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Lost 1

LOST
By Jane Mackay

Dedicated to China, Dustin and Anna, to Mendocino County Search and Rescue, and to search
and rescue volunteers everywhere

Saturday 21st November dawns bright and clear, if chilly. A friend with whom I’ve spent
the night (she rose early to head to San Francisco for school) reports ice on the road
outside her house in Ukiah, about an hour north of my northern California home.
Around mid-morning, when it is a little warmer, although not much, I leave Ukiah and
drive an hour further north, to Laytonville, to join a Sierra Club friend for a hike in the
Angelo Coast Range Reserve near Branscomb, about half an hour west of Laytonville.

The plan is to go for an 8-mile, out-and-back hike. Around noon, we set out. The
partially dirt, mostly gravel road, which leads in to where smaller trails branch off, is
almost completely shaded and I realize I had forgotten that Laytonville is at a higher
elevation than where I live; the trail began at around 2000'. I’m not dressed for that; even
though I am wearing layers, they are light layers. I know that as long as I keep moving
I’ll be fine, but I need the hike to end before sunset. That doesn’t seem like a problem—
eight miles on easy trails is three hours at the most, with a lunch stop. The Reserve,
which is owned by the University of California as a biological study area, is incredibly
beautiful, like a high elevation rainforest, filled with ferns and mosses. The hike in along
the road is quick and easy and after an hour or so we turn onto a narrow trail signposted
“The White House.” The eponymous house is an old, boarded up two-story clapboard
(now mostly black with mold) home on the edge of a forest-ringed meadow. We peer
through an unboarded patch of glass and in the gloom make out fabric-covered padded
dining chairs, one of which is pushed back from the table as if its occupant had just got
up. Eerie. At the far edge of the meadow we sit on a fallen log in the sun to eat our
snacks, setting off back the way we had come about twenty minutes later.

Then comes the first of the questionable decisions. The trail we are now on is called
Ahlquist, which, if we go right, takes us back to the road at the Wilderness Lodge, which
the UC uses for study groups. My friend has been told by a purportedly reliable source
that if we turn left and follow Ahlquist east along a ridgeline, it links up with another
trail that will take us to the top of Black Oak Mountain (3750') and then down and
around and back to the road, coming out near the car park.

We have rough maps that we'd picked up at the unmanned entrance kiosk. I study the
map and am very dubious about whether the trails link up, plus it looks like a really
long way and it is already after 2 p.m.—a reservation that I express two or three times.
We are not dressed or equipped to deal with the conditions if anything goes wrong. Nor
do we have lights if we have to poke around in the forest after dark to find our way to
the road. But an insistent tone has entered my friend’s manner, and since we don’t know
each other very well and it is the first time we’ve hiked together, I don’t want to be a
party pooper. I also trust her judgment as she has been going off in the woods alone for
days at a time for the past twenty or thirty years. I say, OK.
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So we turn left, along the ridgeline, and soon we are thrashing through manzanita and
other scrubby brush which has completely overgrown the trail; we rely on our feet to
keep us going in the right direction. (Not that this is too difficult, since there is a steep
slope on our right and a hillside on our left.) After about half an hour we pause and my
friend points across the forested canyons below us to a mountaintop that looks
impossibly distant.

“That must be it,” she says, “the one with the color [autumn leaves] on top. It’s the
highest peak around.”

My heart sinks. There’s no way we’ll reach Black Oak Mountain in time to scale it and
go down the other side before dark. But still I trust her and still I want to give her this
thing she obviously greatly desires. Anyway, I think, if we don’t reach it in reasonable
time we can just turn back and at least we will have tried.

After another hour or so we’re very near the mountain and the trail peters out at a
meadow with a pond. We explore this way and that and then go around the pond and
find a nice wide track leading in what we agree is the right direction: up and
approximately southwest. We hike up around a couple of switchbacks to the back side
of a ridge, then pause as the track we’re on heads down the back side of the mountain,
which we agree is the wrong direction. We poke around to see if we can find a trail
going up the mountain. The info pamphlet advertises a 360° view from a clear spot at
the top of Black Oak Mountain. We go up to the ridge, no view and no trail. We explore
and find what looks like a trail; that peters out. We poke around some more, try going
up this slope, down there, perhaps that's it over there. . . . No trail.

I am out of water. Anticipating a three hour out-and-back hike and then a short drive
back to my friend’s house, I had only brought 500 ml. My friend, who has a liter bottle,
shares half of what she has left with me.

By this time it's four o'clock. and under the canopy it'll be dark in about an hour. My
friend at this point acknowledges that even if the trails do meet up, we're not going to
find either of them. But, rather than heading back to Ahlquist, she believes it would be
quicker and easier to head down the side of the mountain to the road, which she is
convinced is not far below.

I still trust her judgment, but decide now to assert my judgments into the decision
making. I see a dry watercourse near us and suggest that we follow that downhill; at
least that way we won’t end up getting disoriented and wandering all over the
mountain. Plus, as my friend points out, the road we walked in on had crossed a couple
of small bridges over streams, so, if the road is below, the stream should run us right
into it.

I take the lead and for most of the next hour or so we are silent as we concentrate on
picking our way down the narrow, rocky, mossy streambed. It’s not easy going and we
cross back and forth and sometimes take to the slope above. The ground is still saturated
Lost 3

from Friday’s heavy rain. It is cold. Even with the exertion I keep my mouth closed and
breathe through my nose, not wanting to lose more heat and moisture than I need to.
My friend resorts to sliding on her bottom, but I am determined to stay dry for as long
as I can. The last thing I want is to spend the night on the side of a mountain at around
2700’ elevation in late autumn, in wet, thin clothes. I know that my survival might
depend on my staying dry until it’s impossible not to do so. Without wanting to fully
acknowledge it, I am aware that my body might need to take me through a night and
another day in this forest. When we were coming along Ahlquist, above the canopy, I
had noticed dark clouds forming over Black Oak Mountain.

After an hour or so, I estimate that we have dropped in elevation enough that we should
be near the road, if it’s there. The streambed by this point is running with water and it’s
evident that we’ll have to pick our way along the steep bank above it if we want to keep
following it, keeping the noise of the rushing water on our left, or southern side. We are
heading approximately west, towards the long-since disappeared sunset. The light is
fading.

I clamber over yet another massive fallen Douglas fir and pause to look ahead. Below
me the stream tumbles merrily onward between steep tree-covered slopes, over rocks
that look as if they’re getting bigger than the ones we’ve been picking our way around
and over. I shake my head. It’s time to do something before we lose all light. I look up to
my right and see a ridgeline that follows the slope of the mountainside.

“I’m going up there to see what I can see,” I say.

My friend is exhausted and readily welcomes the chance to rest. It takes me about five
minutes to climb up to the ridge. When I get there, one glance tells me all I need to
know. The last of the sun’s pale glow lights tree-blanketed mountains and steep
canyons, with nary a clearing in sight. There’s no way we’re getting out of here today, I
say to myself. I decide to try my cell phone. I know it doesn’t have much battery charge
left, and searching for a signal will drain the battery quickly, but I have to try.

On cell phone coverage maps, great swaths of far northern California are blank—i.e.,
without coverage—and we are smack in the middle of such a swath. But I’m on a ridge
near the top of a mountain, and I decide it’s worth a try. I look up and see a tiny gap in
the canopy. I position myself beneath it and turn on my cell phone. No signal. I walk up
and down, back and forth around and across the “clearing” (it is a very small gap in the
canopy). Somehow, I know there is a signal to be had, here. That has been the most
interesting part about all of this, so far, the sense of inevitability, as if I were being pulled
along a path that I had no choice but to take. I knew we weren’t going to make it over
Black Oak Mountain and out. I knew that we wouldn’t find our way out before darkness,
that we would be lost and stuck here for the night. I knew I would end up calling for
help.

Which I do. As soon as I see that my sparkling new cell phone (an unfancy phone one
step up from my previous unfancy phone) has latched onto a faint signal, I dial 911. One
ring and there is a human on the other end of the line.
Lost 4

“I need you to get my GPS location,” I say. “We’re hiking and we’re lost.”

My voice is calm and clear. I give the best indication I can of where we started from,
where and when we went off the trail, and the direction we took, plus our names and
places of residence. I answer the 911 operator’s questions about our age, state of fitness,
how we are dressed, if we have food (nope), and if there are injuries (also no, thank
goodness). After explaining all of this but before learning what is to be done about my
friend and me, I lose the signal and have to call back. A different woman answers and I
panic a little at the thought of having to waste time repeating all that I had told the first
operator, and probably losing the signal again before we get to the (to me) important
part.

I babble, “I was just talking to someone and I lost the signal and I need to talk to that
person again.”

“Are you the lost hiker?” she says, and I know I am OK; it is obviously a small call
center.

The operator isn’t able to get a very good fix on our location, but it is a start. She tells me
she is transferring me to the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Dept., which handles lost
hikers. I ask her the time. It’s about 5:30 p.m.

The Sheriff’s dispatcher’s voice is calm and compassionate. I explain again all the same
details of our movements and our situation, but keep losing the signal. After the third
time of dialing 911 and asking to be transferred, I ask the dispatcher if I can have his
direct number. He’d be more than happy to give me his direct number, he says, but only
911 can obtain the GPS location of cell phone calls, so it is best if I continue to call them
and get transferred. He is apologetic. He doesn’t need to be. The good news is that by
the third or fourth time, all I have to say when the CHP operator (apparently all cellular
911 calls are routed to the California Highway Patrol) answers is “Hi, this is Jane,” and
she says, “I’m transferring you now.”

As we end the third or fourth call, the dispatcher tells me to wait for a while and call
back; he is going to contact his people in the field and figure out what is to be done.

By this point it is almost dark. My friend is still sitting at the bottom of the steep slope (a
good five minute climb) by the stream and knows nothing about any of this. I walk the
few steps to the edge of the ridge, making sure to keep an eye on the winter-dead shrub
that I have come to think of as my antenna bush—I have the best chance of getting a cell
phone signal when I stand close beside it. I draw a deep breath and project my voice
through the forest, calling my friend’s name. Over and over again, I yell. I hear my name
yelled back. We can hear each other, but not make out words. I yell again and again,
trying to will her with my voice to climb up to where I am. I can’t leave this spot; I know
I’ll never find it again in the dark. Finally I hear her voice closer. We keep yelling each
other’s names, call and reply. Her voice grows clearer.
Lost 5

“COME UUUUUUUP,” I bellow again and again, the vowels stretched like a 78 rpm
record played at 33 rpm, until she seems close enough and I switch to yelling
navigational instructions.

She hauls herself up the last few meters and asks why she had to come up here. She is
old, she says, and her “bones are tired.” I explain. Her jeans are wet and she is cold and
stiff.

It is time to call again. I go through the usual routine. After we’ve conversed for a bit,
the dispatcher says the GPS coordinates show that we’re about halfway down a
mountain—is that right? I look down and then up. Yes, I say, that sounds about right.

“Can you climb up to the top?” he says. “You’d get a better signal and we could get
better coordinates.” This sounds like a good idea to me. I tell him that I have to hang up;
I will call him again when we’re at the top (providing I get a signal). I tell my friend; she
balks at the idea but I convince her we have to do it. We start off but after only a few feet
my friend says her legs will go no further uphill. “Are you sure?” I ask. Yes, she’s sure. I
make my way back down to the antenna bush, find the signal, dial 911, get transferred.
The dispatcher is surprised to hear from me so soon. I explain. He tries again to
persuade us to go to the top but I tell him, I’m sorry, I would but my friend is older and
she says she can’t. Reluctantly, he accepts this.

The good news is that the dispatcher (he tells me his name when I ask, but at some point
during the frigid night it disappears) at last seems confident (and happy) that they have
pretty accurate GPS coordinates for us. He says that Search and Rescue (SAR) have been
put on the case. The department’s SAR person in Fort Bragg is getting one other person
to help him.

“Fort Bragg!” I exclaim, my voice rising a half-octave. Fort Bragg is on the coast and all I
can think of is how long they will take to get here. I had had visions of a team from the
department already on the way and perhaps almost at the Reserve by now. I am
suddenly cold. The dispatcher picks up on my alarm and reassures me that Fort Bragg is
the most sensible, logical place from which to dispatch a crew. The road the Reserve is
on leads to the coast and Fort Bragg is closer than Ukiah. I am sorry for mistrusting him.
His main concern is to get us out of here safely and as quickly as possible and he is
doing everything he can to make that happen.

I express my gratitude and feel my shoulders drop with relief. We agree that I will call
back again in half an hour, and hang up.

There’s nothing to do now but wait until it’s time to dial 911 and be transferred again.
My friend has sat down but I am loath to put any part of my body on the ground; I have
managed to stay dry and really don’t want to get wet yet. Even though the dispatcher
seemed confident that we’d be found soon, something inside me is anticipating a long
night. Finally I am persuaded to sit between my friend’s legs—I feel the damp seep
immediately through the thin fabric of my pants—and we huddle together beside the
antenna bush. Time passes. I see a few stars through the gap in the canopy and am
Lost 6

cheered—I am still apprehensive about rain—but next time I look up they are gone.
More time passes.

A shaft of light at my feet catches my eye. I look up. A quarter moon dangles just above
the treetops, already in the western sky. We won’t have it for long, I think.

“Look, the moon,” I say.

“Yes, isn’t it nice to see it,” she replies. It is. I watch the moon until the cold tucks my
chin back against my chest.

After what seems like half an hour I pull out my cell phone and my fingertip blindly
searches for the on button. The moon has disappeared. It is very very dark. I dial 911
and slide the earpiece under my jacket hood, which is cinched tight around my face.
After I shout the usual “Hullo! Hullo! Can you hear me?” a few times, a man’s voice
answers. Uh-oh, I think, he doesn’t know who I am. I say it anyway:

“Hi this is Jane. Can I have Mendocino Sheriff’s Department, please?” He says
something that indicates his perplexity. I start to talk very fast. “My friend and I were
hiking and we’re lost—“

“Are you the lost hikers?” he interrupts.

“Yes,” I say, “my voice dropping a half-octave with relief, “we’re the lost hikers.”

“Are you still lost?” He seems incredulous.

I am incredulous at his incredulity. “Yes, we’re still lost,” I snap, then recover myself. I
am very grateful for the job these people do. I repeat my request to be transferred and
hear the click.

I am very worried about cost—I have visions of large teams of people and helicopter
rescues, which neither my friend nor I can afford to pay for. The dispatcher’s voice is
kind as he explains that SAR personnel are volunteers and there will be no cost to us. I
am humbled.

“I feel really bad about this,” I say, my voice weak and small. Tactfully, he doesn’t
respond to that. I ask how long it will be before the Fort Bragg people get here.

He hesitates. “If they mobilized and left right away,” he says, “they should be at the
Reserve in about forty-five minutes.” After I hang up I tell this to my friend and silently
we think the same thing: it seems like an impossibly long time before they might reach
us. By now it’s somewhere close to 8 p.m.

Thus begins the waiting. My phone battery is now very low and the dispatcher told me
not to call back again; there was nothing more he could do. They have the GPS
coordinates and the SAR team will get here as fast as they can. I feel very alone in this
Lost 7

giant forest that stretches across umpteen ranges of low mountains to the wild northern
California coast. My friend and I huddle together, fruitlessly straining our eyes peering
into the trees thinking we see lights, to realize they’re illusions. We chat, talking about
the hot shower we’re going to take and the meals we’re going to eat when we get out. I
ask if there will be a food place open either in Laytonville or Willits (the next town
south) so I can get something hot to eat on the way home. We keep this up for probably
half an hour or more, before giving in to the darkness and the cold and the deep silence
all around us. Slowly we fall silent and then lie on our sides to “spoon.” I feel the
dampness penetrate my hipbone.

Time passes. A rock rolls past us and on down the slope. I wait for a while, then decide I
might as well ask.

“Did you kick that rock?”

“No, I didn’t kick that rock.”

“Hmm.” Perhaps a bear had passed above us. As we were hiking in my friend had
mentioned that this was black bear territory. I’m too cold and tired to be concerned.

My mind is drifting when I hear a tiny “splat” on the section of hood covering my ear.
Of course, I think, this too was inevitable. It’s starting to rain. I wait and listen, my
senses alert. Another small splat, and a few more, spaced far apart. I decide to wait but I
know that if it begins to rain in earnest we need to move out of the clearing and as much
under tree cover as we can. I decide that we will go straight downhill (down the ridge
towards the bottom of the mountain, not down the steep slope on either side) and just
out of the clearing so that I can find the antenna bush again if I need to. More time
passes and I allow myself to think that perhaps it’s not going to rain after all, perhaps in
this one thing we’ll be lucky (never mind how incredibly lucky I was to get a cell phone
signal), when I hear a “spat” on the fabric over my ear. I wait for a few more spats and
then decide it’s time. I don’t want to move. My back is warm where my friend’s body
touches it and I am as comfortable as it’s possible to be huddled on my side on the wet
earth on a cold mountain ridge. But I am aware that if I don’t move us, we’ll really get
wet, so I rouse myself and say my friend’s name.

“What,” she replies.

“We have to move,” I say, “it’s starting to rain.”

“Why do we have to move?”

“Because we have to get under the trees.” I heave myself up and reluctantly, stiffly, she
follows suit. It’s pitch black. Taking small steps I find the antenna bush and direct my
feet downhill, checking frequently to make sure she’s right behind me.

“Where are we going?” she asks.


Lost 8

“To the bottom edge of the clearing under the trees.” My tone of voice brooks no
argument.

We settle under the first tree and soon it’s raining lightly but steadily. An hour or more
passes as we huddle in different positions, both now thoroughly soaked. My friend is
shivering constantly, but I am doing surprisingly well. Three consecutive Boston winters
(this is my first winter back in California) are good for something, I think wryly, but
with reluctant gratitude. My mind is drifting with thoughts I don’t remember when
suddenly I find myself sitting bolt upright. My brain catches up with my body—I heard
a shout. My friend heard it too. Our heads swivel right and, oh my goodness, yes, there
on a distant ridge is a string of lights. I fill my lungs with air.

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I yell across the ravine.

A shout drifts back. It is a woman’s voice.

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHHHH!”

I yell again and again as the magical string of lights works slowly around the ridge
towards the top of the mountainside we’re on. More than anything I want to leap up
and run to the top of the hill to guide them to where we are. With effort, I keep my legs
still, my brain repeating, “Don’t separate.” But I really want to go up there.

As we watch the lights—I count five or six—move steadily towards us, we start
discussing food again. I ponder if the Safeway in Willits is open twenty-four hours. She
doesn’t know. Suddenly, perhaps quarter of a mile (400 meters) from the top of our
mountainside, the lights disappear, one by one.

“Where are they going?” I exclaim in anguish. We repeat this cry to the trees, which
can’t tell us. Soon the lights are all gone and the forest is silent and dark, except for the
occasional rustle.

“Where did they go?” we ask each other over and over. Still sitting, rain dripping off our
hoods, we strain to hear—anything. Suddenly another shout, this time from down to our
right, in the ravine. I begin again.

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

My voice bounces off the mountainside on the other side of the stream, to our left, and
then, more faintly, off the mountainside across the ravine to our right.

Straining our ears between our cries, over the next half hour or so we hear the infrequent
shouts—usually the woman, occasionally a man’s voice—move in a half circle around
and below us and then back again.

“They’re getting closer,” we say to each other. This anguished point of hope is held for a
few minutes until the next shout comes, fainter.
Lost 9

“Where are they going?” we cry. Into the silence I shout, “HU-LLOHHHHHHH!” again
and again for fifteen or twenty minutes. Nothing. No shout. No lights.

The rain starts to fall more heavily and we lie down again, curling as tightly as we can. I
hook my hands under my armpits, even though it severely strains my right wrist. I have
to keep the blood flowing to my fingers. I have Raynaud’s disease, a circulatory
disorder. I concentrate on breathing, slowly and deeply. I breathe into my upper back,
shoulders and neck; my trouble spots. I breathe.

Time passes. An hour, perhaps more. We talk, wondering how they could have come so
close, almost circled us, and not found their way up (or along and down, from the ridge)
to us. The rain is heavy now and the silence persists so long we wonder if they have
abandoned us. For the first time bleakness steals into my soul. Silently we drift into our
own thoughts, our bodies claiming most of our attention. Against my back, shivers
periodically wrack my friend’s body. I am very cold and my feet are solid blocks of ice,
but otherwise those three Boston winters still seem to be serving me well. I am also very
thankful for my year-and-a-half old yoga practice. On all levels—physical, mental and
emotional—it is playing a large part in keeping me calm and strong, and my mind clear.

Not so clear, however, that I don’t begin to allow myself to think that the search might
have been called off, though I can’t imagine that, knowing we’re here and alive and
knowing basically where we are, whoever’s running the SAR effort would or could
ethically do that. But I don’t know how these things are managed; perhaps from
experience they know it makes much more sense to wait until daylight. I must have
sounded healthy on the phone, and they know we’re not injured. At the same time, I
admonish myself for expecting other people to spend hours clambering up and down
mountainsides in the rain and the dark and the cold to rescue me from a situation I got
myself into by doing half a dozen things I knew very well not to do. In other words, my
stupidity. But here we are, and for the first time in my life I have put myself in a
situation that I don’t know if I could get myself out of. I remind myself of stories I’ve
read and heard, photos I’ve seen of teams of SAR personnel searching day and night, in
waist deep snow or the middle of the ocean, for days on end, not giving up until there
really is no hope.

A shout floats across the ravine to our ears. The woman. My heart leaps. We haven’t
been abandoned.

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” My voice is strong and clear. My friend chimes in


and we keep up the chorus for a minute or two. There is a long silence. I shout at regular
intervals.

“I really wish they’d yell more often,” we both grumble. Long minutes pass. I lapse into
silence. Finally another shout floats to us. It is closer, their movements apparently
following the same pattern as before. We are excited and filled with hope. We start
planning meals again, what we’ll do first when we get out. Hot shower still tops the list.
I keep up my regular cries, thanking whatever forces in my body are keeping my throat
Lost 10

calm, my voice strong. Suspecting that the bouncing of my voice off the slopes around
us is confusing the searchers and preventing them from getting a good read on exactly
where we are, I try directing my shouts towards the ground on the ravine side of me,
away from the closest mountainside. It seems to have some small effect, but I don’t
know if its discernible to the people below.

It evidently isn’t, because once again they circle below us and around to our left, and
then back again—this is the point at which their voices sound closest and then draw
away. Again, the same pattern. I keep sending my cries into the wilderness until I
conclude there’s no point. We have been sitting up, our eyes searching for lights, but
after fifteen minutes or so of being greeted by silence we lie back down at the base of the
tree.

“I have never been so cold in my entire life,” my friend moans.

I breathe deeply and slowly into my upper back as a spasm of shivers takes over the
lower half of my body. Consciously, I still my spasming muscles. I breathe.

Time passes. The silence persists.

I decide to try my phone. My fingers fumble it out of my wet jacket pocket and find the
on button. It lights into life. “I’m going to call again,” I say and stagger up to the antenna
bush. The rain is wetter and colder when I am standing up. I find the signal and dial 911,
say my name and am transferred to the Sheriff’s Dept. It’s still the nice man.

After the preliminaries I tell him, “About an hour and a half ago we saw their lights
coming along the ridgeline. If they’d kept going a bit further they could have come
straight down the hill to us. Can you pass the message to them please to keep going next
time they’re on the ridge?”

“When was this?” he asks.

“About an hour and a half ago,” I repeat.

“About an hour and a half ago—“ he sounds frustrated. “Why didn’t you call us then?”

“I thought my battery was dead,” I say, my voice small. Those were the words that
popped out of my mouth, and I had thought my battery was dead, but the reason I
didn’t try was that I didn’t think to call and direct them. Knowing they had the GPS
coordinates and they were the experts, I expected them to know what to do. I am also a
little frustrated though, that the dispatcher in those initial phone conversations hadn’t
thought to give me instruction. They must know that tired, stressed brains don’t operate
optimally and they need to give said brain all the help they can.

We end the call and I turn off my phone and then grope my way back down to my
friend, calling her name frequently to keep myself straight. It takes me an inordinately
long time to cover the ten feet or so (~ three meters) to our tree. My eyes work well in
Lost 11

the dark but I can barely make out even large shapes right in front of me. My feet are
numb and my legs stiff.

We huddle together, scrunching as small as we can. Time passes. I have no idea how
much; the clock in my head has lost its bearings, too. The rain filters quietly through the
canopy.

A shout. The woman’s voice. We stir, slowly.

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHH!” I yell. The woman returns the cry.

I pick up the drum again; the role of designated caller has landed firmly on me. I am
tired and yelling takes effort, although the unexpected benefit is that it’s helping to keep
me warm (“warm” being a relative term). I am lying on my side, my knees wedged
against the base of the tree that is sort of sheltering us, my friend snugged up against the
lower part of my back. The upper part of my back is very cold. I am facing away from
the ravine, towards the stream and the closest mountainside, so in order to project my
voice towards our rescuers, I have to lift the top part of my torso and twist. For a while, I
do this every thirty seconds or minute—occasionally I stay down and yell at the tree—
then slowly my silences become longer and longer, joining with the silence of the forest.

Again a shout, this time from the other side of the stream. The man’s voice. We both like
his voice best; it sounds strong and warm, and always closer (which, it occurs to me
much later, was probably simply because his voice was stronger). But I feel warmth
towards the woman, because she shouts more often. I wonder if they realize how much
of a lifeline their voices are to us. We are less excited this time; the pattern has sown
suspicion and cynicism within is. Sure enough, the shouts come “this” close, and then
move away. I keep up my “HU-LLOHHHHHHH!”s for a while longer because I don’t
have the right to give up when others are working so hard to find us, but soon it’s
apparent there’s no point and I stop.

Time passes. I breathe.

There’s a shout. Out of duty I look around.

Lights on the ridge!

“Look!” I cry. “On the ridge! Lights on the ridge!” They’re back!

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHHHHH!” I yell and my friend joins in. An answering shout drifts


back. I make myself yell again but I am really tired. “Your turn,” I say. She picks up the
duty.

The dispatcher’s admonishment from hours ago plays in my head. The last thing I want
to do is move, but I feel the responsibility to give the searchers any help I can. “I’m
going to try my cell phone again,” I mumble and wince as I draw my hands from
beneath my armpits. My right wrist has been wedged at an awkward angle for too long.
Lost 12

My jacket pocket is saturated but the phone seems to be fine. There’s a half-bar of
battery left. I yank my shins away from the tree trunk they’ve been jammed against and
force my body to stand upright. My feet are solid blocks of ice and my quadriceps have
morphed into wooden planks. Step by small step I work my way uphill. As I get near
where I think the antenna bush should be I risk running out the battery and open my
phone to illuminate the pitch blackness. I find the bush. Now to latch on to the signal.
After a few tries I get it and dial 911. A new man answers the phone.

“I’m the lost hiker,” I say, my voice croaking a bit. “Can I have Mendo Sheriff, please?”

“Transferring you now.”

Here, also, a new man. “I’m the lost hiker and I need to give you instructions,” I say. He
stays silent. “Tell them that if they keep following the ridge for a few more minutes they
can come down the hill to us.” I hear him repeating my words a split second after I say
them, to someone beside him. My friend has stopped yelling and I am afraid the
searchers will leave the ridgeline so I muffle the mouthpiece and yell across the ravine,
then lift the receiver back to my mouth.

“Tell them to keep going along the ridge.“ I hear him repeating my words and then
suddenly, silence. I look at my phone. It’s dead, the battery finally expired. I tried, I
think. I hope that my message got through. But as I watch, shivering, first one and then
the other light disappears. My heart sinks. I stagger back down to my friend and our
tree.

The pattern repeats as the infrequent cries circle us and then fade away. The forest
lapses into a long silence. We sit together, I on the downhill side between my friend’s
knees, my legs jackknifed so tightly I am sitting on my heels. After perhaps an hour I
drift in and out of something resembling sleep. In an awake moment I am amazed that I
am capable of sleep in these conditions. Gratefully, I welcome the unconsciousness.

My eyes open without my bidding. At first I can’t take in what I see, and then my brain
catches up. I can see. Daylight? Could it be that the whole night has passed? We confer,
and after a few minutes agree that yes, it’s definitely dawn, which at this time of year
and in this forest on a western slope must mean it’s around 6:30 a.m. We have been here
for more than twelve hours. At some point also, I become aware, the rain stopped.

The daylight generates energy within both of us. We agree that when it gets light
enough we should move downhill, since the searchers obviously weren’t coming up to
us. Twenty minutes (or so) later my friend reneges on this agreement, but I know it’s
what we need to do. Or at least, I know we need to do something and this seems like the
most logical, sensible thing. Plus, it feels right. I force myself upright, my balance none
too steady on my iceblock feet, but my body’s strong enough. Grumbling, my friend gets
up.

“Where are we going?”


Lost 13

“We’re going downhill,” I say, “towards where their voices always come closest. It’s
always the same pattern.”

We stagger a few meters and then, as if to confirm my decision, we hear a shout below
us, at the usual spot.

“HU-LLOHHHHHHHHHH!” I yell.

My friend chimes in. “HELP UUUUUUUS!”

We keep working our way downhill while sending a barrage of cries into the forest. A
shout comes back. It’s closer. Is it? We shoot off another volley of yells. A shout comes
back. It’s definitely closer. I switch my cry.

“COME UUUUUUUUUP!” My new chant.

Their return shouts come more frequently now and are definitely getting closer. I come
to the edge of a steep section and stop, peering down. A light! Two lights! Right below
us!

“I can see your lights!” I yell, trying to keep hysteria out of my voice. “I can see your
lights below me and to my right! Keep coming UP!”

They do and at last, there they are. A dog leading a woman in camouflage wet weather
gear, a man a few steps behind her. As they clamber wearily up the slope my friend
exclaims, “Oh, you wonderful people!” and I shower them with effusive thanks.

They stop before us. The woman holds out her hand.

“China,” she says.

“Jane,” I say, shaking her hand. Both our hands are wet and cold and dirty.

She gestures to the man standing a little behind and below her. “That’s Dustin.”

China is a SAR volunteer and Dustin is a detective with the Sheriff’s Dept. Panting at
China’s feet is Anna, a very wet and tired-looking German shepherd. After
introductions and hand-shaking all around (and pats for Anna) we talk about how it
was being all night in the rain and cold in the middle of a forest. Two sets of strangers,
one set come to rescue the other. I wonder to myself what normal procedure is for this
moment. Dustin shrugs a backpack off his back and unzips it. He pulls out a bundle of
sopping wet clothes—China’s—and then reaches back in.

“Peanuts?” he says.

“Peanuts,” I say, reaching down and taking them. It’s one of those tubes that gas stations
sell for a dollar. My fingers are so cold and wet they aren’t working properly; they clasp,
Lost 14

but have little strength. I wrestle with the plastic for a while, wondering if someone will
rescue me—as I’m about to give in and ask for help the corner tears off. I tip up the pack
and a few honey-roasted peanuts slide into my waiting mouth. The funny thing is that
I’m not hungry. The whole night I suffered from neither hunger nor thirst, which I was
aware of and grateful for at the time. Again now I wonder if my body temporarily shut
down all non-essential processes in order to reduce the amount of stress it had to
handle, and to help keep my brain clear (enough) and calm.

Reaching back into his pack, Dustin pulls out a small package and extracts a silver
emergency blanket, handing it to my friend. “Tie it under your chin,” he says, and then
passes me one, too. I tie it under my chin. Wonder Woman just went space age.

Dustin hands my friend an energy bar and we ask about the difficulty in pinpointing
our location.

“Your voice pinged,” China says, “and we could never get a good read on you. We
thought you were over there.“ She points to the slope on the other side of the stream.
“And then every time we got near the stream we lost you because it was so loud.” Now I
understand why they kept circling us.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“Up there a little way,” I reply, pointing uphill. “Once it got light enough we came
down towards where we’d always hear you get close and then go away again.”

“That helped a lot,” China says. “We could hear you better.”

She explains that in the dark they always came up against a rock face that looked
impassible and prevented them from climbing this particular slope, but in the light they
were able to see the way around it. That, combined with hearing us better, finally broke
the impasse.

I say I’m sorry they had to keep going down into the ravine and through the stream and
around and back and up again, all night long.

“We started with seven,” Dustin says, “but we kept losing people. Every time we went
back down we lost a few more.” He seems mildly amused by this, which I find a
reassuring trait. I’m not surprised that volunteers dropped off after each fruitless run
down into the ravine, across the stream, and back again up to the ridge. He and China
were the only two who stuck it out the whole night.

“Were you following that stream?” Dustin asks. We reply affirmatively. “It’s a good
thing you stopped when you did,” he says. “The terrain gets a lot more difficult further
down.”

“Yeah, it gets really bad,” China says. “There’s a waterfall and the rocks are really big.”
That must have been the point at which they kept crossing, I think.
Lost 15

“If you had kept going that way,” Dustin says, looking at me, “it would have taken you
two days to get out.” I am silent as my mind calculates the probabilities of our getting
out alive and well, had we kept going.

China turns to me. “You are so lucky you got a cell phone signal.”

“Yes, without that,” Dustin says, “without the GPS coordinates, there’s no way we
would have known where to start looking for you.” My gaze shifts from one to the other
as I nod my understanding of how lucky we were. Are.

For a few minutes more we stand and chat, but soon, I’m ready to get moving. “So, how
do we get out of here?” I say.

“Up,” says Dustin. My friend groans. “It’s the shortest way,” he says, his voice
compassionate, but firm. “You don’t want to go down and then all the way up the other
side. It’s probably about an mile and a half from here. It would be at least twice that if
we went down.” I am sure that the two of them definitely don’t want to go back down
into that ravine and then up the other side to the ridge.

“Is our trail up there?” China asks.

“Yes, our trail is up there.”

Somebody says, “Okay, let’s go,” and I turn and switch on my robot legs. Obediently,
they plug uphill, one step at a time. China and Anna soon catch up and pass me and we
lead the way as Dustin helps my friend get her older bones moving.

It’s a long way, further than I had thought. China and I trudge mostly in silence, until
she sees a narrow trail. She stops. Anna flops down at her feet. I stand beside them.

“I don’t think this is our trail,” she says. “We’re not high enough, yet. Dustin will
know.” We wait. The other two reach us.

“Is this our trail?” China asks.

“No. Up.” Dustin tilts his chin upwards. Again he seems amused.

We plod up further, still in the forest. China spots another trail, one that looks more
promising, but this, too, is vetoed and the same command given. She spots something
else above us.

“Look, Dustin,” she says, pointing. “That looks like a waterline. What could that be
doing here?”

“Marijuana drip line,” comes the immediate reply. He breaks off and strides quickly up
to investigate. We resume our plodding and when we reach the black poly tubing I see
Lost 16

that it is, indeed, a drip irrigation line. I am sure that Detective Dustin has filed this
information for future investigation. I am equally sure that if he had to find this exact
spot again in three months time, he would come straight to it.

China and I edge ahead again. After ten minutes or so she stops. “That’s our trail,” she
says. I follow her gaze and there above, at last, I see the forest give way to manzanita
and scrubby brush; at the border of the two is a narrow edge that must mark the trail.
“But Dustin will probably say it isn’t,” she says wryly.

The two of us quicken our steps. As I hasten towards the prospect of level ground and
the path out of this forest, I bash my shin against something. The bruise, I know, will be
colorful and long-lasting. Through this whole ordeal my friend and I have managed to
avoid injury and at the moment of salvation, I bash my shin. I don’t really mind, I don’t
really care; but it does seem like an insult on top of everything else.

At last China, Anna and I reach what has to be the trail that took them back and forth
along the ridgeline during the night. China flops down onto her back, Anna plops
beside her. My quadriceps veto bending so I stand. I adjust my emergency blanket cape
and look down at the woman who willingly and unpaid spent a cold wet night
clambering into and out of a ravine. I know already that she has been a SAR volunteer
for years.

“Why do you do this?” I ask. “I volunteer at the local theater, but that’s a lot different
from this.” I smile.

She returns my smile and thinks for a moment. “I’m a big fan of the German shepherd
breed,” she says, resting a hand on Anna, who is due for well-earned retirement, “and
they need jobs. Plus, I really love doing this. It’s really rewarding. My husband’s in the
Sheriff’s Department and I support him in his riot squad duties, so he supports me in
this.”

“That’s fair,” I say.

I hear noises behind me and turn. The other two have reached the trail. China gets up
and I turn back, ready to plod on out of here. “This is our trail, right?” she says.

“No. Up.”

I whip around. “You’re kidding, right? That’s a joke?” Detective Dustin’s eyes are alight.
“That’s a joke,” I repeat.

“Yes,” he says, smiling, “that’s a joke.”

“Thank goodness.” China has already started down the trail; I gather my cape and
follow.
Lost 17

For a while we walk in silence. The track is narrow, in some places only wide enough for
a single footstep with a steep drop on the left, down into the much–traversed ravine. It
isn’t long before I suspect that we’re on Ahlquist and a little later the suspicion is
confirmed. So close. The whole night, this trail was waiting for us at the top of the slope.
In following the streambed downhill yesterday we must have crossed off Black Oak
Mountain. I think of the dispatcher’s plea for us to hike to the top so I could get a better
cell phone signal and they could get precise GPS coordinates. I think also of my all but
overwhelming desire to run up to the top to guide the searchers that first time we saw
the magical lights bobbing along the ridgeline.

Up until now we have been in forest, but soon we reach the open ridgeline and the long,
brush-overgrown stretch of this path. China is in the lead and as she thrashes through
the often head-high branches her wet weather gear takes the brunt of the remnants of
last night’s rain. I am close behind her and after a while she turns around and gives me a
weary grin.

“At least I’m getting rid of all the water for you!”

Before long, she has to stop to give Anna a rest. Though still panting in her friendly way
and eager to do whatever her chosen human requests of her, Anna is exhausted and her
hips keep giving way.

“You two go ahead,” China says, motioning my friend and me past. Now that we’re no
longer going uphill, my friend is easily keeping up. Trailing our capes like silver clouds
we sweep by after stooping to give Anna an encouraging pat. Behind us, Dustin stops to
check on his crew.

Now I am in the lead and within a few steps the front of my jacket and pants are newly
soaked. This water is cold. All the warmth I had generated hiking up the hill is quickly
doused. It’s a good thing we’re on the way to a hot fire and a hot shower. And dry
clothes.

Suddenly my discomfort is forgotten as I emerge into a clear patch and gaze upon a
sweeping vista over dark forested mountain ranges, early morning mist filling the
canyons and sitting wispily on treetops. It’s so beautiful I hold up the line and fumble
for my camera. My hands are so cold my fingers barely obey the commands my brain
sends and their grip is powerless, but I manage to reach under my jacket and unzip the
small case and pull out my camera. Shivering, I turn it on and using my palms, hold it to
the view. Click. Behind me on the path the others wait patiently. I feel that what I am
doing is trivial in light of the last fourteen hours, but what my eyes take in is so beautiful
I am compelled to try and capture it. Later, I am sad that I didn’t turn around and
capture China and Dustin and Anna.

We set off again and after another ten or fifteen minutes the trail is sloping gently
downhill. I turn to make sure my friend is behind me; she is, but there is neither sight
nor sound of the other three. Partly as a joke and partly to reassure myself, I stop and
draw a deep breath.
Lost 18

“HU-LLOHHHHHH!” I yell.

“It’s okay, we’re here.” Dustin’s voice reaches us a few seconds before he and China
come into view. He seems amused; I hope that his patience has not been tried too
greatly.

I grin. “Good. Just checking,” I say, and take off down the path. I have been moving
swiftly but my gait is far from elegant, or normal. My thigh muscles are so tight I am
afraid that if I were to squat they would snap. I sway from side to side as each leg stiffly
lifts and swings forward and down. The image of Dustin Hoffman as Papillon before his
final escape from Devil’s Island pops into my mind. Although I have endured far, far
less, I am walking like the old but undefeated Papillon.

The others have dropped far behind us as my friend and I wind down the final
switchbacks. Through a gap in the trees I spy open space—a grassy meadow that I
remember stretches in front of the Lodge. We’re almost there! A path leads across the
meadow and wends left, to where I know the Lodge is. I point to it and say, “Shall we
take this shortcut?”

The answer is immediate. “STAY ON THE TRAIL!”

I turn around and grin. “Just checking.”

We tramp down the last section of path between trees and around a corner, and
suddenly there are no more trees, only a meadow and beyond that, the Lodge, smoke
whisping from its chimney. My robot legs propel me across the open space, so welcome
to my eyes and my being. I have to stop and haul each leg up the two steps to the deck.
As I do my Papillon walk across the deck a man in a Mendocino County Sheriff’s Dept.
uniform with kindly eyes opens the glass sliding door and ushers me inside. My friend
is right behind me and seconds later we are both warming ourselves at a hot pot belly
stove.

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