legitimately call myself an “old timer” too! I am probably among the last of the generations that enjoyed unsupervised, unencumbered time outside after being booted out the door by my well-meaning parents. I actually remember being told not to come home until it got dark! Ah, the good old days. Anyway, those few times I was able to spend in the “great outdoors” on campouts or, more commonly, wandering the Sierra Nevadas surrounding my grandparents’ house in Jackson, California, remain some of my fondest memories–and not coincidentally, why I continue to read this blog about the JMT. Due to prevailing life circumstances, I have yet to achieve this particular item on my bucket list, but Ray, you have certainly given me the inspiration to get there one of these days. And meanwhile, let’s all remember those golden times when we could get lost in the wilderness during a family campout and enjoy the experience the whole time!
Thanks, Bob, for the kind words. And for those of you reading who think that Bob (who hasn’t yet punched the JMT ticket) is a neophyte, nothing could be more from the truth. He is an accomplished outdoorsman, and he walks faster than most birds fly!
Thanks, Kathy, for the comment. I grew up on a lake in Michigan; everyone’s front yard faced the lake, which meant that all the kids used all the yards as a huge, long, narrow, play area. I’m sure if I returned there would be fences on every property line. It was a different age!