Getting lost inside and out

More content about hiking and self-discovery

This weekend, on my 43rd birthday I had my inner compass questioned in the most literal way. For about 15 minutes I got lost deep in the Ángeles National Forest.

I was on a return journey from a 5-mile hike to see a waterfall. I had gotten there by following people who were faster than me. As I have written about before, hiking in and around LA is like nothing I experienced growing up. When you are on a trail in the Ángeles National Forest, you are out there. No cell service to check your map. The trails are tended, but mostly unmarked. And then there are other mini trails, desire paths, carved out by animals and other more adventurous hikers that make losing your way in a moment not just possible, but probable.

Before getting lost I had my first real obstacle, one that I thought would be the big news of the day. Right before I got to the waterfall, I was horrified to discover a steep rocky drop-off with ropes just before the trail arrived at the waterfall.

I weighed my options. I was alone so if I broke a leg or arm, (a likely outcome I imagined), I would have to ruin the day of some nice strangers and maybe a helicopter driver who would have to come and airlift me out of the park. But if I didn’t go down I would miss the thing I hiked all this way to see.

I turned back up the hill, deciding that the view from a distance was enough. It was my birthday and I had high tea to get to after all. (As if I couldn’t make the stakes of this story any more ridiculous.) But as I turned away, I started to wonder what kind of precedent does this set for other areas in my life? Do I really want to go into the next year limited by my slightly hysterical fears?

I turned towards the ropes with new resolve. I had a pair of hiking poles so I used one to prop me up on one side as I grabbed the belay cord with my other hand. I clutched for dear life onto the fraying yellow rope and began to panic as I slowly shifted my weight downwards. I repeated my aforementioned technique of repeating over and over in my head that I was indeed uncomfortable, hoping that my body would feel seen in its moment of dread. As my heart raced and electric fear coursed through my arms and legs, I slowly moved my way down toward solid ground.

Once in the canyon, I celebrated my small victory by cooling my feet in the river. Someone took my photo in front of the waterfall, and then it was back up the ropes.

The extra adrenaline of climbing back up clouded my judgment and I found myself trying to remember which way I came in. I took a right, but immediately felt it was wrong. I walked a couple of paces farther and found a woman sitting on the trail. She had decided not to climb the ropes and was waiting for her friends to finish up below.

“Which way to get back?” I asked. She pointed in the direction I was going. “This way,” she said with an Eastern European accent. I thanked her, grateful for some guidance. But after another 5 or so minutes I still didn’t recognize anything on the path. My head started to swirl and my memories began to blur.

I backtracked and saw her again. “You’re back!” she said.

“I’m getting confused,” I said. “Are you sure that’s the way back to the road?”

She pointed back the way I came. “Yes, you have to go that way.”

“Isn’t there another turn-off?”

“No, it’s that way. You go there.” She gestured again into the canyon.

“It just didn’t look right…thanks!” And I turned back around because I was tired and confused. What did I know?

I hiked for 10-15 more minutes, second-guessing myself the whole way. Did this look familiar? Maybe. Did that? I found myself creating new memories and trying them on to see if they matched my earlier memory of hiking in. Nothing added up, but I kept going, hoping it would.

I made the n-teenth unfamiliar turn along the trail and came upon a clustering of unfamiliar rocks. There was a group of people snacking on them that I had seen on my way out. When I asked them which way back to the road, one young man in the group explained that I needed to go the way I came in. He then distractedly returned to his snack.

“Unfortunately I don’t remember what that is,” I joked hoping for more information, but the moment was over. I turned around annoyed at everyone involved and hiked back again towards the waterfall. I imagined chastizing the woman who gave me the wrong directions but she was gone by the time I arrived.

I cursed her unknown name, and imagined her effusive apology for potentially risking my life and ruining my birthday. But after a few minutes of a gorgeous view of the mountains, I decided it would be better to just let it go. She probably felt bad.

I was surprised when half an hour later I ended up catching up to her group. I spotted the woman at the front of the pack. She seemed in a real hurry to get out of the park and did not make eye contact or move to the side to let me pass, despite the fact that I was moving faster than her party. Instead, she sped up, causing the other to follow. My anger reignited.

I alternately fantasized about confronting her until she apologized, or coyly smiling at her to show that I was indeed the bigger person. The polite form of revenge would be to not say a word and let her simmer in her own self-judgment, I thought.

I wrestled with the idea of forgiving her completely despite the fact that she was doubling down on bad hiking etiquette. Ultimately it was my fault I didn’t listen to my inner compass. I felt that she was wrong but I listened to her, a stranger, over my own intuition. This is an old pattern that I have played out many times before to much worse results: getting mugged at gunpoint in Paris, being miserable at a concert because I ate too much of a chocolate edible, going on another date with the wrong person. In addition to the initial time wasted, there is the loop of second-guessing and cognitive dissonance that I experience every time I’m not trusting my instincts, or going along with something just to try and make another person happy.

I never got the chance to say anything to the misguided hiker because she completely avoided me even once we arrived at the parking lot. I tried to make peace with the fact that her mistake and my desire for an apology were never in my hands.

Me at 43, wearing a Space Program shirt designed by Christopher Martin