How to Get Lost
(Three easy steps)
by
Eric Aguero
Snow is melting, green is beginning to show. A purple
crocus is pushing up through the drift. Up at the Continental
Divide, drifts have stalled at fifteen feet. An occasional sparrow
looks for food. Squirrels are burrowed in, and my son, Brent, and I
are heading for who-knows-where. We had planned the trip since last
summer, assuming the weather would be fine. We had no idea things
wouldn’t be the way we expected.
Although I didn’t know it, I was four months from being diagnosed
with Parkinson’s disease, and the effects were definitely showing.
The steep climb from the trailhead was harder than I remembered, and
I attributed this to my age, 45, and being badly out of shape and
overweight. That was a big part of the problem, but it didn’t
account for the weakness on my right side, and my inability to do
much more than drag my right foot. Brent had to help with my fishing
gear, and he later said that he thought I had been drinking, but
couldn’t smell anything on my breath.
Long, steep climbs and slogging through melting snow were
interspersed with relatively flat ground, and I took advantage of
these to get a periodic breather. At one spot, I finally stopped
completely, sitting down on a semi-comfortable rock. The weather was
still fairly cold, but I was sweating from exertion.
“I just don’t remember it being this hard,” I told my son. “I dunno,
Dad. I was five, the last time we were here.” “Yeah, you’re right. I
suppose it’s just old age settin’ in. This part isn’t as much fun as
I thought it’d be, but it will be better when we get to the top lake
and start catching fish!” Brent laughed, and then replied. “Then
I’ll find out if all of it was just fish stories!” I was too out of
breath for a reply, so I just sat another minute, and then stood,
gaining my balance, and headed on up the trail. It was a long hike,
and I’d just about had it when we stepped out into view of the two
upper lakes. There was a small iceberg in the center of the larger
one, but for the most part, the water was clear.
In most places, neither of them would be called a lake. Both were
actually big ponds, but they were deep enough that they didn’t
freeze solid in winter, and so harbored a good supply of cutthroat
and brook trout. We were completely by ourselves, and the only
sounds were a breeze rippling through branches of the conifers and
aspen trees around us, an occasional squirrel fussing at us as he
came out for a breath of fresh air and some sunshine before the next
storm buried the nest again, and black and gray nutcrackers calling
to each other. Looking down on the water, we watched several fish
break the surface, catching insects. That was what we’d been waiting
for, so we wasted no time working our way across rocks and a small
waterfall that fell between the two bodies of water.
As I
stepped from rock to rock, I had a difficult time lifting my right
foot to take the last big leap, in order to clear the cascading
water. I came up short, slipped off the rock, and slid knee-deep
into bitter-cold water. I managed to catch myself before I fell all
the way in, but scraped my hands in the process, drawing blood. I
scrambled out, and tried to act as though I was just clumsy, but I
knew something just wasn’t right. Pushing through the last stand of
stunted willows, I joined Brent on the bank. “Went wading, huh?” my
son said, looking at my soaked pants. “Guess so,” I replied, staring
at this little jewel of a lake. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t
say anything else for a moment. I wanted to memorize every detail,
just in case I never saw it again. Looking back now, that may have
been the last time I was to visit a place I found when I was
thirteen years old.
Brent was wasting no time getting rigged up, so I put my pack down
and started assembling my rod. He began to work down the bank to the
right, so I stayed where I was, tied on a homemade Black Gnat, and
made my first cast, right over the top of a rising trout. I watched
the water swirl, and the fish sucked in my fly. That old thrill went
straight through me as I raised the rod-tip, and felt the familiar
tug of a fish hooked. None of the fish in high-mountain lakes grow
very big, and this one was no exception. It jumped immediately,
clearing the water, and fought gamely, while I worked it toward
shore. I landed it, took the fly from its jaw, and watched it swim
away. The next cast, I caught another brookie that matched the
first.
In the meantime, Brent was working a small cove where a stream
struggled out of the grasp of the primeval forest, and was still
waiting for his first strike. As he watched me land the second one,
he yelled out to me. “What are you using?” I told him, and then went
back to casting, while he rummaged through his creel, and started
tying on a new fly. He began to get disgusted with no action, while
his old dad kept catching fish. Finally, he came over and told me he
was going to cross the stream and work his way around to the far
side of the lake. I told him to make sure and keep moving to the
left, so he didn’t get too far from the water, and to holler if he
needed me. He nodded in agreement and headed up to find a trail that
would take him across the stream and back to the lake.
I made several more casts before I realized I hadn’t seen Brent for
a few minutes. I stood still, listening, and heard nothing but the
wind in the trees, when all of the sudden my son yelled out. “Dad,
where are you?” It took me by surprise and kind of scared me, but I
hollered back, and asked where he was. “I’m not sure, but I had to
go higher to get around the brush, and there’s no trail. What should
I do? I can’t see the lake.”
I told him to bear left and keep coming downhill. He couldn’t be far
away from the lake, by the sound of his voice. I was forgetting how
well sound travels in the mountains. What I couldn’t get out of my
head was a previous trip, some thirty years ago, when a bear visited
our camp near here. It was unlikely that one would show up, but
under the circumstances, anything could happen.
My mind went back to the early 1970’s, when Greg Brunson and I were
camping just below timberline. We had spent the evening cooking
fresh trout over the campfire, with wild onions and sage we found
earlier in the day. A mess of dandelion greens added to our supper,
and we were fat and happy, content to sit back and tell lies. The
night was clear, and the stars above were so bright, they hurt our
eyes as we stared at them. We took turns drinking from a bottle of
peppermint schnapps that Greg’s older brother had bought for us, and
then turned in for the night. Greg was already snoring, and I was on
the verge of dreams, when something tripped over the guy-line at the
back of the tent.
Instantly, I was wide awake! I almost screamed, but lay perfectly
still, listening to snuffling sounds on the other side of too-thin
nylon. I knew we’d done some things right, such as making sure no
food was in the tent, and hanging one pack, with everything edible,
from a tree. This was a standard back-country rule. Even so, I
expected the visitor to come right through the wall. I jabbed Greg
in the ribs, and when he grunted, I put my hand over his mouth, and
hissed at him. “Shhhhhh!” “What?” he started to say and again I
tried to shut him up. “Listen!” I whispered, as the bear grunted at
the front of the tent. I thought I would wet my pants. We both went
silent, and lay there listening as the intruder worked his way
through our camp, finally padding away into the night. Neither one
of us slept again until daylight.
All of this ran through my mind as I listened to the silence,
waiting for my son to reappear from the darkness of the woods. Just
for something to do, and to keep the fear from surfacing, I kept on
casting toward the fish that were rising, landing another before I
glanced down at my watch to see what time it was. I realized it had
been close to thirty minutes ago that Brent had disappeared into the
trees. A cloud covered the sun and I shivered, partly from the cold
and partly out of fear, knowing, at these climes, that the
temperature changed quickly as afternoon wore on. Physically, I was
in no shape to search for him by myself, so I shouted a few times,
hoping he’d hear and come toward me. The only reply was an echo off
the side of the mountain.
We’d talked often about the consequences of getting lost. Brent knew
the basics: don’t panic, stay in one place, and what I considered
the most important, follow water downstream. A creek will eventually
cross a road, or someplace important. In this case, it meant a lake.
In spite of everything we’d discussed, I was still scared.
It’s funny how extraordinary circumstances bring out the worst in
people. In most situations, I react calmly. I can normally deal with
anything, from blood to broken bones. Usually, I’ll slow down,
evaluate the problem, and act accordingly. When it comes to someone
close to me, all deals are off. It hadn’t always been that way, but
I was changing, for the worse in cases like this. Little by little,
I’d lost confidence, mostly because of physical problems, and when
it all hit, I wasn’t sure what to do. My son had listened to stories
his whole life, and knew how to build a fire. We kept water-proof
matches with our fishing gear, so I wasn’t concerned about his
staying warm. It was more a matter of the unknown.
Forty-five minutes passed, and still Brent didn’t show. Eventually,
I knew I’d have to go for help, but I was afraid he’d be in worse
shape if I left the area, so I stayed, hoping for the best. Neither
one of us was wearing a heavy coat because we’d planned on being
back long before dark. I began to think about the annual Darwin
Awards, given out to people who died because of stupidity. I hated
to think that my son could die because of my stupidity.
Finally, I broke down my rod, put my gear in the pack, and slung it
over my shoulder. I dejectedly turned toward the falls where I’d
slipped not so long ago, and started the trek back to the trail-head
and camp-ground where I knew I’d find help. As I was about to leave
the lakeshore, a voice rang out. “Dad!” It was Brent.
Later that night, discussing it, we agreed that it had been scary,
but he had handled it correctly. The biggest problem had been mine.
We planned to hike back up in the morning, but neither was to leave
the other for any reason. Even if I’d been healthy, that was good
advice. We stuck to it, and made it home just fine, with some fresh
trout, too. Maybe we won’t go to Rainbow Lakes again, but I believe
we’ll fish together, hopefully, for many years.