NO DIRECTION KNOWN

No water. No food. No phone. No need.

I intended a short walk, a little air before driving to see a friend, and so went left from the driveway. That way the dirt road dead-ends at the last scattered house in the woods. On a whim, I turned onto an abandoned path I had explored before. More nature. The path was clear but clearly unused. Occasionally I had to lift or stoop under skinny branches. The terrain wasn’t particularly interesting, at least not what I’d seen, so I went farther than before. The green obstacles came more often, the path was less distinct, and I was ready to turn back. 

The cypress stand surprised and stopped me. Suddenly a clearing, and before me a small stand of bald cypress in mud black as tar. The sunken oval, 20 feet wide, stretched out 60 feet, like a pond that isn’t a pond. It was completely unlike the crowded cypress swamp on the side of Riversink Road, whose brown mucky bottom sometimes held water. This sudden stand was a small black jewel, an artful arrangement of trees and their strange vertical knees—smooth, tapered, pointed—pushing into the air from a tangle of underwater roots. Comparing one tree’s huge base to my height, I calculated a width of at least five feet. Circling the stand was irresistible, a perfect return to the trail, road, and home. 

I did not leave the forest for 48 hours over three days and two nights. I was 80.

This is North Florida, the Panhandle, only minutes from the capital but even more wild and treacherous than its politics. The area is interior, not coastal, but with water everywhere: sinkholes, springs, rivers above, rivers below, connected underwater caves. It is Karst topography, land formed over porous, dissolvable limestone. Its forests are dense.

My planned short walk was why I had no water, food, or phone. I did wear shoes: flip-flops. Really good ones. That was normal for my walks, though I had laughed at my garb’s riot of colors: green cargo pants, yellow sleeveless top, orange beach hat with large floppy brim. The pants and hat were the only help during my wandering, as one flip-flop broke just after I knew I was lost. 

I knew because I was not on the trail and couldn’t find it. My circling of the artful cypress had fallen short, and my mistaken return path petered out. At first, through bushes, I saw the true trail yards away to my right and angled toward it. This phantasm appeared, disappeared behind trees, reappeared, disappeared. I kept believing in it until I couldn’t. I walked, walked, and walked. Finally I admitted that angling right was not bringing me back to the path. My flip-flop broke. 

Lost, But Not Seriously

I had left Chris’s at 1:30. His house sits on 10 acres of forest, with a large yard to keep the trees at bay and a pristine spring hidden down a path. My house is on a Gulf island 90 minutes away. For the decade since we met, we have migrated between our houses, one enclosed in green, one looking at the horizon, both home. While Chris’s neighborhood is country, not city, it’s not far from a state highway connected to paved streets and visible houses. At times we can hear highway traffic, along with the barking of neighbors’ dogs.

My walk went toward the forest and away from the highway, which was less expected and sent many searchers in the wrong direction. I had not one thought of anyone searching, and they weren’t, yet. Nor did I believe I was in real trouble. The sand road couldn’t be far. I simply hadn’t found it.

As I navigated vines and stepped over bushes—lifting my left leg awkwardly to keep the flip-flop on—I looked forward to a store of anecdotes. First entry: I pushed a thin branch away from my face, let it go, and took the whiplash in my open eye. Smarted, a lot. I would advise the urban inexperienced: “Don’t do that.”

I thought, still in light mode, “Why me? I’m no Natty Bumppo.” Natty is writer James Fenimore Cooper’s famous woodsman, AKA Leather-Stocking, AKA Pathfinder. (With those cool aliases, why would Cooper name him Bumppo?)

I noted that flitting birds weren’t hovering to guide me, as they did Disney’s Snow White, though I’ve fed flitting birds for years—homemade suet.

I pictured Chris saying, “I’m never letting you out of my sight,” a bad idea even in jest. His first words on the phone, with wonder, “It’s really you! I cried and cried. I’m crying again.”

I imagined staggering into someone’s yard, knocking on the door to meet suspicion, then amazement, then shock. I did emerge in a backyard—filled with cars, trucks, dogs, and people on phones.

Over the days, literature (fiction and nonfiction), animals (lack of), fantasies (magical thinking), and trees themselves (dead ones) were in fact survival tools. Here are others:

• Rain drops
• Urine
• Blood
• Beauty berries
• Smilax tips
• Shoe repair
• Hat
• Crawling

Many didn’t work: sounds (dogs, cars, helicopter), my sense of direction, maps drawn in dirt, moss on trees, sun and moon, yelling and screaming, fire, tree climbing.

So much looks the same in woods. Many people know or discover this. I know it now. The sameness, quite apart from my getting lost in parking lots, is a reason I thought I was heading in one direction while zigzagging all over the forest. Another was the solace of a clearing. The ability to walk 20 unimpeded steps drew me like a desert oasis. Once again, even a small zig to reach a small clearing usually meant I zagged off course. Not that I knew it. I truly tried to point toward rural civilization.

Perhaps because of Snow White’s helpful birds, I noted any animal in this early period. All were useless and benign: two banana spiders, a fly, a Carolina wren, a Pileated woodpecker (only its sound, alas), and a grackle that heard my loud “Hellooooooow,” flew to a branch, and stared at me. Not even a squirrel, raccoon, armadillo, or deer, which are at home in Chris’s yard.  

A walking stick became a tool and companion. I selected four companions during the sojourn. A stick might look the right length and diameter but become pulp when lifted. No dearth of inventory, though. I found a nice stabilizer that also helped support my good-shoe side when I lifted the flopping flip-flop. Carelessly I lost that stick when I sat down to rest, laid it aside, stood, and gazed around in a circle. Then I couldn’t distinguish stick #1 from the inventory. Number 2 broke later in the day. Number 3 was a keeper, and by then I knew to look for a grip: a bend or knob at the end. My walking stick also taught me that seeming ground could be deep foot-sucking mud. Stop, free the stick and my shoe, find solidity. 

My first attempt at holding the left flip-flop together was braiding pine straw. The broken thong between my toes couldn’t be reattached. The hole remained, along with the Y-shaped rubber strap across my foot, secured at the sides. 

I have a small pine-straw basket and know a weaver. The beauty and strength of these baskets amazed me from first sight. Flimsy pine straw? Who knew? Each piece fallen from a tree has three straws attached at one end. If you’ve ever braided hair, the straw’s natural structure calls for a braid. Now I hoped to make a thicker and longer braid, perhaps by twisting two braids together for more strength and extending it with more braids. The straws are not long. I would stick this through the hole and attach it to the strap. 

Difficulties arose: getting the braid through the hole; using which end; entering above or below; making it fast at both hole and strap. I finally put a double braid through the hole and soon gave up. The whole plan was looking iffy, especially getting the length needed. I would continue keeping the shoe on by hiking my left knee and flexing my foot. I tried pine straw againthe next day with more determination and equal futility. Pine straw passed from iffy to impossible. 

As the afternoon wore on, my leg’s discomfort grew to slight pain and cramp, my thoughts to less frivolity. This simply couldn’t be happening; it was. I heard barking and stopped but was uncertain of the direction. I guessed, followed, and yelled. I went sufficiently woo woo to channel Chris’s face to lead me out. I tried to get a grip with “This is real” and “You are really here.” The sun lowered. I would be here at night.

Sleeping Rough

I intended to keep moving, though, because the full moon would be bright in a cloudless sky. After I fell, I knew moonlight wouldn’t suffice. In the fading light, I mistook a large leaf-covered depression as ground. One step past my stick, and I was lying prone ten inches down. Shock was the only aftermath. A twisted or broken ankle could have been. 

Holes and sucking mud were, oddly, my only upfront fears. Foolishly, as I reflect. The October weather was warm. I didn’t think of a soaking downpour. I didn’t fear animals, even bears. I knew the advice, as well as a friend’s experience: Make yourself look big and be loud. Coyotes, foxes, and raccoons wouldn’t care, except to run. Snakes now, a different story. I suspect my revulsion kept them out of mind. 

The detective who led a debriefing after my rescue said, “I assume you didn’t sleep.” Oh yes I did. I was more afraid that I wouldn’t. Consciousness dark to dawn meant thinking. 

Fallen trees were everywhere in the forest, an astounding number to me. As I looked for a sleeping spot, a bark-less, blond, smooth trunk appeared. I never saw another such beauty. This would be my pillow. The dry ground of my bed held more leaves than dirt. As I sat resting, I discovered the real attack animals: ticks. I know ticks from living in woods but at first didn’t recognize the tiny dark specks on my arms. (These were only a start: up to 300 by the time three ER nurses wielded tweezers.) These were so minute they didn’t show legs or appear round, more like teeny black sticks. But I could scrape them off, and ticks they were: hateful, disgusting, too many to remove. 

Sleeping rough is an atmospheric term to me. I’m not ignoring the euphemism, a less negative description for hobo, bum, street person, homeless. In social services, sleeping rough means sleeping in a place not meant for it: doorways, underpasses, park benches, derelict buildings. Camping outdoors because you want to, briefly, with or without a tent, is not sleeping rough. Still, I realize that the term attracted me more as a Natty Bumppo experience. You’re outdoors but know what to do. Once more, I’m no Natty Bumppo, but I couldn’t help thinking, “I am doing this alien thing. I am sleeping rough.”

Rough also means not comfortable. I went through several attempts to get, not comfortable, but in a position that didn’t make me want to get out of it. The log as pillow with a flip-flop under my head: no. The flip-flop shifted. Even without it, the log still put my head at too great an angle. I had spread my hat under my shoulders and upper back, crown down to keep leaves, dirt, and bugs from the head-wearing side. Finally I chose flat on the ground, readjusted the hat to lie under head and shoulders, and again rejected a shoe pillow (hard). Not for the first time, I blessed that hat. A hand under my head, I turned from side to side all night. 

If this seems a boring belaboring of bedding down, you had to be there. It mattered. Since sleeping rough, I’ve thought of rough sleepers I’ve seen. Rarely are they lying somewhere hard with only the clothes they’re wearing. They have portable aids like extra clothes, bags, a cup. They must have routines for their space each night, whether alone or in a group. Think of old hobo images, stick and bundle on the shoulder. Think of rough as reality, not metaphor.

The Radio in the Truck in My Head

I was still awake when I heard the helicopter. Its red light passed directly over my small clearing. I waved my hat. The helicopter flew on but began circling, showing me it was probably, or might be, searching. My orange flag waved whenever it seemed possibly visible. After two more passes overhead and several big circles, the helicopter was gone. I assumed the trees were too thick and tall, but Chris later explained that the woods’ heat defeated the infrared beam. He asked for another try the next morning, but the helicopter was on loan from the neighboring county and did not return. The forest, near the Tallahassee airport, was one path for daily aircraft. When one came in daylight, I foolishly waved at any plane, then only at small ones, and then none. 

I did fear searchers would give up quickly, thinking I wouldn’t last long at 80. An experienced searcher told me no, they would not. Dementia, however, was naturally suspected by the sheriff’s office, state and volunteer searchers, journalists, and Facebook snarks. People who knew me knew better. One, near my age, was righteously outraged. 

Now come mental peculiarities that few people know: sometimes I hear music that isn’t there and see cartoons when my eye are closed. Not at the same time. I don’t know why, I know it’s strange and suspicious, but it does happen and I don’t have dementia. Saving face by omitting these abnormalities is not an option. First, I thought the music was real. Second, the cartoon made me laugh out loud. Lost, lying on leaves, laughing at Gumby throwing pizza is too bizarre not to share. 

The hypnagogic state is the passage from wakefulness to sleep, and in it images often form in the moving patterns, lights, and colors that appear on the backs of the eyelids.That’s my location description, not a scientist’s. This phenomenon is common, and sometimes I can use it to fall asleep. Instead of ignoring the eyelid show, I focus on what I see, still intrusive thoughts (those insomniac pests), and wait for pictures. Often I see faces or figures and know I’m drifting to sleep. 

Watching cartoons at the bottom of my eyelid screen is fairly new and completely  peculiar. I wasn’t even alarmed the first time, because the three little pigs were so surprising and cute. Straight out of a Little Golden Book, they cavorted in the footlights, in color, in clothes, on hooves. I’m awake for these shows, or believe I am, and simply look on, even pondering different drawing styles. Once I saw fascinating avant-garde stick figures. Encore, please.  

The cartoon figure was not Gumby but like him: green, thick, spongey, flexible, stage left. He was twirling a green blob over his head like a pizza. When he unexpectedly let it go, the blob flew smack onto the head of a stage-right bystander. I didn’t see this coming, nor did the other green thing. I laughed. The end.

These are silent movies. At some point before sleep, which took too long despite cartoon, I heard music. A radio in a truck! Hunters! Relief. The music was not far away but still a bit blurry. Definitely country-rock-rap, an interesting mix played on local radio. I truly believed I would find that truck in the morning. I didn’t. When I awoke the music was gone. 

During the night I had begun to suspect my own head was the source. At any brief awakening, I still heard the music, but doubts began. Namely, how could anyone stand hours and hours of that music? With the morning light, I heard the silence. That’s how it seemed. Loud. I didn’t fear insanity. Neurologists write about head music in normal people, and I knew a compos mentis elderly woman who heard “God Bless America.” My previous musical hallucinations, even more blurry, probably resulted from exhaustion and wine. This time I assume exhaustion, stress, location, and desperation. While not insane, it was certainly irrational to believe a truck drove into that pathless place. I didn’t fall into despair but once again was sobered. I was alone. 

Fascinating Enemy

I struggled physically and thought of death from the first day. I wasn’t all Seven Dwarves, Leather-Stocking, and anecdotes. I had to move, which wasn’t easy, and I had plenty of time to think. 

It never occurred to me not to walk. People’s question “Did you sit still?” seemed ludicrous, or at least odd. What a horror-vacuum that would have been. I later read I should have, according to experts. In an article and a novel set at a camp, the mantra was Stay put and scream. The campers recited it daily. I screamed daily. (I yelled Hellooooo! at first, but my scream was far louder and longer.) 

Even before the woods became nearly impenetrable, small branches regularly met me at head level. Tipping the hat brim down was a great shield, except that I couldn’t see. Then thorny vines met me below the knees. I learned to tip, take the branch hit, quickly lift brim, peek ahead, adjust. This was not constant. 

Walking was. Thinking was. It wasn’t the most peaceful time of my life. I was in pain for my family’s pain. I also knew my time was shortening, which heightened the pain. Would I see people I love come through their trouble, their grief? That is a selfish thought, I know, but my family has endured and endured, I believed they could again, and I wanted to know it. I wanted at least to say good-bye. A related, practical thought was that the revision of my will wasn’t finished. Legalities lived in another world.

Walking’s most profound revelation? I didn’t want to die. So often I yearned to, in thoughts only, not action. Someone I loved deeply committed suicide. I could never give that agony to anyone. Well, I thought in the trees, here you are. You can die and not be responsible. Then why are you walking with nonstop, ultimate determination? Because you want OUT. Walking showed me I wanted to live. 

This second day was full immersion, dawn to dark, exhausting. When I had to stop at night, the ground of my bed required the hat under my body. My hands were pillow and face shield. I had the sense at last to tuck in my shirt, and against a cooler night, I slept with bare arms inside it. No music, no cartoons, no dreams penetrated a dead sleep, yet getting there was harder, perhaps because I feared an animal for the first time. Finally positioned on my side, I heard scuffling in leaves near my head. It might be a harmless creature, but I couldn’t know, and why was it so close? I didn’t want even a possum in my face and so played possum, absolutely rigid but ready to leap up and yell.  For long minutes the scuffling stopped and started. I held my breath. I never heard the animal leave, but it did. 

During that day and to the last, fascinations could stop my walking as the cypresses had. These weren’t as arresting or as lingered over, yet I was seeing a forest as I never had: slowly and up close. Perhaps pausing was a respite, a grasp of any shift from imprisonment to perusal. At any rate, I was interested. I saw the magical glow of foxfire for the first time. Sleeping near logs on both nights, I saw luminous specks on the ground beside my head. Bioluminescence in wet sand is related, but I’d never seen this cold light, as it’s known, of fungi breaking down wood. I did know the word foxfire from the famous back-to-the-land magazine and books of my hippie-ish youth. Once home with internet, I fell happily down a foxfire rabbit hole. 

Moss grew on every side of tree trunks, not just on the north side as the old saw says. I failed at using compass directions anyway. Though I knew Chris’s back door faced east and the sun moves east to west (at least that!), my attempted dirt maps yielded confusion, not “You are here. This way out.” But oh the mosses: beautiful, delicate, endlessly varied greens and textures. I marveled.

Once I saw several curved pieces of bark, one as big as my two cupped hands. The inside curve was a pale beige showing distinct, dark, linear marks—like symbols on parchment. It couldn’t be. I knew that, and yet my English major self, which had seen ancient cave drawings, and my lost self, which was feeling Longfellow’s forest primeval, came together in credulity. Faint credulity, true, but I picked up the big piece, put it down to walk on, and just had to pick it up again for closer examination. Could I make out pictures, repeated designs? Nah. Too cool, though, even if worm writing. I wish I had it.

I also amused myself, meanly, by poking a stump filled with termites. Again, I couldn’t help it. I’d seen termites swarm out of a stump and out of a ceiling in Apalachicola. The fascination is a bit like watching a miniature alien invasion which can’t hurt you. That no one was watching is no excuse, but those bugs could gorge again in their termite heaven.

As the trees thickened, the fallen ones could be a help. I avoided walking through solid underbrush by walking close beside a log or a few shaky steps on it. I discovered a wicked vine I still don’t understand. It was absolutely vertical and long, extending and disappearing above my head, with thorns that felt like daggers and didn’t want to let go. How could it emerge from dirt and also seem to drop from branches like a plumb line? 

I hated it. Vines of all kinds, thicker bushes, solid trees, insects, hidden holes, unknown animals: The fascinating forest was also my enemy. I realized it was a being, a being of beings, a whole teeming life unto itself. I was forced into intimacy but never part of it. The forest couldn’t care. 

Only once did I come upon human signs: a car battery and a beer bottle. For a few farfetched minutes, the trash gave me hope. Someone had gotten in here, had a beer, and used the woods as a dump. But the battery was deeply embedded in dirt, the label-less brown bottle was not current (Chris knew from my description), and any path in was now overgrown. 

Everything was overgrown. Clearings were now small pockets reached only by way of choosing the least resistance ahead. In late day I rested with my back against a log and fell asleep, a first. I awoke with an epiphany. To keep on a straight path, I had to crawl: whatever the barrier ahead, no deviations.

Meanwhile, Amazing

[To be continued.]