It is absolutely official: I have no sense of direction. I may think I do, because I can read maps and I can follow directions, but the sense of direction? The remembering where I’ve been? The “oh, this looks familiar?” None of that works in my head.
Today, while on a ten mile in the North Carolina woods, I was feeling pretty good. Going from 6,000 feet to sea level will make you all high on oxygen. My brother-in-law was good enough to come with me on the first 2.5 miles and then left me to my own devices for another 2.5 and then, mistakenly as we all know now, assumed I could follow the exact same trail back to the car. The EXACT SAME TRAIL. Well, you know, all them there fire roads just look a heck of a lot alike. (Do you like my new vernacular? It’s something I’ve picked up, just for fun.) So, instead of fire road #6, I turned down fire road #5 ( which I would find out later; the roads were not marked) and then proceeded to get lost and go in one, giant, never-ending, oh-my-god-this-is-my-very-own-Blair-Witch-Project circle.
Eventually, I came across one person. One. In two hours. He was a man in his forties, dressed in camouflage, sitting on a stump eating lunch, next to a chainsaw. Yes, I know how that sounds. But, one person in two hours, you take your chances. Thankfully, the good man had a map and was willing to show me my way out. No, as you probably guessed, I wasn’t far. “I always go out with a compass,” he said. Yeah, good idea. But probably a better one for me is to always go out on a leash.