Was I lost?

 

I have a simple question for you. Was I lost?

Let me attempt to illustrate what took place. This happened early Friday morning, January 26, 2024.

I arrived at O’Bannon Woods State Park and pulled into the park office parking lot. The week had begun with melting snow, followed by multiple days of mild to heavy rain. This morning as I was driving to the park, there was mist on my windshield. I had a quick question for my Property Manager friend Stanley.

I walked to the door of the office, and Stanley was leaving the building. He asked how I was, and I did the same, knowing the last time we spoke was the Friday before he was sick. He was better but seemed to be headed somewhere, so I asked my question. There were two places I wanted to go this morning, and I asked which would be less muddy. Stanley explained the pros and cons of each location, and I headed to the Chimney Shelter within Harrison Crawford State Forest. Before departing, Stanley said, “It is uphill to get to the shelter and downhill upon the return. You could always take the horse trail, as it parallels the hiking trail and is mostly gravel.”

With this knowledge, I headed down Old Forest Road, then onto Cold Friday Road towards a familiar parking lot and the ascent up the muddy trail. I headed into spotty to no cell service territory but let Marcie know where I was going before; I made the drive.

There was no one in the parking lot, so I backed my car in, grabbed my gear, and began the hike up the hill. A sign stated 1.25 miles to the shelter, but I knew and verified it was 1.5 miles.

The muddy trail I could see was the perfect vehicle for rain runoff. The trail showed signs of a small river in places, and the soggy earth hidden by blankets of leaves confirmed this. I often walked on either side of the trail in the denser vegetation, as this provided a more secure foothold.

Soon I reached the cabin and went inside. No one was occupying the structure. This is a first come, first serve structure for hikers who travel the 25-mile Adventure Trail. I also hiked down to the cliffs that overlook the Ohio River, which was ¼ mile away.

Upon returning to the cabin, I took the horse trail back down to the car. Park vehicles could easily use (and had used) the wide gravel-covered horse trail. There was no sliding in the mud, nor losing grip because of my boots sinking into the swampy mess I encountered on the way up.

As I headed toward my vehicle, there was a slight split in the horse trail. I was on the orange trail, also known as the Greenbriar Trail. To the left was the red Riverside Trail. The Riverside Trail went into the woods and traversed sizeable areas of tall grass that I could see. So kept going on the gravel of Greenbriar path.

Things seemed fine for a few miles when I saw the path turn right, which was the opposite direction of my vehicle. I stopped and got out my map. This is where I noticed the Greenbriar Horse Trail covers a total distance of 9 miles.

I called my wife and told her ‘I am lost’ and my plan was to travel back up the trail the way I came and return to the hiking trail. This meant another 4+ miles of unexpected hiking. I drank most of my water and ate one of my two protein bars. I also felt a bit of potential low blood sugar fatigue.

The definition of lost is being unable to find one’s way; not knowing one’s whereabouts. When I got home later, my wife quickly dismissed the fact that I was lost. Basically, stating I was on a horse path, but I just didn’t know where I was. I’ll admit there is truth to that statement, but I was also miles from anyone in a 24,000-acre forest with sketchy cell service and running low on supplies.

The woods had swallowed me whole. The air, once sweet with pine, now hung heavy with a damp silence, broken only by the frantic thud of my heart against my ribs. Time, once measured by peaceful chirping birds and rustling leaves, now stretched and morphed with a bit of desperate hope. The path, once clear and inviting, had transformed like a thief in the night, leaving me adrift in a sea of moss and shadow. Then there was the silence. Not the peaceful hush of nature, but a heavy, suffocating quiet, pressing down on me like a tomb. It was the silence of the unknown. Of watchful eyes unseen. Of secret, the woods kept close to its gnarled heart

I spun, heart hammering against your ribs, searching for an escape, a landmark, anything familiar. But the trees stood sentinel, a silent, mocking audience to my perceived terror. And in that moment, I knew. I wasn’t just lost. I was at the mercy of the forest.

Dramatic maybe, but I have read many stories about people getting lost in this vast wilderness. I knew I would get home, eventually. I just hoped my blood sugar didn’t dramatically drop.

I began the descent back up the hill and after a mile, I heard a pickup truck and semi-truck behind me. I stopped, and their vehicle’s intern stopped. Two men got out of the truck, lit up cigarettes, and watched as the semi-truck driver got out and unloaded a skid steer.

I soon learned they were going to be logging in the area, and they told me that the path I was on was “oh, I guess a mile or mile and a half to Cold Friday.” So, I again turned around, headed back down the hill, and trusted that their navigational judgement of distance was correct.

After two miles, I reached Cold Friday Road. I turned left and walked the road for another mile or so, eventually reaching my car. It was a welcome sight for this weary solo traveler. I hiked over 12,000 steps, got to see parts of the park I had never seen before, and learned a valuable lesson.

So was I lost or exactly where I was supposed to be? 

Until next time,

Tim